We were waiting in a room full of voices and echoes and were discussing how to pronounce the word for ‘surgery’ in Spanish. There was a constant movement of people in and out, and around the room. Some would walk into the room wearing orange visitor stickers. Some were carrying a single red rose wrapped in a clear sleeve. It was Valentine’s Day, and the day of my operation to correct my deviated septum; to straighten it, to allow better airflow through my nose.
I was sitting with my boyfriend in the off-white-coloured waiting room. Around the perimeter of the room were rows of chairs, with metal frames and hard wooden backs that curved slightly into the seat. In the middle of the room were two more rows of the same chairs; back-to-back. There was a dropped ceiling with suspended ceiling tiles; the Styrofoam type that are often found in offices or classrooms. Some of the tiles were discoloured or stained with the light-brown outline of irregular shapes, and were interspersed with rectangular light panels. The walls were bare apart from two Van Gogh framed prints: his Sunflowers and a painting of some wheat fields. It was difficult to judge the time of day as there was only one window, allowing a small amount of natural light to enter the room. I sat, looking around the room and watching the movement of people. There were people here of all ages. I scanned the room observing their faces. Like a detective, I assessed every person in the room. Were they wearing makeup? Jewellery? Nail polish? These were things I was told to strip my body before the operation. Were they wearing comfortable, loose-fitting clothing? I was evaluating who was here for an operation and who was simply visiting a relative or friend. There was a small door off from the waiting room to the left of where we were sitting. Some people walked straight through this door, with confidence and without the need for permission. Others had their name called by a nurse before entering. Some people came and went. Some went through the door without returning. Everyone seemed to be here for a different purpose. Every time the door opened, a sharp unsettled feeling attacked deep down in my stomach. Was it going to be a nurse calling my name? The waiting was arduous. After about 3 hours had passed we started to doubt whether we were in the right place. My boyfriend went to check; back to the original reception desk, we’d passed through before entering into the room. My appointment was for 4:30pm. It was now after 7:00pm. We were playing the game again. We were in a Spanish hospital with no idea of the procedure for having an operation here. This was new territory for us. The receptionist confirmed we were in the right place, and that they were behind schedule.
When my name was finally called it was around 8pm, and the waiting room was almost empty. I was hungry and tired, from fasting since an early breakfast. My boyfriend and I walked through the door into a corridor that opened out onto a ward. In a small changing room I dressed in a hospital gown. On my feet, I put elasticated blue foot covers that looked like delicate elf shoes. I completed my outfit by tucking my hair into a blue hair net; an action that reminded me of a short period of time spent working in factories, many years ago. We put my clothes in a locker, and retrieved the key: number 1. Then we went to wait in another room in which there were about 6 beds. I sat in a chair next to a hospital bed with dark green sheets. This seemed to be a recovery room. There were patients leaving the room after being given their hospital notes and Ziploc bags filled with medication. Some patients were in beds, with a relative beside them; waiting for them to feel well enough to return home. We waited here a while longer. I started to feel nervous.
Shortly, I was asked to get into the bed with the dark green sheets. I was wheeled through the hospital, into the lift, and then through some corridors. I was aware of my boyfriend changing position, moving from behind the bed, then to my side; endeavouring to keep up with the fast-moving trolley. The two nurses who were controlling the bed looked tired and had sour faces. At an intersection of corridors one of the nurses mumbled something hurriedly in Spanish. She was telling my boyfriend to give me a kiss and to wait “over there”. The two nurses hardly slowed the motion of the bed, and I could see my boyfriend was still processing what they had said. I told him to kiss me, and as he swiftly moved towards me, I observed his confused face in the moment of our separation.
I was on my own now. I was wheeled to a corridor where I was left without comment from the two tired nurses, for what I guess was about half an hour. I lay in the bed with my good ear facing the wall. I could hear people; I think they were behind me down the corridor. They were the voices of women speaking in quick passionate tones. They didn’t sound happy. Someone was shushing them continuously. During my wait, a few people came to talk to me and to read my medical notes. They all asked me similar questions: Where was I from? How should they pronounce my name? Do I have any allergies? All this was conducted in Spanish. I was happy to talk to people as they came to my bed. Talking was a distraction. During this time I was told that I would have to stay in hospital overnight, as it was now late, and there wouldn’t be time for me to recover from the anaesthetic. One of the members of staff asked me if I was warm enough. I told her that my feet were cold, and she folded a blanket, placing it over them. The anaesthetist also introduced himself. I think he said his name was Pablo. He was handsome and had a kind face.
Without warning my bed began to move backwards. As the bed reached a doorway, the trolley was turned around and I was facing one of the tired nurses from earlier. I was going into the operating theatre. I remember the colour green. I made an effort not to observe the room too much. The kind nurse, who earlier had asked me if I was cold, came to speak to me. She questioned me as to whether I had noticed the feeling of warmth on my feet. She had positioned a heat lamp over them, and I thanked her. The anaesthetist was situated on my deaf side, and he was kneeling down, talking to me whilst holding my hand. Simultaneously he was using his other hand to pat my arm; trying to find a vein. I smiled as he talked. I couldn’t hear him. After a moment I told him I was deaf in my left ear, and he told me he would talk louder. He said jokingly that he would try to make the sound of his voice bounce off the wall opposite, and then back to reach my good ear. The cannula was inserted with a quick sharp sting, and the anaesthetist asked me to breathe some air from a mask made of thick black rubber. I breathed in the air, and then breathed in some more…
Good Lord! I’ve read mystery novels that weren’t this scary. Here you are, isolated, with your support system yanked unceremoniously away from you, with total strangers from the inner sanctum, speaking a different language and holding your fate in their hands, and you drifting away. If I didn’t already know you survived, I’d rate your chances at 30-70. Next installment please!
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Haha! This made me laugh Al! When you put it like that, yeah I guess it does sound scary! Thanks as always for reading, and for making me smile 🙂 …next installment is coming soon!
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