Hospital – A Special Day

This could be useful. Read it.

By nature and for personal historical reasons, I have always been a somewhat anxious person.

I generally avoid confrontations, fights and arguments. I'm quite risk averse, and not good with physical pain. You want to be John Wayne? Great. Get on with it. Leave me out of it. I want nothing to do with that kind of stuff.

I especially don't like doctors, hospitals, needles, blood and all of that. But I especially, especially don't like the idea of operations that require general anaesthesia. That's the big one.

The other day, like four days ago, I had to go in for the removal of a polyp on my right vocal cord. This required the surgeon to go in through my mouth (of course) and to start messing about down there in my MAIN AIRWAY. I breathe through that windpipe. ME. This is very serious. What if something gets dropped down there? (slow, simmering, barely controlled panic).

I was called in early. Hours early. But they gave us a private room. Which was nice of them. TV set, huge orthopaedic bed, two easy chairs, bedside cabinet and some high tech medical stuff.

My wife is soon lost in her Pride and Prejudice (which she must have read about a zillion times) and I'm gazing mournfully at the gown, hair net and slippers lying atop the bed.

I get undressed and into the garb and my wife ties the ribbons at the back..

Now feeling acutely aware of my nether regions. How do you do this again? Tuck this under? Sit upright with knees together? What do you do?

Eventually I settled for a Princess Di pose. Upright, straight back, legs crossed primly at the knee, upper foot suspended mid air, kicking gently. Lasted about 20 secs. Then I thought, fuck this, slouched back down, legs agape.

Why worry? Nothing down there anymore. It's pathetic. A softly floppy eternally sleeping thing. Resting between two plum like mounds. All asleep under a straggly grey goatee. Pitiful.

So I'm sprawled there, bored, resentful and anxious. Staring at the wall, while she's gone off back to some mindlessly dreary place in 19th century England.

After a while, and almost as if by accident, I slipped into a focussed breathing pattern. (I've been dabbling in deep belly breathing, off and on, for some time now).

My habitual breathing pattern for most of my life has been high in my chest, generally too fast and shallow, and generally useless. Kept me alive of course, but in a more or less permanent state of high alert.

I was in this slightly detached, deep, slow breathing mode. My gaze settled on the huge bed. Look at the size of that thing. Must weigh a ton. And wide too – big enough for an elephant that.

There was a name stamped on the end of it. Stryker. Wow, some name that eh? Sounds like the name of a guy who'd design fighter jets. Pete Stryker, Jack Phantom lV. Al Tomcat.

But no. Orthopaedic beds and other medical appliances were the specialities of one Homer Stryker of Kalamazoo (another great American name that). Anyway that's what my phone told me (still breathing).

Before the wheelchair arrived I'd established that Pardo Inc. make hospital furniture (bedside cabinet) and some outfit called Fresenius Kabi makes hi tech monitoring devices. (Still doing that breathing).

A guy with long hair wheeled me down to the surgery waiting room. He chatted gaily all the way. (I mean he chatted in an old fashioned happy kind of way) Football, Man U, Dire Straits, Knopler. He struck me as being a bit nervy. Might have been first day, first shift. I thought about telling him about slow belly breathing but there wasn't enough time before we arrived at surgery waiting area.

Apart from nurses there were two others in there, lying in their post surgery stupors. Jaws agape, lost in their private dreamscapes. I continued with my slow breathing pattern - gazing around, super alert and yet totally relaxed. It was amazing – no anxiety. Just completely there. In the moment.

The way that heavy guy's swivel chair wheezed and sank on it's piston when he dropped his weight onto the seat. Everybody masked up, hair netted, garbed in green and moving around in those rubber croc slippers.

Somebody started pushing my bed.

Nurse: “We're just going down to pre med Mr S”.

Me: “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” (but silently, under my breath, don't want to go pissing people off. Not in here of all places).

We're in the anaesthesia pre-med area. She's masked up, leaning over me. She's doing something to me, or for me but I can't be bothered to think about that. It's those eyebrows. How much time does it take to do that? All perfectly shaped, plucked and primmed.

My eyebrows are great. I love 'em. They're thick, tough like wire, grow abundantly, out of control, and all over the place. Sadly they're hidden most of the time behind my glasses. From time to time I reluctantly allow Jane Austen's number one fan – to chop them back a bit.

After a time they wheel me into the operating room. Green people standing around. There's a long fixed pedestal with a rubberised mattress on top. All around there are various stand alone medical gadgets. Above, blindingly bright lights. I'm pushed alongside the pedestal and shrug and shoogle my way onto the mattress. My gown gets all rucked up, but by this time all modesty has gone – past caring.

Soon after this the Boss Lady strides briskly in. She's very much The Number One here. Comes over to me, squeezes my hand.

“Hello Mr S. How are you? All good?”

“Yeah, fine.”

I like her. This is no Ratched this one. If McMurphy had this one it would all have been so very different.

Somebody standing close to me places a rubber mask over my nose and mouth. “Just a little oxygen to settle you down”.

I kind of know it's probably more than 'just a little oxygen' but I don't care. I stay with my slow deep belly breathing and let them get on with it. Past caring.

Boss Lady is talking Spanish in low quiet tones to one of the staff. My Spanish is quite good but I can't quite hear what she's saying. Anyway it's all medical jargon. So I wouldn't understand it if I could hear. Can't be bothered.......wonder where those lights were made? I switch my eyes back to the woman holding the rubber mask. She's looking at me and glancing from time to time at some device at the other side of the bed. Can't be bothered with any of this. Just can't be bother.....

It's the way the piston sighs and eases up when he stands. And then he plops himself down again and it gives a little gasp, sighs and sinks down again under the load. Fascinating.

And it comes to me slowly. I'm not in there now!

I'm out here again!

Brilliant, I didn't die!!

Anyway the point is, it's quite straightforward to deal with things – even potentially high anxiety things – by simply being right there. Present, in the moment. When you have no control, no room to manoeuvre, just accept it. Just relax and go with the flow. Be there. Try to capture all of the detail of your surroundings. Don't go wandering off here, there, and everywhere, in your mind. Focus on your breath. It's not always easy, takes practice. But worth the effort. Keep it deep, low and slow.

That's the way you do it. (As ol' Knopler used to say).