napping. The shock I get each time I encounter the reality ought to be enough to permanently shake a few neurons out of day-dreaming on the job.
The first thing I notice when I awake on the morning after surgery is that the pillows I was so taken with yesterday have migrated downwards during thenight and I am stuck in a neck-stretching, reverse-guillotine position. I try to shift either them or myself, but even the slightest wriggle brings a sensation like red-hot knives to my abdomen. The muscles in my neck and shoulders are also shrieking pathetically, but I am a beetle, stuck on my back.
I ring the nurseâs bell for assistance. I imagine the women in white rushing to my side with soothing noises and capable hands. Five hours later, a surly nurse appears. She is clearly irritated by this intrusion on her day. She fixes the pillows and addresses me with a few terse words. At first I think she has taken a dislike to me. But as I overhear her conversational gambits with the occupants of neighbouring rooms, I realise that itâs not me. She is just one of those people with a natural talent for making enemies.
The migrating pillows and beetle-on-back experience will be repeated tomorrow. As will the five-hour wait for assistance. By the third day, I can move enough to adjust the pillows by myself. The relief of this independence is marvellous. It gives me a sobering, and thankfully brief, insight into just a little of what âdisabled and at the mercy of othersâ feels like.
That first day, as I wait hopefully for the nurse to come, I have plenty of time to complete a âbefore and afterâ inventory.
Before surgery, I hadnât noticed that the bed was lined with a rubber under-sheet. Now, with the clarity given by a sweaty night, I am all too aware that I am sleeping on rubber.
Before surgery, my abdomen was inflated, butotherwise unencumbered. Now my midriff is firmly girdled in tight, white bandages. I look like half a mummy.
Before, as I filled in the lengthy hospital admissions form, I was asked whether I was allergic to adhesives. No, I blithely replied. After all, how much chance had I had to find out? Itâs not every day you decide it would be fun to experiment by wrapping yourself in large expanses of white, plastic-backed adhesive. Soon I will discover that under that dazzling, waterproof exterior, my body has decided that no, it doesnât like adhesives, and is bubbling and blistering away.
Before, I was pain-free and had total ease of movement. Now, any movement involves instant, intense pain. Even though the operating site is in my abdomen, theoretically leaving my arms, legs and head free, I am discovering that, in the spirit of true friendship, anything they do, they want the abdomen to do with them. I canât move up, I canât move down, I canât move sideways, I canât roll over. If I lie still the pain is fairly bearable, like an unpleasant background buzz. If I attempt to shift myself, in any direction, it roars up to 707-accelerating-for-take-off levels.
I also have a couple of tubes leading out of me. One is the catheter to collect urine. The other is an intravenous line attached to a drip. It belongs to the new-fangled patient-operated pain-control apparatus. Itâs a terrific idea in principle. In practice, it turns out that the nurses havenât yet mastered its principles. When the drip needs refilling, it lets out a piercing scream. Not just a short, sharp piercing scream, butone that, like the average babyâs, goes on and on until you feed it. As the nurses havenât quite worked out how to do that, the kind of chaos that leads to thoughts of infanticide ensues. The machine is having a panic attack. The nurses are having multiple panic attacks. I am taking slow breaths, vainly trying to recapture wisps of my hospital fantasy; the one that runs along the lines of quiet peaceful rooms, tender nurses, leisurely hours to read and recuperate
The first thing I notice when I awake on the morning after surgery is that the pillows I was so taken with yesterday have migrated downwards during thenight and I am stuck in a neck-stretching, reverse-guillotine position. I try to shift either them or myself, but even the slightest wriggle brings a sensation like red-hot knives to my abdomen. The muscles in my neck and shoulders are also shrieking pathetically, but I am a beetle, stuck on my back.
I ring the nurseâs bell for assistance. I imagine the women in white rushing to my side with soothing noises and capable hands. Five hours later, a surly nurse appears. She is clearly irritated by this intrusion on her day. She fixes the pillows and addresses me with a few terse words. At first I think she has taken a dislike to me. But as I overhear her conversational gambits with the occupants of neighbouring rooms, I realise that itâs not me. She is just one of those people with a natural talent for making enemies.
The migrating pillows and beetle-on-back experience will be repeated tomorrow. As will the five-hour wait for assistance. By the third day, I can move enough to adjust the pillows by myself. The relief of this independence is marvellous. It gives me a sobering, and thankfully brief, insight into just a little of what âdisabled and at the mercy of othersâ feels like.
That first day, as I wait hopefully for the nurse to come, I have plenty of time to complete a âbefore and afterâ inventory.
Before surgery, I hadnât noticed that the bed was lined with a rubber under-sheet. Now, with the clarity given by a sweaty night, I am all too aware that I am sleeping on rubber.
Before surgery, my abdomen was inflated, butotherwise unencumbered. Now my midriff is firmly girdled in tight, white bandages. I look like half a mummy.
Before, as I filled in the lengthy hospital admissions form, I was asked whether I was allergic to adhesives. No, I blithely replied. After all, how much chance had I had to find out? Itâs not every day you decide it would be fun to experiment by wrapping yourself in large expanses of white, plastic-backed adhesive. Soon I will discover that under that dazzling, waterproof exterior, my body has decided that no, it doesnât like adhesives, and is bubbling and blistering away.
Before, I was pain-free and had total ease of movement. Now, any movement involves instant, intense pain. Even though the operating site is in my abdomen, theoretically leaving my arms, legs and head free, I am discovering that, in the spirit of true friendship, anything they do, they want the abdomen to do with them. I canât move up, I canât move down, I canât move sideways, I canât roll over. If I lie still the pain is fairly bearable, like an unpleasant background buzz. If I attempt to shift myself, in any direction, it roars up to 707-accelerating-for-take-off levels.
I also have a couple of tubes leading out of me. One is the catheter to collect urine. The other is an intravenous line attached to a drip. It belongs to the new-fangled patient-operated pain-control apparatus. Itâs a terrific idea in principle. In practice, it turns out that the nurses havenât yet mastered its principles. When the drip needs refilling, it lets out a piercing scream. Not just a short, sharp piercing scream, butone that, like the average babyâs, goes on and on until you feed it. As the nurses havenât quite worked out how to do that, the kind of chaos that leads to thoughts of infanticide ensues. The machine is having a panic attack. The nurses are having multiple panic attacks. I am taking slow breaths, vainly trying to recapture wisps of my hospital fantasy; the one that runs along the lines of quiet peaceful rooms, tender nurses, leisurely hours to read and recuperate
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