Low life
Survival of the unfittest
Jeffrey Bernard
Idon't think I would have had the opera- tion had I known beforehand just what it would entail. Before I went into hospital I was given the impression that it would be a straightforward 30-minute job during a 24-
hour stay inside. I knew that they were worried about my ability to withstand a general anaesthetic but I didn't realise they were that worried until the second day of tests on my lungs, liver and heart.
In the event I was out for just over four hours. Anxiety is infectious and the cysts grew in my mind if not on my head, although the consultant anaesthetist, a charming but formidable woman, some- what jocularly asked me for a tip for the Grand National shortly before the opera- tion. When I woke up in a darkened side ward I was in some pain and it increased considerably during the following three hours. Eventually they decided it was being caused by a build-up of pressure of the blood inside the wound and so they insert- ed a tube in my head to drain it away. After a while I tried to sit up in bed and by so doing accidentally tore the tube out. The result was nothing if not spectacular. A fountain of blood, later estimated at a pint, shot over the bed and on to the floor and completely soaked the gown I was wearing. I was only surprised and thought it would stop if I held the wound.
And then the angel of mercy, Belinda, an expert nursing sister, arrived to stem the flow. She stood by my side for no less than two hours pressing swabs on the reopened wound, exerting great pressure, and still the river ran. During that time (it hap- pened at 1 a.m.) the surgical team was aroused: the surgeon, two anaesthetists, a registrar and another doctor. While they examined the flow I thought it was a nui- sance and even reflected that blood is a very pretty if not spectacular colour. I asked Belinda if I could keep the gown as a souvenir to throw in the face later of any editor likely to accuse me of malingering.
But then I saw that awful look of anxiety come over their faces again. They decided on an emergency operation there and then and I suddenly realised that they were won- dering whether the bag of bones with two holes in the head could withstand two gen- eral anaesthetics within 12 hours.
As I went under for the second time the would-be lady Grand National punter later told me I asked her, 'Why aren't I panick- Ing?' Why not indeed. I came to in the intensive care unit with an oxygen mask over my face and a catheter in my bladder, a new experience for me. I am glad I didn't suffer the insertion of that while conscious.
It took three days to metabolise the toxic effects of the anaesthetics but my throat is still sore and swollen because of the tube for gas they stick in it once you go under. I was then anaemic due to the loss of blood. The nurses helped me out to the landing outside the ward when I wanted to smoke a cigarette and it is always on the landings by the lifts in hospitals where patients congre- gate to chat and smoke. Anti-smoking lob- byists should have the grace to realise that smoking is occupational therapy. I discov- ered I was surrounded by people suffering from that dread illness pancreatitis. Until then I thought I was almost the only man in the world who had suffered from it. One day I said to a man out there, 'I suppose you've got pancreatitis too?' He said, 'As a matter of fact, I've got cancer of the pan- creas.' And he said it in a matter-of-fact way too. He shrugged his shoulders at what is almost certainly a death sentence.
But after all the blood, pain and anxiety what I remember best and with great affec- tion is my heroine, Belinda. I don't know what would have happened without her. Waterloo without Wellington? The choco- lates I gave her when I left were miserably inadequate. A good and kind woman.
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