Friday, December 09, 2005
The Insider
In retrospect, it happened extraordinarily quickly.
One moment he was wincing in pain as he lay in his own bed, palpating his lower right abdomen...
... and the next he was lying supine, staring up at the synthetic white glare of the operating theatre lights.
"This is too surreal", he thought as the oxygen mask made its slow but unhesitating descent towards his face.
Didn't I just watch this in a short-film segment a few days ago?
This is too weird, he said.
Why? A disembodied female voice asked.
I'm just not used to being on this side of the camera.
A kindly, bespectacled face came slowly into view from beneath the algae-green horizon-rim of the oxygen mask. I'd be lying if I likened it to Venus arising majestically from the depths of the deep blue sea...
"Do you drink?" She bubbled, a trifle too happily.
"Err. A little (he lied)... why?"
"Some people say it feels like vodka, some like champagne!!"
Ah. the good old getting high experience... perhaps I'll finally know what it feels like, to become a happy-drunk.
His vision went blurry, so he closed his eyes. The world stopped spinning, and then...
Nothing much happened.
I don't feel... happy. Or even high.
Ah well, he sighed to himself. Typical... I was supposed to be in OT today anyhow...
Fade.
.... He woke up. bemused. That was quick, he thought, glancing at the ever-present OT clock. (There's always a clock in OT, somewhere on the wall. It's used variously to let the surgeon know how long he's been operating, how long a tourniquet has been applied, or whether last chance for lunch-break is going to expire soon.)
Perhaps it's been an hour, and I just feel like it's fast, because the last thing I remember is going under... or perhaps...
Focus: Thirty minutes.
Wow.
That was fast, he said. Hmm, my vision's still blurry.
Ah, that would be the anticholinergic effects, the bubbly champagne anaesthetist chirped.
Ah. Of course.
Tired.
Fade to black.
*****
Gummy eyes opening, just a chink.
Light test. Pass.
Sound test.
Ambient hospital noises, generic nurses in background. Pass.
Bugger, it wasn't a dream.
Sore-throat test...
... hey it actually doesn't hurt! Remarkable. Must remember to thank Mrs Champagne sometime for a remarkably smooth intubation.
Deep breath.
Wound test.
i) somatic.
? No pain.
ii) tactile?
pain. mild.
iii) visual?
White light, everywhere. Pupillary ciliary muscles kick in. Contrast rematerializes.
Wound test, visual - miniscule. No yawing cavern... no massive three cm scar. Just a tiny dressing, and situated dead-centre, a minute spot of red blood, almost as if artistically painted onto it.
I guess this is what private medicine is all about.
*****
48 hours later...
... still Nill By Mouth. And ravenous enough to eat a cow. Live.
... still running intravenous morphine. Pain score of 0/10 - for the last 40 hours. (Several happy moments spent repeatedly pressing the Purge button when the nurses weren't looking... ok just kidding. More like when needed to walk to toilet.)
Sigh.
I guess this is what private medicine is all about.
One moment he was wincing in pain as he lay in his own bed, palpating his lower right abdomen...
... and the next he was lying supine, staring up at the synthetic white glare of the operating theatre lights.
"This is too surreal", he thought as the oxygen mask made its slow but unhesitating descent towards his face.
Didn't I just watch this in a short-film segment a few days ago?
This is too weird, he said.
Why? A disembodied female voice asked.
I'm just not used to being on this side of the camera.
A kindly, bespectacled face came slowly into view from beneath the algae-green horizon-rim of the oxygen mask. I'd be lying if I likened it to Venus arising majestically from the depths of the deep blue sea...
"Do you drink?" She bubbled, a trifle too happily.
"Err. A little (he lied)... why?"
"Some people say it feels like vodka, some like champagne!!"
Ah. the good old getting high experience... perhaps I'll finally know what it feels like, to become a happy-drunk.
His vision went blurry, so he closed his eyes. The world stopped spinning, and then...
Nothing much happened.
I don't feel... happy. Or even high.
Ah well, he sighed to himself. Typical... I was supposed to be in OT today anyhow...
Fade.
.... He woke up. bemused. That was quick, he thought, glancing at the ever-present OT clock. (There's always a clock in OT, somewhere on the wall. It's used variously to let the surgeon know how long he's been operating, how long a tourniquet has been applied, or whether last chance for lunch-break is going to expire soon.)
Perhaps it's been an hour, and I just feel like it's fast, because the last thing I remember is going under... or perhaps...
Focus: Thirty minutes.
Wow.
That was fast, he said. Hmm, my vision's still blurry.
Ah, that would be the anticholinergic effects, the bubbly champagne anaesthetist chirped.
Ah. Of course.
Tired.
Fade to black.
*****
Gummy eyes opening, just a chink.
Light test. Pass.
Sound test.
Ambient hospital noises, generic nurses in background. Pass.
Bugger, it wasn't a dream.
Sore-throat test...
... hey it actually doesn't hurt! Remarkable. Must remember to thank Mrs Champagne sometime for a remarkably smooth intubation.
Deep breath.
Wound test.
i) somatic.
? No pain.
ii) tactile?
pain. mild.
iii) visual?
White light, everywhere. Pupillary ciliary muscles kick in. Contrast rematerializes.
Wound test, visual - miniscule. No yawing cavern... no massive three cm scar. Just a tiny dressing, and situated dead-centre, a minute spot of red blood, almost as if artistically painted onto it.
I guess this is what private medicine is all about.
*****
48 hours later...
... still Nill By Mouth. And ravenous enough to eat a cow. Live.
... still running intravenous morphine. Pain score of 0/10 - for the last 40 hours. (Several happy moments spent repeatedly pressing the Purge button when the nurses weren't looking... ok just kidding. More like when needed to walk to toilet.)
Sigh.
I guess this is what private medicine is all about.
