My name is Rayan. I've had two major surgeries.
Being in a hospital may come uneasy to most people but for me it feels homely. The smell of sanitizers and people covered in white masks and drapes rushing in and out of rooms was a big part of my life.
I had my first surgery at the ripe old age of 2 months. Of course, my recollection is a bit hazy, but the story goes that I had awoken in the middle of the night and started crying. For some unknown reason my mom, dad or grandma was not nearby and the only person present was our midwife, who as tradition insists tried to calm me down with a bit of honey on her fingertip. My mom tells me she was more of an intern rather than a legitimate midwife. Anyway, the midwife had put the honey too far into my throat injuring the valves in my esophagus. The facts are rather all over the place but according to mom I had stopped breathing and I was taken to our island’s clinic, which was basically a doctor and a band aid in a room. I was then transferred to IGMH where my parents were advised to take me abroad.
By age 8 weeks I had crossed my first international border and reached Trivandrum and gotten an open surgery. The surgery had a 50/50 out come to which my dad apparently had said "ok" as he does with every other critical decision in life. I had come out of the experience with a rather massive scar vertical on my abdomen and no memories of the event given my age.
I had a few check ups afterwards with my doctor, who I vividly remember to be an extremely old man with a cupboard that never ran out of lollypops. My parents were told I would most probably not reach the full extent of my life, that I am in theory disabled and it would be hard for me to even perform my daily routines. I am currently a healthy adult able to perform perfectly fine. My doctor however passed away a year after my third checkup which was when I was around 7.
My second time going through surgery is more visualized in my memories as this was less than 3 years ago. I was doing my A levels at the time and I was what some people would call "Kanjoos". I’d hardly ever do homework. Studying for 6 hours straight and coming home and doing homework just wasn’t my thing. So, as usual I had forgotten to submit an assignment. It would be around the 3rd time in a row and I couldn’t risk any more cuts from my yearly score. So, my plan of action was to call sick and go home before the Islam period. I did my usual act and went to the supervisors to call come. I’ve gone home a couple of times before for stomachaches. I had to up the stakes. I called and explained to my stepmom that I was oozing blood and vomit.
10 minutes later I was on the way to Senahiya, the Military hospital for an appointment with the head doctor, on a motorcycle behind dad who was in his full uniform. As soon as I walked in the doctor asked me what color the blood was. In my mind this was all a joke but I had come too far to back down. So, I told him it was bright red and a whole toilet full.
I was asked to do a bunch of scans and an endoscopy. I did them of course. I went home happy knowing everything worked out.
Next day dad comes back with the report and another appointment because apparently the report was marked urgent.
The doctor instructed that I had an indefinite blob that was possibly a hernia. I was recommended to go abroad as the hernia could either be fatal or malign to which my dad rolled out his big "ok".
For me this meant a two-week vacation. Get a checkup and come back. But turns out I had a rare type of hernia. Part of my stomach and food pipe had somehow managed to get displaced through my diaphragm and was slowly trying to wrap around my heart.
I lost my cool at that moment. The doctor gave the same 50/50 chance for an invasive surgery, but we got a second opinion and was recommended laparoscopy.
After a rather long 7-hour surgery I came out okay with a bruised lip and 7 new scars on my abdomen.
The one month stay at the hospital was a hundred percent better than going to school though. I was discharged with a year’s worth of tablets.
It was quite an experience even though the stakes were high. I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone, but I don’t necessarily think I disliked any part of it except for the manhandled shaving from my neck to my knee.
Today I’m perfectly healthy, with a story to tell anyone willing to hear it.
Disclaimer: The identity of the person of interest has been changed as per requested. The content is directly from the source and does not reflect the views of the website nor the author.
Why are people getting clinically depressed?