Seeing beyond the grave
Touch: When I woke
from the anaesthetic both eyes were bandaged.
I could feel the plastic shield and plasters.
Boundaries were
detected by running my hands along the bed rails and translating tactile
impressions to knowledge of hospital furniture.
Likewise with the plastic tubes sprouting from both wrists.
Hearing: At first it
was difficult to tell much about the nurses other than their gender, having to
rely entirely on voices. That didn’t
last long proving the extraordinary ability of the body to adapt.
Unable to see, other
senses automatically tweaked up their levels to fill the gap. Once the effect
of the drugs had gone I strained to know more of my environment and carers.
A map of the recovery
ward was assembled based on the proximity of sounds as people came and
left. The groans and snores of sleepers
helped locate other beds, and the tone of voice used by staff and visitors
seemed to indicate the severity of the patient’s operation.
But who were my
carers? With three shifts every 24 hours
there were plenty to keep the imagination active.
Nurses who sounded
extra compassionate were clearly young and new to the game while the
no-nonsense women who marched into my curtained cubicle arresting my attention
with blood-pressure cuffs were the old hands.
This is not a
complaint, though a 4 am check could have waited awhile.
Every day the
hospital’s 15 operating theatres wheel out the sliced and stitched, the opened
and closed, the removed and replaced into one ward – each patient differently
traumatized. The place was an airport
without planes, arrivals and departures round the clock.
Some wanted to
demonstrate their machismo showing that no surgeon’s scalpel was going to cut
them down. One loud mouth with his spine
drilled and screwed yet again in complex orthopaedic work was determined to
prove nothing would keep him away from the exit.
His diction was so
clear he must have been an actor hired by the hospital to clear the ward. If
this Lazarus could walk – so could we.
I tried, but could
only make the toilet. This provided more
clues. Some nurses held my hand with a
wife’s intimacy; others preferred a wrist or elbow while the male nurses just
offered a shoulder. All smelt
soap-sweet.
A fellow patient
recovering from bladder surgery offered to assist with a midnight promenade
creating a brief collegiate atmosphere.
Back in bed his blood
pressure almost ruptured the sphygmomanometer. He loudly blamed it on excessive exercise. I could imagine his outraged family
ripping off my bandages to revenge the damage I’d done to dear old grandpop.
Unable to see, my ears
compensated - tuned like airport radar dishes searching for faint and faraway
blips - picking up every word and tone.
Visitors probably
thought the eyeless and motionless hulk in the corner could be ignored, but in
fact I was a high-tech receiver of every subtle sound, putting their platitudes
through my cynicism meter, sifting sentences for hidden meanings and false
tears.
Were they really
coping without Mom and wanting her to rest – or cunningly pushing for her rapid
return and regular meals? Some families
used the opportunity to catalogue complaints of life at home – subtly encouraging
the patient to stay in hospital.
Still blindfolded I
thanked my invisible carers when wheeled home and the surgeons during bandage-free
post-op visits. I know what they look
like – miracle workers.
Back home and bandage
free I’ll never know whether the nurses were pretty or plain, the ward walls
pastel or puce. I could go back but the
experience has gone. You can’t step into
the same river twice, or a recovery room.
Yet the person I’m
most indebted to will never get my gratitude.
Man or woman, young or old, outgoing or reserved? I hope they loved and
were loved, and the nurses gentle on that last goodnight.
If only I could hear
that most decent person’s voice, feel their touch, hear their story, know why
they donated their eyes so others can see - and say: I will use your precious
gift to tell of your generosity and hope others may follow. God bless you. Duncan Graham
(First published in The Sunday Post 7 April 2013)
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