Recently, I had surgery to repair a hernia. I seem to be somewhat prone to hernias. The obvious reason is that I come from a place called Herne Bay, but that would only be funny if it were called Hernia Bay. And, even then, maybe not.
In Mostly Fun – Soft Nut Bike Tours of Laos and Thailand, I mentioned how I suspected I had a hernia after the first cycling trip in Laos. I’ve described in the book how a doctor in Bangkok assured me I didn’t. How wrong he was.
Back in Brisbane, I’d had an ultrasound and various strangers poking and prodding, while I coughed obediently, to confirm the issue and was now at the hospital ready to be sliced open and stitched up. Check-in was simple enough. Actually, easier than checking in for a flight, hotel or car pick-up. No lengthy discussions or interrogation regarding my bags or validating of my credit card. They just asked me a few questions about the procedure I was in for. I thought this strange as surely, they should know? But I think they do this at hospitals to check that you are aware of what’s going on – compos mentis as Boris might say.
All questions answered correctly, I was ushered into a small room and told to don a purple gown, orange socks, and a pair of saucy underpants. There was a hairnet too but the nurse said I didn’t need that. Fully kitted up in this bizarre, sad clown, outfit I waited for a while in another small room with a huge television. As I was watching the news headlines for the seventh or eighth time another nurse came in and showed me to a bed in an open ward. “They’ll come and get you soon,” she said brightly. My surgery was scheduled for 11:30am and it was now about 11:15am so I was impressed by this.
Temperature settings in the various rooms were a challenge. I’d noticed that the further I went into the building, the colder it became. The temperature in this beehive-like waiting ward was around 20 degrees, not that cold, but when you are dressed in an ill-fitting cotton nightshirt you really feel it. I snuggled up under the blanket I’d been given and patiently awaited my fate. There was another guy in the adjacent bed but he didn’t say much. After about 30 minutes, the swing doors at the end of the room opened and a, far too jolly, male nurse came in, “Right let’s go,” he said to the fellow next to me as he wheeled him away. Turning briefly to me he said, “It’ll be an hour or two.” And then he was gone. Another nurse came over, “Gall bladder” she said “takes a while”. So much for being on time.
As I lay on my crisp white sheet, I started to familiarise myself with the system. When I’d crawled into bed, I thought there was just this one chap in front of me. But I now noticed a number of women, mostly seated on large recliners, at the other end of the ward. We were separated by a thin curtain; for reasons of propriety no doubt. Most of these elderly ladies were there for cataract surgery. There were about five of them so I guess it must have been cataract-Friday. Some kind of 2-for-1 deal perhaps? I waited. Each time the large double-doors swung open I hoped it was my turn but was always disappointed as another lady was wheeled away. This went on for a while but eventually, after a couple of hours, the jolly fellow returned and it was my turn.
Being wheeled, bedbound, through hospital corridors is a strange experience. Your view is restricted; mainly it consists of a ceiling with the occasional friendly face peering down at you. We entered a small room, which was even colder than the one I had just come from. They put a large tube under the sheet and blew hot air on me, weird but lovely. Naively, I thought this was the operating theatre and was surprised at how small it was. But of course, it was just another waiting room. Nurses came and went, asking me my name and date of birth. Occasionally they clipped things to me. An anaesthetist entered and asked me more questions; he seemed very concerned about any false, or loose, teeth I might have. I was able to convince him my molars were all either natural, or else well screwed, or glued, in. Two doctors came by and, after a bit more prodding, poking and coughing, went away. One drew a small arrow on my lower abdomen and, a few minutes later, the other checked its location with her cold hands.
And then it happened. The jolly nurse returned, “We’re ready for you now,” he said. “Walk into the theatre.” “Wait, what, walk?” I thought. I’ve been in bed, wheeled all over this place and now you want me to walk into the operating theatre?” But I did what I was told. Slipping out of the warm bed, I padded, in my orange socks and ill-fitting purple gown, through the open door and into the vast, brightly lit, room. I momentarily thought I had passed through a portal and rematerialized on the bridge of the Starship Enterprise. Strangely dressed people were hunched over display screens in various corners of the cavernous room. Placed, almost majestically, in the centre of this enormous space, was a surprisingly narrow, pristine-looking bed. Two giant lights were suspended above it. “Good afternoon, all,” I said politely, as I entered, but nobody was listening. I hopped up on the bed making an inane comment about how narrow it was and that I hoped I would not fall off. A different anaesthetist, I think, it was difficult to tell people apart as they all sported strange headgear, appeared and told me to relax. Someone else placed a mask over my face which made me cough. Potions were pumped into my arm and off I went, to the land of nod.
Surgery over, I returned home to groan quietly to myself, while nature healed me. I dined on painkillers and fibre for a few days. Slowly my body restored itself. I thought how lucky I was that I came from Herne Bay, Kent and not say, Bald Knob, Arkansas.
To read more about the cycling adventure that may have been responsible for my injury, buy your copy of Mostly Fun – Soft Nut Bike Tours of Laos and Thailand.
