The Day Surgery on Level Three of the National Dental Centre is more crowded than I had originally thought. Even before I get there about a quarter to eight, there are already two patients and their families.

Very soon I am brought to the ward area proper. Let me orientate you to the place. The beds are basically lined up to form an L-shape. In the centre is the counter where the nurses are stationed. Behind the counter is a pantry, which also has an X-ray light board in it.

Nurse Sin asks if I had eaten anything previously. I told her that I had followed the dental centre's orders, which had been voice-mailed to me the previous night. It had said that, by ten, I was not supposed to consume anything, not even a drop of water. Nurse Sin takes my blood pressure and my temperature. Jeez, am I that cold in the morning? The reading on the thermometer is 36.2 degrees Celsius.

I am given Bed 2. Nurse Sin orientates me, directing where I can place my personal belongings. The valuables, of course, are handed over to my father. She passes me a blue surgical gown, and a white slip-on jacket that has no buttons. She explains to me the method of wearing the jacket, but I am more intent sending a rather important message on my phone . . .

I join my father in the pantry, where the doctor is, explaining the procedure to him. I recognise that familiar X-ray. The bottom wisdom teeth are slanted pretty badly, almost 60 degrees to the adjacent tooth. Hence the doctor has to cut through the gums in order to remove them. They cannot be extracted via the conventional method of on-the-spot pulling.

Then I see something that I have never noticed before. The upper wisdom teeth are in an equally crammed position, if not worse. Any space between the molars is almost non-existent. Think of books on a tightly-filled bookshelf. Again it would have to be cut.

Father signs the consent form, while I go to the toilet to change. I put on the gown as I would wear a jacket, the opening at the front of my body.

Wait . . . this doesn't look right.

The gown has no buttons, only strings to secure the whole garment together, like that of an apron.

Shit, I hadn't paid attention to what Nurse Sin had said.

I feel very exposed in this way. No, I think this is the wrong way. I take off the gown and wear it the opposite way round, the opening on my back. Ah, this looks better, although I have to admit it's still weird.

Never mind, I begin tying up the strings. Damn, I can't tie a shoelace knot from the back. I look into the mirror; I become psychomotor. My hands are fumbling. Exasperated, I drag the back of the garment to the front to tie the strings just from my side. I tie the strings at the neck area the tightest - at least if the other knots loosen and give away, I'd still have the gown held on to me.

Satisfied, I put on the white jacket and shuffle out on the slippers back to the bed. I hand my spectacles over to my father - immediately my image becomes a blur. An Impressionistic painting. "Can you see?" "Yes . . . but not fine print." Then I stupidly realised all paperwork had been completed, and that there wouldn't be a need to register any words. I am guided to the row of chairs just outside the surgical ward. There, I am given a rather thick blanket and a cap to wear over my head.

Nurse Sin comes over with some kind of spray. She sends the liquid into my nostrils. This is to prevent blood from flowing out of the nose, she explains. Blood flowing out of the nose!? I am horrified. Why on earth would blood flow out of my nose?

The thing is bitter. I only taste the bitterness when some of the liquid flows down to my mouth. Yucks. Almost immediately, there is almost a numbing sensation. My nose is also numbed. I know I have sinus and want to spit it out, but I just can't feel anything.

There are many kids coming here for surgery. The nurses use all sorts of methods to coerce them into the surgical ward, to allay their fears. They use bubbles, give them balloons, or speak well of them, "Come on, so-and-so, be a brave boy, huh? Mummy will go in with you . . ."

Like the children in the Pied Piper of Hamelin, they are obediently led through the glass doors . . .

Within minutes they are screaming and crying their lungs out.

Outside, the wails of children coupled with the sound of machines and tools clanking the trays fill my ears. It is unnerving.

I have come for the surgery not feeling the least nervous. At least I can sleep, I comfort myself. This IS the time to sleep, really. Furthermore, I have free air-conditioning. My sleep is paid for by the SAF, so why not?

But now, the long wait and these screaming kids are sending me to a near-state of panic.

Oh, please, let me go in and put me to sleep (literally).

* * *

At last, a nurse comes to bring me into the operating theatre.

Okay, it's like those places you'd bound to see on the telly. An operating table in the centre of the room. Multiple adjustable lights on the ceiling. Surgical equipment to the side of the bed. There are about four people: three nurses and one doctor.

If you think I'm as blind as a bat with eyesight close to a thousand, you're wrong. I can see IMAGES. Blurred ones, though.

"You don't have to wear your gown so tight lah," the nurse said, as the others giggled. She loosens the knot slightly. Then she bids me to climb onto the operating table. I hand her the blanket that I have been carrying, take off my slippers and thread gingerly onto the step. Brrr, it's cold. The whole theatre is freaking icy.

I lie onto the table. The nurse spreads the blanket over my body. Probes are attached to my chest. The blanket has to be pulled lower for this purpose. "Nurse, can you pull the blanket up higher? I feel cold." "Okay, we will, during the operation."

The doctor comes up to me. While she busies herself, she introduces herself as Dr Ong, the anaesthetist. She explains what she is going to do. She flicks a finger at my hand to try to find the vein. Apparently she has initial difficulty finding it. Lots of people have difficulty finding my vein anyway. The nurse asks me to squeeze my knuckles to induce the vein to show itself more visibly. Dr Ong injects something into the vein. Then she attaches another needle in there. The second needle is really an extremely thin tube for God knows what - but its role is either to send or extract liquids from my body.

I wonder when I'm going to fall asleep. Don't they have the breathing thing? As soon as I think of this, a sort of gas mask is immediately put over my nose. I'm a bit nervous of it at first, wondering at what speed the gas will come, and if I can breathe fast enough not to choke myself. Surprisingly, it's like an air-conditioning duct, with gentle hisses of gas coming through the pipe, pumped by the nurse just behind me. "Breathe in, breathe out, that's good." Great, this is the sleeping gas. I obey the nurses' instructions.

The last thing I want, and the last terrifying thought, is to remain conscious while the surgery is being conducted. I'm not sure if they have checks to ensure that I am FULLY conscious. I've had experiences (on normal days, of course) where my body has nodded off and my brain is fully functional. I am afraid of waking up to see blood spouting all over the place like a fountain from my nostrils and mouth, to experience sharp, unbearable pain from a fresh and open wound, to see the doctor's tools stuck halfway in my mouth.

The perfect horror story.

I am anxiously waiting for the moment that I will conk out. I don’t know when that will be.

Now I know.

Suddenly my hand becomes extremely numb. It becomes heavy, slightly painful, like all the liquid there is being sucked out. The numbness carries itself rather rapidly, down my arms, towards my body.

Before I know it, I'm completely asleep.

* * *
I'm in a dreamless state.

The next so-called half-conscious moment, I recall hearing a nurse telling me to wake up. I murmur, "Very tired".

Moments later, I experience myself being wheeled out of the operating theatre. I thought I could feel the bed turning right, out of the glass doors, although I couldn't see them.

I fall back into a deep sleep again.

* * *

When I next come to, I am horrified to discover that my entire blue gown is soaked in blood. There are large, ugly patches of purple - red blood plus blue fabric gives you purple stain, right? I can feel there is a thick piece of gauze inside my mouth, to absorb the blood. Yet blood overflows out of the saturated gauze. My gums hurt terribly. The pain has gone up to my brain to give me a rather splitting headache. I want painkillers. I want to sleep. My throat is parched from the lack of liquid since the previous night. I feel a slight sore throat.

I fall back to sleep again.

* * *

Nurse Sin comes to remove the gauze. She has problems getting it out, because it's stuck to the metal traps of my braces. She gingerly tears it away using a pair of tweezers, afraid that any harsh movement might cause me to reel to hell from the shock of pain. Not much progress is being made. I decide to do it by myself, since I know I will feel. I tear the gauze out slowly, but with much strength in order to free it from the protruding parts of metal on my teeth. Finally, it's extracted. It's damn bloody red, with pools of blood visible and threatening to drip. Disgusted, I drop it into the basin which Nurse Sin has kindly provided.

At the same time, she removes the needle-tube from my left hand. I don't know to be fearful of the tape peeling away from my skin like plaster, or the needle being pulled out. Anyway, it is better than I had thought. No effect. Kudos to Nurse Sin.

I'm thankful that the object has been taken out at last. I've been so worried about sleeping with it. What if I disturb it while turning about in my bed, and I break the needle, or force it sideways until it pokes into another part of the flesh? I can't sleep well with it.

I drift off into slumber once again . . .

* * *

I am finally discharged at about two in the afternoon. That's when I feel I have slept enough. Ha-ha, can you believe it: I am actually reluctant to go home? I have air-conditioning here, a nice bed (somehow I've been fortunate to get what I think are good beds, even in Sungei Gedong), peace and quiet . . . what more can I ask for? Okay, no radio here, perhaps. But I'm so tired that I don't need the radio to keep me company, to lull me to sleep.

Father has bought fish porridge from Chinatown. He walked there for his lunch, while I am still sleeping. He has also bought my medication. I change, and we leave. I decide on the MRT, although I have been advised to, preferably, take a cab home. I don't feel as groggy as before - the effects of the anaesthesia are wearing out. The only chagrin is the swelled gums that bring me much pain and misery throughout the journey, and the bulging cheeks as a result of this.

Oh, I've forgotten to mention about the MC. Eight days at home, unfit for any form of duties. How good can that be?

¶ 2/02/2005 04:38:00 pm 0 comments