Routine

                                          

Early, very early, on this first day of My New Life, absolutely nothing relates to routine as I had previously known it.

Setting the alarm for 5.15 am?  Unheard of.  Packing the necessities for the hospital stay into a small striped bag, including cramming in a dressing gown which can only be described as antique and bulky?  Never.  Not eating breakfast?  You’re kidding.

This is how the day starts.

It’s a dark, wintry morning; Robyn of Richmond arrives promptly at 6 a.m.  Fifteen minutes later we pull into the hospital car park; after a hug and good wishes, I take the elevator up the ground floor.  The day surgery is in darkness; a handful of patients are seated on couches in the outside waiting area.   I have arrived early; another truly remarkable occurrence.  Chalk that up!

At 6.30 a.m. the day surgery door opens; we file into the waiting area and the hospital routine begins.  This routine follows an order not immediately obvious to the patient awaiting surgery but one fixed feature of the day’s routine is the repetitive question: “What is your full name and date of birth?”   Should I be unlucky enough to be visited at a later stage in my life by dementia, I’m absolutely certain the answer to that question is now forever embedded in my memory bank.

Eventually, decked out in hospital gowns, caps, cute little disposable bootees and white dressing gowns, the ladies listed for surgery today take their place in one of the reclining chairs in the pre-surgery waiting area.   Time passes. One by one the waiting patients disappear in the direction of the operating theatres.

Somewhere nearby, the loud bawling of a prospective sergeant-major announces his arrival in the world to all within earshot.

The one person left in the pre-surgery waiting area is now in complete charge of the television remote and the magazine rack. Immediately the TV channel is changed, from the one where Federal Government’s Leader of the Opposition is making yet another fatuous statement, to the way more interesting indigenous TV channel.

I watch TV for a while; I’m starting to feel hungry.  I close my eyes and doze.

A man, dressed in blue scrubs, enters stage right and greets me; in my semi-awake state I mistake him for the anaesthetist who reprimanded me about not taking my reflux medication on a regular basis prior to the initial investigative surgery.    ‘Don’t you remember me from 1983?’ the man in blue asks in a voice of mock reproof and then he laughs. I certainly can recall that year and the hospital procedure; now it’s my turn to laugh.  Really?  Is he serious?  I have no recollection of seeing this man in 1983 and I say so. I consider fleetingly that this may not be the most diplomatic response.  Ah well, I’ll have to live with that faux pas – it’s out there now.

At this stage of proceedings I am more than happy to have this timely distraction, which has come about because  the man in blue, who is the chief operating surgeon (henceforth to be known as the Surgeon-General), was surprised to find his handwriting when reading the case notes at the very back of my file.  We have another laugh about the long arm of coincidence, a brief chat about 1983 and the doctor I do remember, followed by a short resume on how the S.G's career has travelled in the last thirty years. 

Finally with all the interviews and explanations and other rigmarole behind me I’m ready to pass through the door to the area where My New Life will move on to its next stage.  The anesthetists put the final touches to their preparations, the nurse covers me with a warm blanket and in the blink of an eye I am out like a light.

Much later…….

From a great distance a male voice is calling my name; the voice belongs to Craig, the nurse looking after me in recovery.  He poses a question; on a scale of one to ten how would I rate my pain? I give the answer some consideration.  I'm in serious pain; fifteen seems a reasonable answer from my point of view. It is, however, well above the suggested scale and I opt for eleven.  I have absolutely no further memory of the recovery room.

Later again……..

It is dark outside; I am in a darkened two-bed room, my bed is nearest to both the door to the corridor and the door to the bathroom and even in my heavily sedated state I am pleased about my proximity to the bathroom.  In reality it wouldn’t matter if the bathroom was at the far end of the corridor; I will not be leaving this bed for some time. I am hooked up to all the necessary equipment and mostly everything I need will come to me over the next 24 hours.

A nurse appears in the doorway;  this is Su, who is looking after me tonight.  She has a warm smile and a calm, reassuring manner; the requisite observations are taken, instructions are given in the use of the pain relief button and the call button is placed within easy reach.

I close my eyes and drift off into oblivion one more time.