I just wanted it to be over and done with it, like always so I can go back to my life. But since I was not dying, there was no rush.
I am hungry, no I am starving! I am tired, so tired that I can’t even fall asleep. I want to drink water, my mouth feels like the Sahara desert and then some. But most importantly, I just want to know when I am getting the surgery. I keep asking, is it a matter of hours or days? Don’t know. Can I go home and wait? No. Please? No. Why? Because when its time, its time. It’s not what I want to hear. I try everything, still I get a no.
Why do I want to go home and wait? I hate hospitals, literally, and I just want to feel comfort in this hardship. Every time I have entered a hospital someone very near to me has passed away or I am cut open. I hate hospitals.
An array of doctors make their way to me and ask me the same annoying questions each time they change shifts. I want to tell them all to fuck off and please read my file instead. I had shut down and feel hollow. I had a room and I am sharing it with 3 other people. I caught them staring at me sometimes. No wonder, I am just laying on my bed staring into empty space and tears continuously drippled down my face.
I have called my dad and threated to leave this hell-hole of a hospital. Telling him I’m going to pull out all the cords and walk out of this place if I don’t get any answers by 7 pm. What I didn’t know was that my poor dad was on his way to the hospital. He sat outside my door the entire time but was uncapable of going inside, knowing that if he did I would make him take me home and he would be too weak to resist his ailing daughter…
I love my father more than anything and he made the right decision that day. What I didn’t know was that he was fighting my battle for me, with me, telling all the nurses and doctors that they needed to do something. He kept sending them in one by one. He is the one that told them to give me a sedative, he can’t bear the thought that I am sad, breaking down, you name it... I didn’t take it at first but after the nurse insisted it would calm my nerves and make me feel a little better - I swallowed it. I can't remember if it made any difference.
There is not one doctor that has met me that day that has not given me the look, the look of empathy. I am so grateful that they all understand, they all understand this is difficult for me. They all understand that this shouldn’t be happening and that this is too much for one personto handle. They all understood my feelings and it's was okay, it was normal and would even be too much for them to go through. They all did everything in their power to make me feel better and give me any form of reassurance they could.
A specialist had been called to do my surgery, Doctor Mikael E. I remember his aura when he entered the room and I sat up in the bed to meet his gentle eyes. A very tall and very proper man but so warm in his voice. I remember specifically telling him I would be fat any day again then ever have to go through this, it’s not worth it. It’s not worth it to me. He was chocked and moved by my words and then this big manly doctor shed a tear, moved a piece of hair out of my face, looked me straight into my eyes and said he would do everything in his power to fix me.
This resulted in a surgery taking 4 hours instead of 1 hour.
I was just about to give up. The time has passed 7 pm and that was my deadline for getting the hell out of there. Then like an angel from nowhere, there was my father standing at the end of my bed. I cried even more, a sigh of relief to see him. He told me everything was going to be okay now. He had entered my room only because in the same moment all the doctors arrived, dressed in green. Doctors dressed in green are OR doctors and it was time to roll me down, down to the operating room. Daddy only came to tell me he was here, he was there the whole time and it’s all going to be okay and daddy loves you and will be right here when you are done.
You know, I love my father more than life. He is my rock. He is my everything.
You would think this rollercoaster is over now right? No way. I remember the transporter, the nurses, and the anaesthesia doctor all being so wonderful to me while I was in the final stages of being prepped for surgery. It’s the empathy.
I am in the OR and it’s a familiar place. The green clothes. All the machines. All the lights. All the beeping. All the trays. All the screens. All the cords that are being attached to me one by one. The nurse even points out my real EKG heartbeat on the screen, noting that I have it tattooed on my body.
BANG. A side door opens and I see a nurse and hear her say “Roll her back”. What, wait, say what? What does that mean I cry out? I means roll her back and take her out of the OR we need this room because an emergency patient has arrived. In less than a second I freak out and panic, I start pulling at all my cords and shouting I had enough, I am leaving this hell-hole. Before I do any more damage the nurse holds my shoulders down and asks me to breathe with her. Just breathe, inhale and then exhale, slowly. I could hear my surgery room doctors discussing if this was really necessary, look at her they said, she has started the process, could this not be solved in another way, are there no other doctors or rooms?
If she had entered the room 1 minute later it would have been impossible to roll me back. I was only 2 essential steps from being knocked out, a gas mask and anaesthesia to put my lights out.
The nurse kept talking to me and reassuring me that they are doing everything they can not to roll me back. Begging me to focus on my breathing, she pointed out that it won’t be good for my surgery or recovery how I am feeling. Also pointed out that she could tell by my swollen eyes that I had been crying a lot but we were so near the finish line.
They never rolled me back and out.
A few moments later they apply my gasmask and asked me to take big and deep breaths. It’s like someone switches of the light in you and I was gone, I was sedated. Sedation is a lost moment in time that you have no recollection over whatsoever. It is not the same as sleeping.
I wake up in the recovery room, in a heavy daze of morphine. It’s over and a sigh of relief comes over me. Now I can heal and focus on moving forward. Thank god.
Recovery was the same process and I stayed in hospital for a few days. I was on a liquid diet for 14 days and I was the same old Alex that asked everyday if today was the day I got to go home. I was a star patient and I did everything they asked me to do in order to heal as well as possible. I met all my doctors and specialist to talk through it all and eventually I was allowed to leave on the 31 march 2017. They quickly realized that I was the kind of patient that recovers better from home.