Sense and Insensibility

Sense and Insensibility

Informed of the need for an operation a couple of months before my hospital admission my nervousness grows so that by the time I get to the day surgery ward my mouth is dry and my legs feel like jelly.  There are a series of interviews with various healthcare professionals which are meant to calm. It's the one with the anaesthetist that concerns me the most.

He rises from behind his desk. He is tall, imposing and his grip is firm. 'Hello, good to meet you Mrs Bates, I'm Dr Harris. Have you ever had an anaesthetic before?,' he says.

'More than 45 years ago, as a child. It wasn't a great experience'. I reply.

'We've come a long way since then.' He smiles briefly. 'There are still some risks, but these are minimal and any side effects are likely to be mild. Any questions?'

I am aware he is busy with others to see and even though I'd like more reassurance I'm unable to shake off the feelings of deference I have towards the medical profession.  ‘No, no, I’m fine thank you,' I say.

He hesitates, he knows I want more, but then he nods and already turning to the notes’ of the next patient he dismisses me by saying 'good, good, well I'll see you in pre-op then.'

Dressed in hospital gown and support stockings I await my turn on the table and reflect on the wisdom of putting my trust in these smiling strangers; especially the one who's sending me to sleep. The power of the man. He'll put me under for as long as he wants and then he and his colleagues can do whatever they like. Maybe they'll laugh at my unshaven legs, take bets on my weight, discuss their plans for tonight whilst inspecting my womb, place a picnic cloth across my belly and eat their lunch. And what of the 'minimal' risks and 'mild' side effects. I could vomit or suffer agitation, my blood pressure might rise or my teeth be damaged. Brain damage is not unheard of. Neither is death. Odd that I'm more frightened of the anesthetic and the unlikely consequences rather than the possibly life-changing diagnosis at the end of the investigative surgery.

 I'm being paranoid, I tell myself. They're all professionals, including the one who'll administer the knock out drug. He has certificates to prove it. I've been watching too many horror movies, reading too many news reports. 

He smiles more warmly and holds my hand as he pushes the syringe. I still can't warm to him as I know he does the same with all the girls in hospital gowns. I lose consciousness immediately, no dreamy partial awareness of the world around me. An hour later I open my eyes. I'm alert, I’m alive. My throat's a little sore but it doesn't last long. My agitation is gone and I'm feeling relaxed. The gynaecologist visits before I leave with reassurance; just a polyp, benign he's almost sure. I don't see Dr Harris again, his job is done.

My medical adventure over I rest for a few days, until I'm ready to return to everyday life. My family and friends laugh when I tell them off the worries I had. I'd not mentioned them before as it felt like tempting fate but now I share their incredulity that a normally sensible person like me could be so fearful and fanciful.  A few weeks later I've all but forgotten my imaginative concerns.

                                                                        *

The centre where I work is expecting a new intake of clients. I'm on duty at the welcome session. We sit in a circle; group informality our agreed approach.

'Hi, I'm Anne.' I smile, hoping to reassure the nervous looking group of seven.

One by one they introduce themselves. The last to go is a man, a few years younger than me, handsome but with shaking hands.

'I'm Tim,’ he says so quietly I have to lean forward to hear.

'I'm Tim and I'm addicted to intravenous opiates.'

He doesn't recognise me, my anaesthetist, why should he. It's surprisingly common apparently; a stressful job, coupled with easy access, being the most cited explanation. But I have a different theory to suggest. Maybe it's a search for connection, an attempt to make an (un)conscious link with patients who relate to the doctors who diagnose and prescribe, the nurses who care but view their anaesthetists with much more suspicion. Maybe my fears weren't so unique and he feels burdened by the distress of those he only wants to help. Whatever, it's not my job to judge.

Committed to an empathic approach I aim to understand. And I know how he feels, I really do. I smile again and lean forward. 'Tell me more Tim,' I say.