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6. Un cerrar y abrir de ojos

6. Opening and closing my eyes


I left the cubicle with the nurse, and we passed through various corridors before arriving at the operating theatre. Grey and white in colour, they reminded me of the cold feeling of a polished concrete wall. For a moment I seemed to be living in a film. Sometimes I get the impression of being in a situation that is strange and new to me, but at the same time familiar, because I have already seen it in a story on the TV. The time between leaving the cubicle and entering the operating theatre was a bit like this. Surreal yet familiar. And I even wondered if all of this was really happening to me. Sometimes when incredible things happen to me, I enter a mental state believing that I’m living the life of another me, which is me, but which is not me, as if I were able to split and watch myself, and the story could unfold in scenes. In that moment, it was as if I saw myself about to enter the operating room, and the next image would be of them putting me to sleep with the gas from the oxygen mask, counting down. Suddenly I felt it was cold.

We arrived, and upon opening the doors to the operating theatre, I returned from my divided cinema thoughts. It was a room with white walls, lots of light and it seemed very sterile. Remembering it whilst I write, I ask myself how I would have felt if the operating theatre had been different, with painted pink or sky-blue walls, or with a canvas of flowers. What if it had had a skylight with natural light? Hopefully, somewhere in the world an operating theatre like this exists, that surprises you and makes you smile upon entering. On the side walls, perpendicular to the entrance wall, there were lab benches with various instruments and utensils, paper towels, documents, a sink. As I work in a lab, with white walls, with instruments, and benches, and sinks, all of that seemed very familiar to me. This time at least, it wasn’t only through the cinema and TV, instead it had a tangible connection with my own reality.

In the room the anaesthetist and another nurse were waiting for me. At the bottom, there were another two doors that led to the operating room. It was strange not seeing the surgeon. Each of those doors had a window of transparent glass. I realised that the surgeon and fibroid-specialist doctor were already inside, waiting for me. I tried to look through the windows, but from where I was, I didn’t manage to see anything on the other side. I wondered if they would be nervous. I wondered if I was nervous. And I told myself I wasn’t. “I am calm” I thought, “Everything will be fine”, and I breathed deeply once more, while I mentally repeated the mantra of the last few weeks.

When I had the out-patient operation in 2017 (The click), that was only with local anaesthetic in my cervix, I remember that, once finished, the doctor was soaked in sweat, with a face of exhaustion and relief. That time everything was so different. Juanpe was there with me the whole time and the operation only lasted just over half an hour. At that time, I liked the idea of being awake and aware of what was happening, being aware that the doctor was inserting the hysteroscope through my vagina and cervix, reaching the uterus and breaking the fibroids. There was a screen where you could see the image of the hysteroscope camera during the whole process. I didn’t look at the screen, not even once. I tried to breathe calmly and relax my pelvic muscles when I realised that I was tense. I remember that, on that occasion, before the operation had started, I felt overwhelmed by the nurses. They wouldn’t stop asking me if I was okay, and they didn’t let me concentrate on being calm and feeling under control. It got to a point where I asked them to stop asking me questions and told them I would let them know if I felt unwell, that this was making it more difficult for me. Thinking about it now with hindsight, I’m sure they were full of good intentions and that they must have experienced complicated situations with other patients who couldn’t stand being there for the whole procedure. As my dad sometimes says, it isn’t easy, it isn’t.

This time however, I liked the idea of just closing and later opening my eyes, without being aware of anything. I had spent a month preparing for this moment. Every day in the morning I did my breathing exercises and asked my body to prepare itself for the operation, for being opened up and separated from a part of itself that had spent so long there, taking up a space where it didn’t belong. I wanted my body to make healing well easy.

The nurses asked me to take off my gown. I also took off my glasses and one of the nurses put them in a pocket of my gown. Then, left with only the hospital clothes they gave me in the cubicle, I laid down on a stretcher trolley. One of the nurses went into the operation room to see if everything was ready. That time I didn’t managed to see the room either. They put a cannula in my left hand. Both the width of the cannula tube and how it was possible to place it inside the vein surprised me. The anaesthetist came closer. For the last time we confirmed the consent data for the operation. - Are you ready? Everything okay? - she said to me. I told her yes, breathed deeply and then one of the nurses put the oxygen mask on me while the anaesthetist went to find a syringe. - It will only be a pinch. Breathe. - she said. I saw her push the syringe’s plunger to inject the anaesthetic into the cannula, and the last thing I remember is feeling a burning sensation in my hand. I didn’t have to count down.

The time in that room passed so quickly, and I felt calm and very attentive to what was happening, I wanted to remember it.

The next thing I remember is the voice of a woman, the nurse in the recovery room, saying my name. - Adelina, Adelina, are you okay? Everything went well. You’re now in the recovery room. - The operation had lasted four hours. I woke up and felt sore and dizzy. I struggled to move and I wanted to go back to sleep. I still had the oxygen mask on. The nurse gave me a warm towel to put on my belly and then I felt the wound more specifically for the first time. I was no longer wearing the elastic gauze knickers. The heat alleviated the pain I was feeling through my whole stomach. It was a mixture of pains, from within, from outside, radiating pains and shooting pains. Electrical and hot pains too. Whilst I was waking up she didn’t stop talking to me. She told me that she was preparing the morphine, and was asking me how I was. She changed the hot towel for me a couple of times. I got on with her well; she was very kind and I wanted to create a bond. With lots of difficulty and little energy, I asked for her name and asked what her periods were like. I told her that I was going to write a blog about all of this, stemming from this operation. I asked for some paper and a pen and wrote the web address down for her. I don’t know how I was able to muster the energy for that. I also wrote down the titles of two books, which I’m reading to better understand my body and its biochemistry. If you, that nurse, are reading this, I want to say thank you for that moment, for your kindness and professionalism, for the smile in your voice when I woke up and for letting me connect with you.

The surgeon came to see me there and told me that she had already called Juanpe. She told me that the operation had gone well, that they had made three incisions and removed the large fibroids from the wall of the uterus and those inside, and that she would come to see me tomorrow.

After I don’t know how long, the nurse explained to me that I could administer the morphine myself as necessary by pressing the button on a remote control. She also told me that the system had a mechanism that prevented any risk of overdose, so not to worry and to use it as much as I needed if I was in pain. Then they took me to the ward.

It was done. It had happened. The worst, and at the same time the best, had already happened.

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