“Surgeon: A man who’s always out for his cut”.
anonymous
Towards the end of last year, I had a tricky surgery which opened up (no pun intended) a whole new understanding of myself and mankind in general.
Surgery is – in a word – scary. No judgement here (well, maybe a little) but I don’t know how anyone puts themselves through it for cosmetic purposes because for me, it was a frightening undertaking. It had to be a gun-to-the-head type of situation before I grudgingly gave in to the prospect.
Having been through the harrowing ordeal, I not only feel like a new person, I think it has made me a more compassionate being. I know, I know, I was adorable before but I am even more so now; if you can believe it! It’s made me really modest, guys.
There were complications during the procedure, where my I had to be flipped over because my body (including my head) had become water-logged. The surgeon was running out of time due to the amount of time I would have left under anaesthesia, and this led him to leave some gauze inside my uterine cavity to soak up the blood. This gauze (look away now if you’re squeamish) had to be removed, by hand, some hours after the operation. Ouch! Double Ouch!
Of course, by then, the anaesthetic had worn off so…
Surgeon: We're going to give you some Propofol- Me: No! Surgeon: Why not? Anaesthetic Assistant: Michael Jackson! Surgeon: Yes, yes! You WILL have Propofol. You'll be okay. It's administered before I can slur any further complaints. Me: (rapping a Nicky Minaj verse in my head) Like MJ doctor, they killing me - Propofol. I know they hope I fall. But tell 'em winning is my motherfuckin' protocol. 'Cos I score before I even throw the ball-" Then a whole arm went up my hoo-haa and I screamed; a primal scream that I didn't know existed in my body. Surgeon: Give her more! The Assistant does as he's told and I am out like a light with an arm in my nethermost regions.
About an hour after I came to, I realised two things. Firstly, surgeons can become so used to their own god-complex that they become jaded and oblivious to the pain of their patients. Secondly, I understood why someone would have a doctor come to their house to administer a drug like Propofol. I always thought such behaviour was for the idle rich and crazy (I use the word loosely, don’t @ me).
The thing about such drugs is that they wipe you clean. Not only did it numb my physical pain but any mental or spiritual pain seemed to have never existed. Your fears and worries don’t linger or loom in the background of your mind, as it does with other drugs. This drug just wipes you clean.
I don’t condone it but I get it. I understand why a person would want to be consciously sedated out of their childhood or adult trauma, their worries, their stresses, even if it makes them move like a toddler learning to walk. I can empathise – wanting to be who you are but simultaneously born anew.
The grim details of the complications of the operation are not so important anymore but I’ll just say that I am incredibly thankful to be alive and physically recovered. I have also taken stock and chosen to redefine and renew what it means to be the person that I am. And that’s okay. I’m okay.
