Who has not experienced those moments, when it seems as if the universe is conspiring against you and deploying every dirty trick in the book, to make your life more miserable? Like the time you had a horrible day at work, had been stuck for hours in traffic, and returned home to discover the cook had made bhindi for dinner1. Or the time you were passionately performing your acclaimed mimicry routine of your boss in front of your co-workers, oblivious to the fact that he was standing right behind you. Or when you went to the loo while on a Zoom call and forgot to put yourself on mute2.
When faced with these crises, it is crucial to remain calm and not despair. Unless you find yourself puking your guts out, on an eighteen-hour-empty stomach, after having a hole drilled into your spine. Despair, in such a scenario, is mot juste. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me begin from the beginning.
Observant readers of this newsletter would know I’ve been struggling with an injury these past few weeks. (I’ve been dropping subtle clues, such as, writing an entire issue about my visit to a doctor or about napping in the MRI machine.) My tormentor turned out to be a herniated disc in my spine. Now for most people, a herniated disc can be fixed with physiotherapy but as you know, I strive to be exceptional in everything I do. Hence, after weeks of physiotherapy - which did about as much good as Liz Truss’ economic policy - surgery was the only option left on the table. Or, should I say, the operating table. (Hah!)
The surgical procedure was, my doctor assured me, fairly routine and he took us through the itinerary for a two-night stay at the hospital. Day 1: Check-in followed by a short tour of the radiology centre, a spot of TV channel surfing and a few naps, and the highlight: all meals served in the room. Day 2: Surgery in the morning, then a relaxing day spent in the room; maybe get a massage. Day 3: Breakfast in bed and then check-out.
I was sold. I packed my bags, booked a sea-view room and strolled into the hospital looking forward to a pleasant, if somewhat unusual, weekend getaway. Little did I know, my friends, what lay in store for me.
Hospital Couture
The first thing they do is force you to wear these hideous, ill-fitting gowns. I was given a pair of pyjamas labelled ‘Large’. I can only assume the labelling pertained to a size chart for elephants. The top - in which two of me could have fit with room to spare - had a complicated set of strings which needed to be fastened along the side. I believe this design was all the rage in the 1960s.
You may wonder, as I did, why hospitals insist all patients should wear this wretched uniform. It’s because they want you to be unhappy. Hospitals are sadists. They thrive on suffering and misery. They are drunk on the power they hold over people’s lives. They see a man walking in with a smile, whistling a happy tune, and they decide to break his spirit.
Transportation
In a five-star resort, you get to travel in those delightful buggies, which trundle around the property and make walking seem like a chore. Sitting in one, you can get a tour of the resort property while the cheery staff waves at you with welcoming smiles.
Hospitals are the same. Sort of.
Instead of buggies, you have wheelchairs. And in lieu of the sunny disposition of the resort personnel, you get the doleful smiles of nurses wondering what terminal disease ails you and whether they will ever see you in that corridor again.
Humiliation
All that the Lord had intended to be kept private is laid bare, in the most ghastly and traumatic fashion.
I refuse to say anything more on this topic.
Needles
“We need to put an intravenous cannula in your hand. To deliver medicines into your bloodstream.”
“Well, I suppose this was to be expected. Go ahead.”
“Okay, done. Now we need to take six vials of your blood.”
“You can’t use the cannula to draw blood?”
“No, cannula is one-way traffic. We will stab you with a needle in the arm.”
“Umm. Okay.”
“Thank you. Oh, lol, we need 2 more bonus vials. Just a little stab again. NBD.”
“Aah.”
“Oh no, your vein has ruptured. We’ll move the cannula to your other hand now.”
“….”
“And one more tiny little stab for a few more blood tests.”
“I SWEAR TO GOD, I WILL-”
The Worst Hangover Ever
It is difficult to be enthused by the fact that someone is going to cut your body open and fiddle with your innards. But, truth be told, I was looking forward to the anaesthesia part of the drill. You see, the administration of general anaesthesia can cause hallucinations - sometimes with bizarre effects - and I have always been curious about hallucinations. I am a vivid dreamer and I figured that was an encouraging sign for other subconscious brain activities.
I had hoped a thimble of Ketamine would deliver the profound insights I lucklessly seek when I write. I had hoped shimmering colours would talk to me and whisper the plot of an award-winning novel in my ears. I had hoped for inspiration while I floated, lucid dreaming, in the inky black vacuum of space.
I suppose you can imagine what happened next.
I passed out within seconds into a deep, dreamless sleep. When I came to, I was in the post-op recovery room, with eyelids that flatly refused to open and a throatful of bile obscenely eager to arc into the outside world. Then, as the pain medication started wearing out and sensation returned to my surgical wound, I finally understood Julius’ agony. The rest of you can only imagine the feeling. It is only us - people like Julius and me - who know what it’s like to be stabbed in the back.
I do not wish to assail you with the gory details of what followed. There was overpowering nausea, sobbing, retching, nibbling on a biscuit, retching, sobbing, taking sips of water, burning of the throat, sobbing, and so on. My tottering steps from the bed to the washroom - a performance any self-respecting toddler would have disowned - were applauded by my family. And I have never had a ward full of nurses express such keen interest in the movement of my bowels. It was all quite surreal.
Suffice to say, I somehow survived that night and now, it’s been one week since the knife. I am glad to report I am doing much better. For starters, I no longer feel as if two wires are short-circuiting inside my leg every five minutes. I do have a wound dressing the size of Madhya Pradesh on my back and the agility of a spondylitic ninety-year-old, but I suppose you can’t win them all.
I have an appointment to get my surgical staples removed - stitches are so passé - in a couple of hours, so allow me to take your leave. (I need an inordinate amount of time to clothe myself nowadays - have you tried wearing pants, without bending from the waist?) I shall be back in a fortnight. Hopefully, with my wound well on the way to becoming an impressive scar, and with a new story that was a tad less harrowing for me to endure.
This is why it pays to learn how to cook your own food.
I can neither confirm nor deny, any personal experience of these events.
Ouch! Get well soon! I'm amazed you turned the painful experience into a well-written, captivating blog 🙌🏽