In hospital, time is relative. Yesterday, I spent all morning and half of the afternoon waiting for the time of the surgery being announced and then for surgery itself. At the beginning, there was no time. The operation would begin when a slot had been found and everyone was ready, the nurse said. It was a busy day. I had stopped eating and drinking the night before and was told to keep up the fasting until the operation.
I lay in bed thinking this could be a good time to read, catch up on emails and write about what’s been going on, even though it hasn’t been much. Instead, I remained largely lifeless, floating in and out of sleep, woken on occasion by nurses who told me that there was still no news. I might have still been a bit exhausted from the first three days of the week where the workshop drained my energy but I kept working into the night.
Around lunchtime, which comes early here in the hospital, I got the first firm number. The operation would start at one. One o’clock came and went, and I was still dozing in bed in my room. It became two and then three. The nurse came with a new number. The operation would be at a quarter past four. A few minutes later, the process suddenly started.
A nurse wheeled my bed down to the first floor into a small room stuffed with equipment. The centerpiece was a cylindrical unit with an abundance of cables and tubes emanating from it. This must have been the endoscopy module. The anesthetist took over. She injected pain killers and then the sedative that would put me to sleep. It was 3:45 when I fell asleep.
I have no memory of waking up. I wanted to know how long the operation had taken, but there was no way of telling. Waking up from anesthesia is like diffusing back to life. Parts of me woke up and checked in, only to be drawn back to their drug-induced slumber. This coming and going was not enough for me to make any sense of. It was only around six or seven that I fell firmly back on earth.
By that time, the surgeon might have come by to inquire about my well-being and ask a few questions. I have no memory of what we spoke about exactly, or whether he was the surgeon. I was still zonked out. The first thing I remember was a nurse telling me I could eat at nine, which I perceived as not being allowed to eat before nine. A grim prospect with no food or drink (outside a slow drip of saline) for 20 hours now.
Time before nine stretched endlessly. I kept looking up at the clock in the room in generous intervals, only to be surprised that the hands had hardly moved. Then it was nine, then a quarter past. There was no food. Then a nurse appeared who told me that my dinner had disappeared. The tray distribution robot must have taken it back to the kitchen. She found a few edibles on the station that combined into a simple breakfast and served it with instant soup. It wasn’t enough to make up for lost meals but good after a surgical intervention, however simple. I fell asleep shortly after eating.
This morning, I was waiting for a doctor to discuss the terms of my dismissal from hospital. It is lunchtime now. My meal has arrived, but I haven’t seen a doctor yet. Time moves more slowly on weekends with fewer staff on duty. A nurse took my blood this morning. Later, I left some pee in a tub that was so dark it frightened the nurse. Bilirubin, I reassured her. I’ve done my part. Why am I still here?
Despite the frustrated wait, the hours passed more quickly than yesterday. I read fascinatingly interwoven stories about conservation and restoration in Granta’s current “Second Nature” issue, wrote this post, and talked to Flucha and the kids on the phone. Better than all this would be going home. I hope there will be some developments this afternoon.
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