Surgery

Going under scalpel is something I am terribly scared of. But on the other hand I term it as a memorable experience to undergo surgery for some reason. As we see it women inevitably undergo surgery when they give birth to babies (Thanks to the modern wonders of medicine that made cesarean essential for whatever reason but the bottom line is to mint money). For us males who are hot blooded and courageous to the impossible physical extreme in hypothetic sense, would surely tuck our tail deep inside the crevice of our hind legs and run towards the nearest direction that looks inviting and vacant.

The horrendous experience perhaps that made me realize the possibilities of physical abuse awarded else than by my dad (when I refuse to study my books and go play all night) is a hospital nurse. She is one of my dreaded dreams even now, when I happen to dream of my childhood. I underwent treatment for some stubborn skin ailment that permitted this sadist looking elf to poke my butt with needles as if my buttocks are free to use pin cushions.

Anticipatory premonition was another thing I learnt while she looked at the prescription with small eyes and then looked at my cowering self with big eyes. Then she used to leisurely pull out a bottle of penicillin and thrust a diabolic looking needle in to that to suck permitted poison deep in to bowels of syringe. Afterwards she used to raise that killer instrument high in the air to check if air bubbles are there. By that time my heart is getting exploded in series, and she plunged the air bubbles out. Then in a deliberate death raid she used to walk towards me and pushed me on to bed as she pulled my preteen diapers a little lower at back till the otherwise seductive swell of my young buttock see the light of day. This event of course never gave me a smug sense of achievement but terrified me to peak. I used to close my eyes shut and used to get perplexed whether to beg or scream at god. If he is there why did he allowed aliments, and if he did allow them why did he give humans an intelligence to invent syringe, and then… why did they chose my innocent buttock to be a victim with no legal protection program???

My facial muscles slowly stretch to expression of honest emotion of pain from blank look of utter disbelief. Then I used to wail at a noise level that’s otherwise considered noise pollution and eligible for prosecution and subsequent punishment. Somehow no one prosecuted me or punished me.

Gone are those days and I now am healthy enough keep off the limits of hospital ever again.

But then I remember an experience… rather unique that happened a decade ago. I underwent surgery. Not worthy to bag a presidential medal for courage under fire… yet… it scared me and I came out of it alive. And that surgery surely left a sweet mark that makes me remember that I underwent surgery (I am not sure of I have perforation marks still persist on my derriere and I can’t twist my head in that crooked angle anyway to discover their possible existence).

I worked on an industry shop floor and sometimes used to operate machines. As usual I was clad in oil stained rages and was using a bench drill to make a hole on 5mm metallic strip. The cotter pin that binds the drill head to its column was not properly tightened and I was happily drilling a hole singing a song in loud voice that merged harmoniously in to the resultant ambient noise.

Suddenly some thud sounding noise over powered all existing ambient noises and some reflex within made me pull my hands fast out of the vise. My left hand was not fast enough and the drill head almost weighing 70 kilos came sliding down and entrapped my left hand little finger in the vise and drill head. For a moment I could believe neither what happened to me nor why white colored coolant liquid is turning crimson.

A colleague nearby saw what happened and screamed to shut the power and people came running to me and pulled the drill head up and I pulled my hand back to see a finely mashed little finger that decorated with sprouting blood. I don’t know if I rolled my eye balls in my sockets but everyone else around made me feel like I must have done something like that.

Frankly speaking I was unable to sense the kind of disaster I underwent. When people started giving me courage and looked deep in to my eyes offering conviction that contradicting their own impression made me scared shit and then… I screamed and… this time I really rolled my eyes and went slack. I was not totally unconscious, but if people are willing to lift me on their shoulders and carry me why must I mind??? It’s a life time opportunity till I happen to encounter a miracle similar to that anyway.

Suddenly a cab came from nowhere and I was pushed in to it and taken to nearest hospital. They lifted me off cab and put me on caster wheeled operation table and ran towards an operation theater. Out of all this chaos I was alert enough to discover that one of the medical personal was so pretty. She later turned out to be the doctor who was assigned for that surgery.

I was not sure if I really made a ruckus to attract the attention of that angelic looking Doc or scared at the prospect of allowing these monsters to chop off my little pinky. And I was screaming in English using choicest expletives directed at no one in particular. That made most of the people gape at me as they could not see any link between what they are looking at and what they were listening to. I mean… I was wearing oily rags and looked like a pauper and screaming in such English that’s literate’s forte. That reason being… I can’t scream in my own mother tongue that’s Telugu. Because in the place where I live no one understands Telugu and might misconstruct my incomprehensible uttering’s to a delirious stage of approaching coma. And I wanted not to use the local language in which I was proficient too but profanity expressed in English is universally respected (Despite the disgusting content in it) but in local language universally despised and deplored.

Then that pretty Doc regained her poise and asked me not to worry and plunged a syringe in to the base of my finger as I looked in horror. My subconscious recalled all horrors of being poked with a syringe but somehow I did not scream. Perhaps the pain of my crushed finger was over powering and I could not sense that sting like stab.

Within few seconds my pain disappeared totally as hand felt numb. I did not know I was locally anesthetized. I looked that that pretty Doc and she smiled at me. Trying to make me feel at ease she asked me about the accident and I was giving answers with half baked reservation as I discovered that she is impressed with the conflict of my looks versus my demeanor. And she gave me a sweetest smile looking deeply in to my eyes and told me… It’s not gonna hurt a bit and she turned around.

I believed her with all my heart. Perhaps her magic touch took away the pain of my crushed Pinky or perhaps she has this soothing effect on wounded people like me.

Then she turned around. And I discovered a sparkling scalpel in her rubber glowed hands.

And I screamed in terror. She suddenly started looking like a demon to me though her smile was so benign. I almost jumped out of the operation table but for the quick reflexes of a muscular male nurse I was pinned down and squirming under his grip helplessly.

To my utter surprise this time that prettiest Doc turned a witch look a like. She glared at me grinding her upper and lower molars in unison and screamed at other to cover my eyes. And they followed her orders gladly. I was enveloped in darkness and even felt a strong hand clasped my mouth as I started whimpering.

I was really pissed of at that pretty Doc. Perhaps… she was working swiftly as she wielded her scalpel like Joan of Arc (I think Joan of Arc did not wield a sword… but for hypothetical purposes we assume that the pretty Doc is Joan of Arc wielding a scalpel). I could listen to my own flesh and splinters of bone was cut and remade to something that could be sutured back to shape) then they bandaged my entire hand and took me out of OT and dumped me on a bed.

Even then they did not remove my blind fold. I waited patiently till I sensed the pandemonium to get subsided. Then with my right finger I slightly pushed my blind fold a little to look through a lean crack and looked around. No one was paying any attention to me. Good… now I pushed the bandage to as deep as it could give in to look in… and… wow… to my utter relief I could see my pinky tip… looking pink like a baby in cotton diaper.


They did not cut off my finger. I was about to scream and dance but suddenly remembered that pretty demonic Doc with her equally terrifying male nurse. It’s a unique experience on my part to undergo surgery that way.

I had my hand in sling for almost two months with a metallic brace on my finger that’s tied with a strong rubber band to my pinky. Doctors advised me to pull and curl my finger against the potential energy of that rubber band to gain its total operational integrity. I could distinctly feel that I lost sensation of my finger in some areas. On my follow up visits I told doctor (Not that pretty Doctor) I told him that I could not feel the touch sense in some part of my pinky. The Doc asked me not to worry as the nerve cells would grow back. I looked at him the way money lender looks at a pauper. He looked back at me the way a rat trapped by a rattle snake. And said… looks like you know about human anatomy a little. I said yes. Then he said… that’s good… live with what you have, and worry not about feeling on your pinky.

I never saw that pretty Doc again or underwent surgery so far.

I hope to live rest of my life that way…

(A loving tribute and happy Birthday to endearing Maria Jasmine… Today… The 9th September)