CW: medical imagery
You sit in the reception space, here for a routine procedure. A gastroscopy to find a suspected ulcer. You’re with your father, here to drop you off, then collect you when it’s all done.
The man is your family’s rock. He and Mum have always been your support through tough times. He’s worried for you, but will never say it; his actions, his words never betray him. He’ll stay as long as he can, then head off for a walk, perhaps a coffee.
‘It’s only going to be a couple of hours,’ they tell you both. ‘That’s all it should take. When you come back, he’ll be in the recovery room and the doctor can tell you what we’re going to do about the ulcer.’
It sounds so simple, but is it?
You gaze around, sizing up the reception area. It’s new; pristine. The whole building is new. Construction continues in the grounds, so there’s no established floral scents to hide that ‘new building’ smell inside or out. The pastel colours radiate calm – the clean greens fading to pale blues.
A circular tank of tropical fish stands guard beside the reception desk. It’s six-foot tall and captures the eye, calms the soul – what it’s designed to do. One of the cardinal rules of every medical centre reception area is:
And lo, thou must have a large tropical fish tank in view.
A plaque on the wall lists the doctors who financed this medical centre. ‘These guys must be loaded,’ you say to your father. ‘Shit, I’m glad I have insurance,’ you add with a giggle. He agrees. You are getting more nervous. This is how you deal with nerves – pointless jokes. You look around to read a sign shouting to all who can see it: ‘IN RESPECT TO OUR PATIENTS FASTING, PLEASE NO FOOD OR DRINKS IN THIS ROOM’.
It sits close to a television showing a cooking clip from a morning variety show – What the …!
Without you realising it, your right leg has started to jiggle. You reach down to lock your knee in place when you hear your name. Your leg stops moving, to be replaced by your heart thumping in double-time.
Moved from reception into a surgical waiting area, you look around at the other patients waiting. There are no smiles in this room apart from on the faces on wall posters. They look overtly faked when surrounded by the multiple masks of tragedy on the faces of fellow patients. The smell of fear mixes with the odour of bleach. It does nothing for your nerves which simmer below the surface, primed to erupt. This ‘waiting corridor’ is claustrophobic after the expanse of the reception room.
Everyone here holds a blue bag. It’s for everything you have with you, once you’re dressed up in a medical gown. There are sharp creases and a bold insignia emblazoned on the sides. ‘Bloody hell … most places only give you a brown paper bag with “Patient Effects” on the side. Flash!’
You realise the stray thought has escaped your mouth. The comment is targeted at no one in particular. Nerves have overwhelmed your common sense, so you look around the immediate vicinity for a response. Nobody heard or nobody cares to hear – probably the latter, you decide.
Dad looks at you sideways as another nurse calls you through to get changed for surgery. You can hear your heart pumping blood like a trip hammer in your ears. You say goodbye to your dad … shake his hand. ‘See you in a couple of hours,’ he mumbles, then retreats. Moral support disappears through a swinging door. Its presence still clings to you, is always there in spirit, but its physical absence is a body blow.
You wish that you did manly hugs in your family … well … with Dad at least. It would be a comfort for your nerves, but that’s the way it’s always been. Your grandfather comes from a family of seven boys raised on a farm. Any way you slice it, ‘manly hugs’ did not get passed on down the family line.
Shown to a side room, you’re asked to don a ‘lovely’ hospital gown. The nurse spies the wince on your face and offers a comforting soft robe, which you thankfully accept. Back in the waiting area, everything bunched inside the blue bag, you watch the minutes pass by on the wall clock. You wish you had someone to bounce a joke off. You’re afraid of hearing your name again. Then you do and your stomach drops through to your boots – in this case, just your bare feet.
Ushered into the antiseptic operating space, you’re greeted by the team. The specialist hides behind his mask, eyes boring into your body, visualising the procedure ahead like an Olympic athlete before a competition. You try a bit of banter with the specialist and the team to calm yourself. None of them take the bait.
With minimum bedside manner, but maximum efficiency, you are instructed to lay on your left-hand side. It’s all done so matter-of-factly that you experience a strange sense of comfort, calming your nerves just a little. A needle enters your arm; you await the soothing effects of the anaesthetics.
What you’re expecting never happens.
A spray of the foul-tasting numbing agent slides down your throat – to stifle the gag reflex, you’re told. Then a wedge between your teeth keeps your tongue frozen in place and provides a guide for the probe. You wait for the sweet sleep of the solution flooding your bloodstream, but it never comes.
The probe enters your mouth, pushes on your throat, then slides slowly down. You can feel every millimetre of its movement.
Even if you could speak, the sensations are beyond words.
You’re gagging, even though you shouldn’t.
You try to vomit, but there is nothing there.
They try to calm you, but panic makes you deaf to everything but your own pain.
Adrenaline surges, giving you the strength to reach up – to partially pull the tube from your throat. You can feel its coldness in your free hand. Multiple arms make a grab to hold you down, muted voices try to calm you – they have zero effect, only sounding like fingernails scratching down a blackboard.
More anaesthetic injected into your arm proves pointless, ineffective; the gag reflex is never numbed.
You are gripped by panic, as tears slide cooly down your cheeks and gurgled moans escape your throat. Still gagging, you feel the tube retract. The relief is short-lived as it returns for another trip to your stomach.
Through the pain, the hyperventilating, the sweat burning your eyes, the fear in your nostrils, you swear you hear nurses talking. You were not the first to suffer like this in recent days. What’s wrong with the anaesthetic mix? Was it the fault of the doctor? Is this a fevered memory, half heard as you are moved to a recovery room? Thankfully you fall into oblivion, even if only for a brief blink in time.
All you want is the safety of home. All you get is a plastic cup of water and the pretence of a calming environment behind a curtain wall.
Your unease only skyrockets as you wait alone. Like a helpdesk that never helps is just a ‘desk’, this recovery room is just a room. There is no recovery. Your jaw aches, your throat is coated in glass shards, your teeth feel like someone attempted their extraction.
There is a look that people’s faces reveal when they have guaranteed you will be 99 percent free of something, but they are 100 percent wrong. They cannot hide it no matter how hard they try. The specialist has that look as he pulls back the curtain. That look almost … almost … makes you feel some sympathy for him until you swallow another gulp of water. Any sympathetic thoughts vanish as the pain from swallowing strikes.
‘It’s not good news, I’m afraid. There is definitely an ulcer, but it sits atop a tumour.’
And so, a journey begins.