The fallen angels in the song ANGELS OF BROKEN THINGS are referring to the general anaesthetics (mainly Propofol) used for putting me under every second day.
This was a process that took a heavy toll on both my mental and physical strength during the months in hospital, but also a procedure that became a well-known routine, and that provided me with a short recess from pain and worry (something that the pain killers never offered). It’s easy to see how institutionalisation (now, there’s a word) actually serves a certain purpose as, in harsh situations, the human mind tends to find comfort in routines – they provide us with rituals that seem non-optional.
For me, this process consisted of a day of fasting and i.v., followed by a thorough antibacterial shower scrub, carefully wrapping the electrical vacuum pump in plastic. The pump needed to be turned off 30 minutes before surgery, and I usually did this as a part of my prep shower. Then, without getting in contact with too many things, I had to dress for surgery, and carefully lie down on my side in the bed, pump hoses and cables in a line behind me and the pump down at the foot of the bed, and wait for the nurses to come and roll me down to the OR, where I’d be waiting for my turn. (Sometimes, an emergency surgery got priority, and I’d wait for hours until finally getting the news that my surgery had been postponed to the next day, instead – meaning yet another day of fasting, and having to prep for surgery again. Needless to say, I lost some weight during these months.)
Once in the OR, I would have to lie on the side of the surgery table, while they adjusted everything.
Then, it was time for the moment I had waited for. The moment I have always found thoroughly fascinating. You see, medications rarely affect me. It’s as if my body learns to recognise any substance that I get exposed to, and learns to dodge it very effectively. The one exception being general anaesthetics. You get the injection, and depending on which drug they use, you’ll get a different onset. Usually, I would feel a strong burn, quite painful, spreading up the arm, as if the actual vein was cramping and sending weird signals across the nervous system. Then, suddenly, the most wonderful blissful dizziness would enter my mind. This short spin lasted only one or two seconds, but every time, they made me want to laugh and cry at the same time, as the pain rolled off and I felt a total, if ever so brief, relief from my worries and tiredness. Or, not black – more like the absence of everything. Unlike any sleep you’ve ever slept, or even unlike unconsciousness, if you’ve experienced that. You just disappear. There’s simply nothing you can do to fight that nothingness from sweeping you away.
I knew well that the following minutes would sometimes involve physical cramps and seizures, and I know I would always feel cold and shudder a lot during these preparations, but enjoyed the small talk with the people prepping me, since they were always very good at dealing with patients and had developed a very nice blend of personal characteristics. (I thought that, in my next life, I could well imagine becoming an anaesthesia nurse. For all I knew, this next life might indeed be right around the corner, so one might as well start making plans, right? First step on the list would have to be to start believing in any sort of afterlife. I can’t see that happening though, which pretty much rendered the remaining points on the list obsolete. This, however, did not take all pleasure out of the actual list-making. So, anaesthesia nurse it is.) They would set one or two needles in major veins – usually one for the general anaesthetics and a spare one in case something would go wrong. I have always had great veins – large and visible. But after a few weeks of daily needles and injections, they became increasingly hard and scarred, so towards the end, the process of setting needles could take a long time, with many tries.
When all straps and needles were in place, we’d wait for the operating doctor. As soon as they got word that he or she was soon to arrive, I would get to breathe a sedative, from that rubber mask, you know. This made absolutely no difference, as far as I could tell, but I enjoyed sticking to the routine. Also, it had a slight Darth Vader vibe to it, which is always a plus, in any given situation.
Then, it was time for the moment I had waited for. The moment I have always found thoroughly fascinating. You see medications rarely affect me. It’s as if my body learns to recognise any substance that I get exposted to, and learns to dodge it very effectively. The one exception being general anaesthetics. You get the injection, and depending on which drug they use, you’ll get a different onset. Uusally I would feel a strong burn, quite painful, spreading up the arm, as if the actual vein was cramping and sending weird signals across the nervous system.
Then, suddenly, the most wonderful blissful dizziness would enter my mind. This short spin lasted only one or two seconds, but every time, they made me want to laugh and cry at the same time, as the pain rolled off and I felt a total, if ever so brief, relief from my worries and tiredness.
Like being a small child, hungry and in pain for days, lost in the woods, and then finally wall into your mother’s warm embrace. A split second of feeling nothing and everything at the same time. Then black.
Or, not black – more like the absence of everything. Unlike any sleep you’ve ever slept, or even unlike unconsciousness, if you’ve experiencced that. You just disappear. There’s simply nothing you can do to fight that nothingness from sweeping you away. I knew well that the following minutes would sometimes involve physical cramps and seizures, and I know that I did experience some sort of heart malfunctions during at least one surgery, but those things never reached my conscious mind. I would wake up, sometimes rested and refreshed, sometimes dead tired, sometimes with dried blood around my mouth and a sore throat from the intubation, sometimes just feeling endlessly sad, as if all I ever owned had been taken from me. As the months proceeded, this latter feeling was taking overhand, and I would feel a deep sense of loss. Partly, because my entire system was overtaxed, and partly because I had traded that blissful nothingness for the cold light of day, with all its pain and worries coming back at me with full power.
Small kids in the wake-up ward were always given ice-cream as they were coming out of sedation. On a good day, I would get one too. It was just plain vanilla with strawberry ripple, but it tasted like heaven.
As I was lying there, in the wake-up ward, listening to crying children, confused elderlies and the nurses’ soothing voices, I was reminded of something I’ve always known: routine comes with a grim flip-side. See, I knew I would have to repeat all this, in just a day or two. And, seriously, that’s a lot of engagement for two short seconds of bliss and the odd chance