The Ordeal

Let me clarify. I've never stayed in a hospital before, not even to nurse someone. I even hate injections. The idea of an IV tube makes me cringe. But days after the diagnosis, I came to acceptance and braced myself for the open myomectomy.

Because it is a momentous experience, I hope to detail the entire course of events. And to also clear some misconceptions about ops in the meantime.

The ordeal really began the night before. I was told to take laxatives to clear my bowels. I didn't just empty my stools. The diarrhea that lasted the whole night completely cleared my entire digestive system. I didn't even have to worry about the midnight fasting rule, since I was in the toilet most of the time.

Blurry and tired from the night's exhaustions, I woke up at an unearthly 6.30am to shower, in anticipation of the inability to do so in the next few days. Dad drove Mom and I to the hospital. It was a cool, serene morning.

It was all quiet at the admissions area. I was instructed to head to the 24-hour clinic, where I was directly prepped for surgery at 10am. I changed into operating robes and disposable underwear. My hair was kept in a net similar to a shower cap. My slippers were given plastic covers. I waited in hunger.

While I had come to terms with the op, Mom had worry written all over her face, as the reality of the situation finally sank in. I texted everyone about my ward number, in an attempt to distract myself from the fear. Words of encouragement poured in.

10am came and went. Doc's earlier op had been delayed. I was ushered into my ward to wait. Goodness, the place looked like a hotel! Replete with flat screen TV, tasteful furnishings and even daily newspaper, I was deeply impressed. Being a single bedder definitely has its perks.

An hour later, a nurse came to fetch me down to the operating theater. The time had come to be slaughtered.

Mom came with me to the second floor via the private elevators for medical staff. As I passed the doors into the restricted area, leaving my mom to wait outside, the fear and sense of being lost really hit home.

The nurse led me to a couch to wait. There were magazines for browsing, and music playing softly in the background. An environment obviously designed to calm nerves. My fear and confusion completely distracted me from discerning what the songs were about. But at the back of my head, they vaguely sounded like Christian hymns of hope, faith and comfort. I started to tear.

The nurses were very kind. One of them wrapped me in a thick blanket, and passed me a box of tissues. I changed into ops slippers. A short while later, I was led to a long corridor that was flanked by doors to each operating theater.

The antechamber held a trolley bed and some cabinets. I was instructed to climb up to it. The nurses confirmed my name and ID several times, and asked me if I knew what op I was undergoing. I was shaking. Again, they were incredibly kind and kept reassuring me. A medical intern came out of the theater and spent several minutes chatting with me. That helped to keep my fear at bay and imagination from running wild.

The anesthetist came in to hook me up with an IV catheter. I honestly couldn't decide if the incision would be scarier or the catheter, which I knew was huge compared to my tiny wrist and veins. "I'll be injecting a local anesthesia on your hand before inserting the IV, and it'll feel like a tiny bee sting. Have you been stung before?" asked the anesthetist. I breathed a sigh of relief. True to his words, I only felt the tiny bite of the LA but not the insertion of the IV.

I was also told that the GA would be administered via the IV, while a tube was inserted into my throat, after I've been knocked out, to help me breathe better during the surgery (intubation). No worries of a blocked nose or phelgm in the throat then. After the op, I would be brought to a recovery room to monitor my vitals. I would also be given medication to reverse the GA process. As I awaken, I would be extubated. The anesthetist also asked if I wanted to keep the PCA after I was back in my ward. PCA refers to Patient Controlled Anesthesia, a black box with a button that allows me to decide if I need medication injected intraveously to reduce the pain. I didn't know what my pain threshold was, given that I haven't undergone any surgery before. I honestly told him that, and he recommended that I keep the option available meanwhile (very good idea on hindsight).

Soon I was pushed into the theater. I barely had time to register my new surroundings before I was gently instructed to shift onto the operating table. People were bustling around me. My finger was clipped to a heartbeat monitor. I was fed oxygen through a mask. My anesthetist said he was injecting the drugs, and wished me goodnight and sweet dreams. He barely repeated it afterwhich I instanteously lost consciousnessness.

I awoke to this incredible pain that made tearing inevitable. I was drowsy and hardly registering the nurses bustling around me, yet my tears kept flowing. I moaned. They quickly hooked up the PCA and shoved the black button into my hand, urging me to press it. I did, multiple times in fact. Still, it took a minute or two for the drugs to kick in. Meanwhile, I grabbed a nurse's hand in a vice-like grip, attempting to convey the pain. Groggily, I overheard someone saying, "She's feeling very painful."

I lost consciousness again...

I felt myself being rolled out of the restricted area. I heard my mom exclaim, "Oh she's out. She's out."

I knocked out again.

I don't remember much of my first few hours in the ward. It was a cycle of awakening to pain, depressing the PCA, and falling back to sleep again.