中Finally it’s the Big Day. I am hardly an early-riser, but got up effortlessly before 6am for a shower and arrived at the hospital by 7am. The shower was important, as I didn’t know when the next proper one would be post-operatively. I hardly slept the night before anyway, with lots of flashbacks of events from the past months. Well, that’s OK, I would definitely get some good sleep later.
Waiting in the foyer of the “Day Surgery Unit” were quite many patients, some standing, some sitting down, all alone, socially distanced. We were on our own because the hospital advised against bringing friends or relatives —— not even when waiting in the foyer. These patients looked as healthy as I was, all perfectly mobile. Who said patients all appear poorly?
Why was I nosy about the patients around me? That’s because I wanted to see if they had brought their phones along or not!
One of the pre-operative instructions advised against bringing valuables with us, including smartphones, probably due to the risk of theft, accidental damage or loss. Yet, it would be so inconvenient without the phone in this day and age. What should I do? My friends all urged me to go against the advice. Well, I was in a hospital, not a school, I guessed they wouldn’t confiscate my phone till the day of my discharge, right?
In such critical moments, we patients were quite obedient in not bringing a friend, but we all held onto our phones! Man vs phone, round 1, 0:1.
The “Day Surgery Unit” looked like a long ward, with a corridor going from end to end. To the left of the corridor were bays (mini wards), each with four beds, at least two fewer than the pre-COVID days when there’s no social distancing. To the right there seemed to be some offices, small operating theatres, bathrooms, and doors leading to the major operating theatres.
I shared my bay with three other ladies. They’re all veterans —— one of them had over thirty operations under her belt —— so they have been through the process many times and knew what to expect at every stage. Unlike me, the newbie, who was perplexed by things as simple and mundane as the hospital gowns I was given.
“Why did they give me two gowns? Are they of different sizes and I pick the one that fits?”
“Ah, not really. One is for the front, the other one will cover your back, for some decency,” the lady opposite to me explained.
Oh right, the hospital gown is like a nightgown, but with only the front or the back, not both......
But why? I’m staying in my bay most of the time, sitting or lying down, what “decency” exactly? Wait till I had to leave my bay briefly for the bathroom —— right, I got it now!
It was really reassuring to have the company of these ladies. Man vs phone, round 2, 1:1.
Just before 8am, I spotted Mr J walking past in the corridor while gently asking the nurses for my file. That’s really early. Did that mean my operation would be in the morning?
Some 15 minutes later, Mr J got to my bedside with the consent form. He wanted to check if I was all set for the operation, and reiterated the team’s intention to stick to Plan A for a speedy recovery.
I remembered that Plan A would take about three hours, and I was about to tell my parents as such, but Mr J shared the following as an experienced surgeon:
Ah, tell them it’ll be about three and a half hours. You see, if everything goes well and we finish on time, they will be delighted to receive a call earlier than expected. If however we go a bit over three hours, still they won’t be sitting at home wondering if something’s gone wrong. Expectation management, you know.
Oh yes. Three, three and a half or five hours, what difference would it make to someone under general anaesthesia? But of course it meant a lot to those anxiously waiting at the other end. Isn’t it great to have a surgeon who cares about such details? I did exactly as he suggested. He also jotted down my parents’ names and phone numbers to call after the operation. I wondered though, the next-of-kin information was on my hospital file, why did he ask again? Maybe out of courtesy, since he’s always sent his regards to my parents?
None of the other ladies in my bay were visited by their surgeons; the nurses delivered the consent forms and went through the details of the operations with them. Was it because my operation was a major one, or was this part of the “old-school” approach Mr J mentioned in our very first meeting?
Another key figure on the day was my anaesthetist, who has studied the operation’s plans well. He explained where exactly he would insert the cannula, and how during the operation they would help me breathe with a tube via the nostrils and not the mouth, because the latter was not compatible with plan B (a vertical split of my chin) if worse comes to worst. Fitting the tube that way might cause some abrasion on the throat, so my throat might be a little sore afterwards.
“Any other questions or requests?” I could tell he meant it from his genuine smile and not just wrapping up our conversation with a cliché.
“Not really, I just don’t want to wake up in the middle of the operation! That’s it!”
“Ah, most patients say that, haha!”
The ladies in my bay were called one by one. I was by myself by mid-day. 12:30pm passed, then 1pm, 1:30pm. My name was still not being called! Umm...... when would my turn be? Wouldn’t the operation finish by early evening if it started late, disrupting my parents’ dinner routine as they would have to rush to see me in the ward after recovery?
I was obviously not the bedridden type and was getting a little bored. Rather than waiting around in my bay, I decided to have a little stroll along the corridor outside.
It’s only then I realised that most of the bays in the Day Surgery Unit had been emptied!
You know what it felt like? Like a kid waiting to be picked up at the end of a long day in the nursery, when all other buddies have gone home!
2:30pm. Finally.
The nurse escorted me to the operating theatre. It was a short walk through a few doors. What went through my mind? Nothing. My mind was blank. Before long, we arrived at the theatre. Behind the double doors was the operating table in the middle of the room under the spotlight, surrounded by several busy members of staff I hadn’t met before. There was an unfamiliar kind of hustle and bustle in the theatre. Mr J wasn’t in sight.
No wonder why we call this the operating “theatre”. As the novice patient, I was like a debutante in a TV talent contest, the mind drawing blank too while being led to the stage by TV station staff, with the spotlight all on me.
Before I had the chance to take in everything in my surroundings, it’s time to get onto the operating table. What, I had to climb onto it by myself? Nobody told me that! Well, it actually makes sense in retrospect. If I could manage it, why not?
And that gown for “decency” at the back? It had to be taken off as it would get in the way of the operation. Everyone moved quickly and off it came. There was no embarrassment whatsoever as nobody was looking at or thinking about what they shouldn’t be.
Lying on my back, decency preserved, well, for a short while at least, ha! (I am pretty sure I had to lie on my right side throughout the operation due to the location of the ninja’s hiding place.) In the ensuing minute, first I had another female anaesthetist removing my glasses and mask, then a nurse asking me one last time to confirm my name and date of birth, and finally the anaesthetist telling me he’s going to insert the cannula.
Just one prick, done.
Ah, that’s quick. Umm, yes, I start to feel it now......
Before I could utter the words “now I can feel it more”, I was sound asleep. Just like that? Five minutes of quick action by the surgical team drew the long months of waiting to an abrupt close.
I resumed my conversation with the anaesthetist three hours later.