Andrew's Stories

The day kicks off with all the elegance of a bull in a china shop. Rising at an ungodly hour before the sun has even thought about stretching its rays across the sky, I stumble out of bed in a daze of sleep-induced confusion. The looming prospect of surgery hangs over me like a storm cloud, and I can’t help but wish for a few more moments of blissful ignorance beneath the covers. But alas, the nurses at The nursing home in Bundanoon have other plans. Like a well-drilled army, they march me off for a brisk shower, armed with enough antiseptic washes to sterilize a small country. By the time they’re through with me, I feel as though I’ve been scrubbed within an inch of my life – but, at least I’m sparkling clean for the operating table.

Clutching my medical records like a treasure map, I embark on the journey to the hospital. The anticipation builds with each passing mile, like the slow ascent of a rollercoaster before the inevitable plunge. But there’s no turning back now; the die has been cast, and I’m hurtling towards my fate faster than you can say “scalpel”.

As we pull up outside the Bowral public hospital, I’m greeted by a flurry of activity that puts George Street to shame. It’s like a beehive of bustling nurses and frazzled patients, all caught in the whirlwind of hospital life. But amidst the chaos, there’s a sense of purpose – a feeling that we’re all in this together, like castaways on a desert island, only with IV drips instead of coconut trees. But let’s not forget the real stars of the show: the nurses. Two angels in scrubs appear, their beauty rivaling the very sun that’s yet to rise. They flutter around me like guardian angels, their voices as soothing as a lullaby. And then comes the moment of truth: the classic hospital directive to “take it all off”. Well, almost all. Thankfully, my underpants are spared from the indignity of public exposure – a small mercy in the grand scheme of things. But donning the standard issue hospital gown? That’s non-negotiable.

Before I know it, I’m settled into the pre-operative room, surrounded by more gadgets and gizmos than a James Bond villain’s lair. It’s like being on the set of a sci-fi blockbuster, with monitors beeping and machines whirring in the background. Who knew being a patient could feel so high-tech? But amidst the flurry of activity, there’s a moment of levity. As one nurse fires questions at me faster than a machine gun, I can’t help but appreciate the absurdity of it all. My hearing may be imperfect at 83 years young, but I can still enjoy the sweet scent of her perfume wafting through the air. It’s a small pleasure in an otherwise chaotic day.

Meanwhile, Nurse Number Two takes charge of Operation Shave and Clean with the precision of a seasoned barber, she sets to work on the “designated surgical site”, all the while whispering sweet nothings about the need to wash the area yet again with a special antiseptic liquid. With great dexterity and obvious long experience of this delicate manoeuvre she finally connects me to the patient monitoring system. And then comes the pièce de résistance: the removal of my underpants. Cue the red lights and blaring alarms as my vital signs go haywire, like a scene straight out of a Mr. Bean skit.

As I sit here, clad in my oh-so-stylish hospital gown, with a not-so-flattering backside exposed to the world, I can’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all. Today, March 20th, 2024, marks the day I embark on an unexpected journey into the depths of the operating theatre. It’s not exactly the exotic adventure I had in mind when I woke up this morning, but when life hands you surgical scrubs, you make jokes about them. So here I am, a picture of grace and elegance, waiting to be wheeled into the operating theatre like a contestant on a game show. The nurse approaches with a smile that’s meant to be reassuring but instead adds to the surrealism of the situation. “Ready for your big moment?” she chirps, as if I’m about to perform at the Sydney Opera House rather than undergo surgery. I nod, trying to muster up some semblance of enthusiasm for the impending spectacle.

As I’m being pushed down the corridor, I can’t help but notice the distinct lack of red carpets and paparazzi. I mean, if I’m going to make a grand entrance, I might as well do it right, complete with flashbulbs and autograph seekers. But alas, not being a Royal Princess, the only audience I have consists of hospital staff who are probably more concerned with their lunch breaks than my impending surgical debut.

We arrive at the operating theatre, and as I’m being hooked up to various monitors and machines, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve stumbled into a bizarre reality show where the prize is a new lease on life. The surgeon inspects the “designated surgical site” and gently pokes and prods the area, and marks it with a black marking pen, with a dotted “cut along here” line. The anaesthetist appears, wielding a syringe like a magician brandishing a wand. “Count backward from ten,” he instructs, his voice muffled by his mask. I comply, but before I can reach single digits, everything fades to black.

When I wake up, groggy and disoriented, my head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton wool, and my mouth tastes like I’ve been licking a car battery, but despite the post-surgery fog, I’m greeted by the sight of a beautiful angel who appears through the clouds. I instinctively reach out and she takes my hand gently and whispers my name. Another angel appears carrying a tray containing a heavenly cup of coffee and a plate of delicious sandwiches that must have been prepared by God.

Then a knight in shining armour arrives in the form of my dear friend Bill, who I have know since we were at school together many years ago. The angels soon have me dressed and in a wheelchair and see me off to the car park where Val is waiting patiently ready to drive us safely home. Back in my room at the nursing home at Bundanoon a steady stream of nurses drop in to inspect the “designated surgical site”, medical cameras flash, notes are taken, a cup of tea arrives, and life settles down once more.