The following post was written by my husband a bit after his surgery. Please read, imagine, enjoy.
I just had surgery. In India. Before deciding to do it I spoke to several friends who had either had surgery in Pune, or had similar procedures done elsewhere. The overall consensus was – go ahead, but proceed with caution. For example, multiple people told us that I shouldn’t be in hospital alone. I needed an advocate who would argue my corner and also ensure that I was getting the correct medications. I also needed someone there so I wouldn’t be robbed blind. A lot of advice included – don’t take any valuables with you.
So into the hospital we went, Meg and I. She did an amazing job of arranging care for our three kids for the time I was expected to be admitted.
I was scheduled for surgery on a Saturday morning, and had to call the hospital on the Friday before for instruction. I duly called and was asked what time I would be arriving that day. That day? Nope. The doctor I was talking to explained that he needed to complete a battery of pre surgery tests and that he needed me overnight. I listed off the battery of tests that I had completed the previous day – they matched his list. Great, I thought. He still insisted that I be in overnight for observation or some other BS. I declined. A brief discussion followed and he promised to call back after talking to my surgeon. I was messaging my surgeon on WhatsApp throughout our phone call. An hour or so later the hospital doctor called back and conceded that I could be admitted in the morning. 7AM.
The next day we arrived on time and started the admission process. “Sir, what kind of room would you like? Standard, Private, Deluxe or Super Deluxe?” I had been quoted the price for a private room and explained that, but also asked what the cost differences were. No numbers were given but apparently the more luxurious your room the more expensive everything is. Yup-the surgery, the medicines, the whateverthehellelese they charge you for. “I’ll take a private room please” was my decision. I’m sorry Sir, we don’t have any available. We will upgrade you to a Super Deluxe room for no additional cost. Glad I didn’t choose one of those and get charged for it then.
After the admission counter it was off to the payment counter to surrender my passport and a deposit of 50,000 Indian rupees. Then back to the admission counter to show the receipt and be issued our paperwork and a room number. Room 614.
We walked to the elevator bank. 2 side by side elevators, nothing unusual. Except that the buttons that are usually arranged ^v were arranged < >. We laughed and pushed the one to go right wondering if an Indian great glass elevator was on its way. Meg later found out that the buttons were arranged that way because the elevators to the left went to floors x through y and the ones on the right went to floors a through b. No signage explained this. We just got lucky.
We exited the elevator on floor 6 and were met with a sky bridge. I don’t love heights much. This bridge was pretty wide, about 8 to 10 feet but had the lowest, most open railings I’ve ever seen at that height. I must have looked like an idiot walking carefully down the middle of the bridge, arms spread for balance. I was not comfortable. We made it across and found the room. Our Super Deluxe Suite.
It looked like a decent, but not fancy American hospital room. There was a hospital bed, a sofa/guest bed. A TV, satellite box, fridge, a couple of metal chairs and a small bedside table. There were also some built in cabinets that included a small safe. The room was ensuite and the bathroom wasn’t too dirty. The bathroom fluorescent light flickered in that awful menacing way reminiscent of a hallway in the DOOM PC game from back in the day though.
So here we were. We got somewhat settled and then a doctor came in. He said I needed to complete a battery of pre surgery tests. I told him I had already done them and showed him the paperwork. He left. We were then visited by a nurse with some clothes for me to wear. I held up the pants. Now I’m not a small man, I have about a 36” waist. The pants said “Large” on them. The waist on them must have been 60 inches. Oh how we laughed. I put my clown pants on and we hung out.
Another doctor then came in. He said I needed to complete a battery of pre surgery tests. I told him I had already done them and showed him the paperwork. I asked him if anyone ever communicated with each other. He left.
The next visitors were a couple of nurses. They wanted to put my IV in. I’m lucky, I have “good veins” and rarely has anyone struggled to access my blood. At first they wanted, as all nurses seem to want, to put the IV in the back of my hand. I declined since this is often painful and restrictive. I showed them my arm. They poked me and missed, moved around a little. Gave up on my left arm. So after dropping the needle onto the bed they moved to my right arm looking for a vein. Once they located one they picked up the needle – both Meg and I yelled “Get a New One”. This confused them. “But Auntie” one of them said, smiling to Meg – “it’s only been in him”. Meg insisted on a new one and off the nurse went. 3 minutes later I had a clean, new IV hooked up in my right forearm. Phew.
I think it was at about this point that everyone decided that Meg was the only one that needed to know what was going on. I didn’t get a say. It’s quite disconcerting to be in the room, conscious and as capable as ever and not have anyone tell you what is going on. You can listen to the conversation, but no one except Meg wanted to include me in it.
The nurse that had put the IV in then told Meg she needed a blood sample and produced a syringe with needle. Use the IV we both said. This confused the nurse so we repeated it several times. “Oh no auntie that is only for putting in things, not for taking out.” She explained, again with a smile that seemed to say you people are idiots.
She then stuck me and drew some blood. From my left arm. The one where she had previously been unable to find a vein. First time. No trouble. Sigh. Next was some antibiotic that needed to be put under my skin to see if I died or something. This was completed without issue but burned like welding spatter.
A doctor came in. He said I needed to complete a battery of pre surgery tests. I told him I had already done them and showed him the paperwork. He then asked whether I had shaved. I felt my face and must admit I was confused. I always shave for the office but not on the……oh, yeah. Down there. For surgery. Nope, I hadn’t. Damn it. He said not to worry he would have the barber come take care of it.
A little while later an older Indian man arrived with a small leather bag that said “barbar” on it. He spoke no English. He grunted at Meg and motioned to the door. We assumed that he wanted her out. I said no, she can stay. We repeated this pantomime a few times and he gave up. He was now grumpy. He trudged off into our bathroom and then locked the door to the room.
When he returned he gestured for me to remove my pants down to my ankles and take my shirt off. Gulp. He then lathered me up with a shave brush from nipples to knees. Taking his straight edge razor he then proceeded to reverse 30 years of manhood and rendered me bald as a bald thing. There’s a certain peace that settles over you when a grumpy old Indian man that you share no common language with has your penis in one hand, an open razor in the other and is deftly removing hair. Wait, that wasn’t peace. Panic. That’s it, panic and an overwhelming need to not move at all. To improve matters, Meg’s sister facetimed her in the middle of the shaving. Of course she answered.
Once the hair removal was complete the barbar returned to our bathroom, threw water all over it, packed his bag and left. I inspected the job he’d done – everything important was still there. However he had left 2.5 hairs right at my belly button. I decided not to complain.
Shortly after the shave of a lifetime a doctor arrived to paint me with iodine. He insisted that Meg leave the room so that she wouldn’t contaminate me. Since I didn’t know if he was involved in the surgery I agreed. I didn’t want a man with hurt feelings working on my insides.
I was thoroughly painted several times and told to let it dry. Then put my shirt back over it. The same one that I’d been wearing up to now. Meg returned and several doctors in street clothes arrived. They all leaned over me and looked and poked and prodded. So much for staying sterile then.
After a while a man with a wheelchair arrived. It was time for surgery. I got on board and off we went. Meg following. Down the hallway through the ward to the elevator. Down to the main lobby of the hospital. Across the main lobby. Into a second huge lobby full of meandering people. Out through a door and down an outside walkway. Into a building, through some hallways and into that building’s lobby. Where we waited in a crowd of about 30 people for an elevator. This wasn’t like the US or UK at all. Eventually we boarded an elevator and up we went. I said goodbye to Meg and was wheeled into the OR recovery/waiting room. Some of the doctors and nursing staff had crocks on their feet, some were barefoot. Hmm.
After confirming my name on my paperwork I was put back in a wheelchair and taken to the OR. Thankfully it looked about the same as every OR I’ve ever been in. Phew. I was helped onto the table by people pointing at it saying get on.
The room was full of people but none of them were paying any attention to me. Finally someone came over and asked where I was from, what I was doing in India etc.. He explained that he had lived and worked in Surrey, England for a while and talked about that. Then he mentioned that he was the anesthesiologist and that he would take care of me.
I asked him to confirm what the surgery was going to be – since no one else seemed to need confirmation. Hmm, hang on he said. He shouted at several people, no answers, finally the surgeon confirmed hernia repair and diastys recti repair. I was then about to ask whether they would re-sterilize my abdomen following the tour of the hospital (I’d promised Meg I would do this) when Mr. Surrey plonked the black mask on my face. Out.
Pain. Pain. PAIN. Ow. Ouch OW. Fuck. Where am I. I couldn’t open my eyes. I couldn’t hear. There was just pain. More than I ever knew was possible. Something had torn me apart. OK. Ok pain means I’m alive. That’s good. I’m alive, better than dead.
Finally got my eyes open, kind of. Blurry. Out of focus. Recovery room. Who’s screaming. Who’s making all that noise? Oh it’s me. Out. Back PAINPAINPAIN. A doctor. Out. Back. PAIN Meg’s voice “I thought he’d died” out. Back. PAIN. Why did Meg think I was dead? WTF did they do to me? PAINPAIN out.
Apparently this went on for a couple of hours. I regained consciousness many times, sometimes I saw doctors or nurses chatting close by. I tried to get their attention and failed. No one explained what was going on. We later learned that they had attempted to put a block in place so I would wake up pain free. It didn’t work. I had nothing in my system, no painkillers at all and woke up from abdominal surgery. They finally got it under enough control that they took me back to the room.
Movement hurt. Elevators crowded with people hurt. Being transferred from the gurney to my bed hurt like nothing else. But I was back with Meg. That helped a lot. We chatted, we talked. I realized wait – I’m far too lucid, too clear minded to have any serious pain control going on. Meg asked. I was on paracetamol and ibuprofen basically. How could I have been in surgery a few hours ago and only be on over the counter painkillers. Is that why EVERYTHING hurt so bad?
Meg asked again. “Oh that is all he can have auntie” was the response. As evening turned to night the pain ramped up. Every breath hurt. I would breathe to the edge of serious pain and then stop. That edge slowly worked its way closer and closer to the start of each breath. Time passed and I was barely breathing. Meg was arguing valiantly with the doctors and nurses. Who finally admitted that I was on all they could prescribe. To get better drugs we needed an anesthesiologist. Well get one then!
Apparently the one they were thinking of was busy. In a surgery. Finally, at I believe about 1 AM an anesthesiologist arrived and gave me a shot of Fentanyl. I have never experienced such profound relief. I slept. Wonderful restorative sleep right up until I woke to Meg telling a crew of nurses that “I did NOT need a bed bath at 5:30AM I needed sleep – GO AWAY.”
The lack of pain control lasted into the morning. I decided I was done. I could control the pain better, myself, at home. We asked what I needed to do to be discharged that day “Oh but it is Sunday – no doctors are available” was the response. Arguing with the nurses quickly proved pointless. I started WhatsApping the surgeon. His response was that if I could walk and pass flatus the only reason I needed to stay was for pain control. Which I wasn't getting.
I rang for a nurse and expressed my desire to take a walk. I explained that they needed to take my catheter out and unhook my IV. Surprisingly this was done without too much fuss, or pain. Walking hurt. I was slow. Meg supported me. But I did it. Walked the length of the floor and back. I walked every hour slowly increasing the distance and speed. At lunchtime I messaged the surgeon that I was walking fine and passing gas. The last part was a lie, but I figured with my history it shouldn’t be a problem to get there before discharge.
The discussion/argument about discharge started in earnest at about noon. We left at about 8PM. I still think it was a win.
In summary – if you are in India and need surgery, make sure you actually need it. If you do then it seems that you will likely survive. You won’t enjoy it. It will suck.
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