Being wheeled to theatre evokes a similar emotion to walking The Green Mile to ‘Old Sparky’ – there is always a chance of not surviving an anesthetic. Unfortunately the orderly who wheeled me to the theatre was short, round and pimply and in no way resembled Tom Hanks…

Pre-op, I usually welcome any distraction that could diffuse the uncertainty I feel. Fortunately I had an anaesthetist with a great sense of humour. During his assessment, he asked me how I wished to manage my pain post-op; the usual injections, or in a more independent way – a morphine dispenser attached to my drip, which I could administer as necessary. Needless to say, I opted for the latter. He stressed tongue-in-cheek that the morphine option comes with three rules:-
1. It is not necessary to use every drop in the dispenser
2. Should I not deplete the contents, I will not be allowed to take the balance home
3. I am not allowed to share it with my visitors
What he didn’t tell me was how they disposed of the unused morphine – I only used 20 of my 55ml… Could be a roaring trade for someone out the back door!

I spent two nights in ICU since I have a blood clotting condition and only one more night in a general ward, before I was sent home. Amazing how the health industry is in step with the fast food industry – ‘NEXT!’

But then again, I was quite relieved to be discharged. Not too many nurses today are direct descendants of Florence Nightingale. Even in ICU ages went by without a nurse checking on me and since one is expected to receive constant care, ICU wards are not equipped with bells. The only way to get attention was to call out, which I had to do often. Once, not even that helped, so I waved my arm around to get someone to check which of the many buzzers on the computerised monitor system was sounding. However, the only response I got was being yelled at by a nurse, for triggering the buzzers with my frantic waving…

To add to Bill’s blog about phobias – I have a serious problem with germs, Mysophobia I believe it is called. Well, the first 24 hours after my surgery was a blur, but I remember being woken by someone wiping my face with a damp cloth. It happened to be 04h00 the next morning and I was having a bed bath. I was unable to wake myself up enough to protest (too many squirts of the happy juice?), but I remember being aware of the nurse washing my feet first and then my girlie bits. Unhygienic, to say the least, but I was unable to protest, as I could not stay awake for long enough to speak.

Much too soon, it was 04h00 the next day and bed bath time again. Now I was awake enough to defend my dignity, but also awake enough to start conjuring up all kinds of thoughts about the germ transfer that might take place between the other patients and myself. I tried to will the nurses to bath me first so they could rather get my germs, but no, they started on the lady next to me. Why her? She was in the middle of our row, doesn’t it make sense to start in the corner – my corner – and work down the row? She had an open wound on her stomach, as her doctor tried to clear her intestinal infection before sewing her up again. Gross, what if I got some of her leaky gut stuff? Don’t get me wrong, I felt sorry for her, I just didn’t want any of it on me.

My greatest concern was for my face and girlie bits, so as soon as I managed to get the nurse’s attention, I asked her to pass my toiletries bag. I had some facial wipes in there, which would eliminate her using the cloth on my important parts. I wiped my face and felt a momentary sense of relief. But what about my girlie bits? The facial wipes are all-in-one ‘cleanser, toner and moisturiser’, what if it burns?

I realised that I could not take a chance and lay back, trapped. I started trembling, as I knew I had to accept my fate – my girlie bits had to be washed by the nurse with that dreadful, germ infested facecloth. Tears welled up in my eyes – I’m not exaggerating – and as the nurse got close enough, I asked her in a creaky voice whether they used disposable facecloths. She confirmed that they do and promised to show me the brand new, bone dry, neatly folded cloth before washing me.

Just to add insult to injury, they bathed a guy in the next row afterwards. Oh no, he was operated on 10 days before and has obviously not been able to shower properly since then! What if they bath me after him? So I waited for an opportunity to call the nurse over again and asked her if they used the same basin to wash us all. She smiled and took the time to explain the procedure to me – after each patient they discard the facecloths and place the basins on a trolley which is then taken down to the basement for sterilisation. Each person gets a new facecloth and a fresh basin.

In order to keep my sanity I had to take her word for it.

Hospitals are scary places and what I find most scary is being at the mercy of the nursing staff, who are also human and have bad days. I’m sure Mysophobic patients with a million germ questions could add to their irritation and who knows what they could add to my drip…damn, what is the fancy term for that phobia?