Last week I had a small operation. Small as operations go. I believe when one has a small operation, it is de rigueur to refer to it as ‘a procedure’. In actual fact, it turned out to be quite an unpleasant ordeal; much more uncomfortable than I’d anticipated. Quite what it was which was so disagreeable, I couldn’t quite tell you. Not due to any pretensions of privacy or anything, but due to the disruptive effect the drugs they gave me have had on my memory, both retrogradely and anterogradely for about 12 hours. All I can remember is the distinct feeling that I didn’t enjoy myself.
I’ve been quite taken with my experience of amnesia – it’s been oddly amusing to only have hazy dreamlike recollections of conversations and events. I will relate one clouded episode of the day though. I’d been given a few sedatives a couple of hours before ‘the procedure’ - I think so the general anaesthetic they gave me wouldn’t have to be too strong - and presently I fell asleep. An hour or so later I awoke to find an orderly wheeling me to the theatre. I’d imagined that I’d be a bit self-conscious being wheeled through the hospital in a bed, but I remember finding myself being pleasantly surprised to note that I wasn’t at all embarrassed by the experience; instead I had that warm cosy “Yes! I’m in bed!” feeling you get on a Saturday morning and I even managed a cheesy grin at some people in a lift who were trying not to look at me. I also had to have a guilty chuckle when I noticed I’d awoken with a bit of a morning glory going on. Oh those drugs. Ahem.
4 weeks ago