Hospitals Beats - Song #1: Strawberries & Raspberries

The world of western medicine, like any good profession, is riddled with alienating acronyms and intimidating titles.  That's not to say I don't respect the many years of training that goes in to those titles!  But I'd like to share my recent hospital visit from a layman's perspective (apologies to my highly trained medical friends ;)

The hospital where I had my 'procedure' was the same hospital where I gave birth to my two wonderful children and the same hospital where I watched my beautiful 57 year-old mother in law loose her battle with asbestos cancer.  If I had a big, baritone Mufasa voice I might start talking about the circle of life... The point is, the hospital is very familiar to me.  But the needles, the various bodily fluids and that potent ethanol smell intimidates me every time!

On the day of my operation I am escorted to a tiny cubicle and asked to replace my clothes with paper knickers and a heavy cotton gown that flaps open regularly to reveal those rockin' paper undies. A rather stern looking nurse asks the standard set of questions: name, DOB, allergies, admitting doctor, what am I in hospital for today... In answer to the last question the facetious me wants to answer "those creamy, salt-smothered scrambled eggs you serve the day after an operation" but, alas, sensible my tells them they'll be upgrading Thelma & Louise for some younger, more synthetic models (no, I don't normally name parts of my body but I'm clutching at a little dignity).

They then put me in my bed and the most extraordinary measures commence to promote blood flow. Firstly, they squeeze me into some very tight socks which are then covered by white inflatable leg-warmers.  Much like a blood pressure test (although not quite as tight), these leg-warmers squeeze your legs.  There are three sections to each leg-warmer and they soon settle in to a rhythmic massage inflating then deflating up my left leg, then the right.  Finally a big blue synthetic blanket is put over me and a heating duct plugged into the end.  Hot air is blown into the blanket and in no time at all I'm enveloped in the most delicious warmth.

With the air blowing, the leg-warmers pumping and the nurses flicking through paperwork I find the beginnings of an awesome percussion rift.  The musical interlude is interrupted by the surgeon's nurse asking me the standard questions.  I answer her in record time and settle back in to imagining Ed Sheeran groovin along to my Hospital Beat.  But then nurse #3 (the anesthetist's nurse) demands answers to the same standard questions.  Don't get me wrong, I have no problem with all the checking.  After all, you wouldn't want to be accidentally putting a couple of bolt-ons on Mr Jones in Bed 5!

Finally, we're ready for the main act.  I am wheeled into a tiny little pre-op room where I am momentarily left in peace to contemplate what is actually about to happen.  The anesthetist strolls in and introduces himself.  I try desperately to listen to what he is saying but can't shake the undercurrent of indignation I feel toward him given the only correspondence he (or his rooms) managed before this moment was a TEXT message asking me to confirm I'll pay $1000 in addition to his medicare and private health insurance covered fees.  I smile politely at Mr $1000 and hope that in a few moments time I won't be thinking or remembering anything.

A procession of people breeze in and out of the pre-op room - the breast surgeon, her assistant, the plastic surgeon, his nurse and then finally the anesthetist's nurse.  And throughout all these 'visits' is the backdrop of clunking metal equipment on metal trays.  "How many knives do they need?!" I ask the latest nurse.  "Ah yes, sorry about this" she smiles "The last surgery ran a little over so you've had to wait here an unusually long time".  Oh, how I dislike that word unusual now!  65 minutes later, Dr $1000 finally returns and administers that 'little scratch' that sends me off to sleep.

I have neither the stomach, nor the knowledge to document what happened over the next 4 hours...but when I woke up there were strange inflatable bags on my chest and drain tubes stitched in to my side. These tubes ended with clear plastic bottles diligently collecting the blood and fluid draining from my wounds.  The site of these bottles made me want to puke so I did the only thing I know how to do in such medical environments - not take it all that seriously!  Instead, said bottles, have been knighted Sir Strawberry and Sir Raspberry and they are the key to me getting out of hospital..... TO BE continued.