The pre-op ward was quiet, and the staff knew that the key to their role was keeping the patients relaxed, and happy. I had slept as well as I had for some time - in part, I think, because I knew my wait was at an end. I woke up headache-free, but quite early, and restless. I was told that the running order for the operations was to be sorted when the surgeons started work, and that an anaesthesiologist would see me shortly. I had no appetite, and thankfully so as I was 'nil by mouth'. Lydia arrived at the hospital to see me, and visiting hours were no longer an issue. I was invited to slip on a standard issue surgical gown - I like to think I made this look good, despite the slightly off putting feel of a breeze across my bum. I guess I know how the Scottish feel now.
Nerves had struck, but I was still feeling remarkably good for a man about to undergo brain surgery. I know I was nervous by the frequent urge to go to the loo, and the feeling of adrenaline buzzing around my body. I have been known to confuse nerves and excitement, but there was no misunderstanding here. I felt I had a good handle on what was about to come, and I had no doubts about going under the knife. My thoughts flitted briefly to organ donation - I wasn't thinking negatively, but had considered all the possible outcomes, and was well aware that as an otherwise healthy guy, in the event of my own misfortune, I might be able to help someone else. This didn't go down well with Lydia. As a nurse passed, I asked the question, "Excuse me, do you have any donor cards?" "Err, I think we have some somewhere...I'll have a look", she replied. Lydia was upset by this, and didn't need to say anything to give this away. I was well aware that she had been nervous up to this point...perhaps more nervous than me if her face was anything to go by. It dawned on me that in light of this, asking about donor cards wasn't the most sensitive thing to do. I tried to explain to Lydia that I just thought it was a good idea, but moved on quickly, and she relaxed a little. The donor card never arrived.
The anaesthesiologist came to my bed side, and explained that I would be collected shortly, and pointed out the risks of general anaesthesia. These didn't worry me, as people are subject of general anaesthetic every day, and anaesthesiologists are well paid to keep those people alive. I was in the zone, and didn't have time for any negative thought. Not now. The hour was nigh. My parents were there, and Lydia was there - all of them doing their best to keep a brave face, and keep me chipper. When I look back, I think it's fair to say that I was the one person there who didn't need keeping chipper. I had approached this day in my own style - this operation was just another obstacle to overcome. A necessary procedure that would allow me to continue with my life. I wasn't prepared for what was coming next.
The time had come. A nurse arrived at my bedside, followed by a couple of porters. I had a genuine smile on my face, as this was the key to my health being restored. My parents and Lydia were staying positive, but I could see the panic in their eyes. They were scared, and I was just too stubborn to let that emotion overcome me. I was wheeled from the ward on the trolley, and laid back. The nurse walked alongside me, but I quickly lost track of what she was saying. I watched as strip light after strip light passed over my head as we negotiated the corridors. The words from the consent form flashed into my consciousness.
Paralysis. Bleeding. Death.
Was I about to close my eyes for the last time? Would I see my family again. Would I ever get the chance to have a family of my own?
The wave of emotion that was passing through my body was overwhelming. I was thirty years old...was it all about to come to an end? I still had the same faith in the people about to operate on me, but I felt vulnerable. My future was in their hands. There was no sign of my life flashing before my eyes, just the past few months from diagnosis to the present. What had felt like a prolonged period of illness was in perspective. This was it.
I didn't have enough time to dwell on things, as I arrived in the anaesthetic room moments later. The small room was a hive of activity, and before I knew it, I was having cannulas inserted into every limb...literally. I desperately tried to cling on to the moment, and exchanged jokes with the nurses and Doctors that surrounded me. It was all happening too fast - the busier they got, the faster time seemed to pass, and all I wanted was for it to feel as if it was slowing down. Resistance was futile - I was whipped up into the frenzy of activity. Before I knew it, I was told that I would feel a strange sensation (that being the anaesthetic) and within seconds I was unconscious.
You don't feel the passage of time when you're anaesthetised. You don't even register the darkness when your eyes close. When you wake up from sleep, you can usually tell that time has passed. You dream...you stir...you drift in and out of cycles of sleep.
I felt nothing.
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