It Won’t Be Long Now

A small operation, a long wait, a conversation about cruises — and about five seconds of counting.

Around half past three, the nurse came into the cubicle and told me the patient before me had gone down about forty minutes earlier.

“You won’t be long now.”

By then I was wearing two hospital gowns. The first was tied at the front and the second went over it the other way, left untied like a dressing gown. Compression stockings had been pulled up my legs. My clothes were folded on a green chair beside the bed and my bag was on the floor.

I checked the time on my watch again.

I had been told I could go home once I was able to wee, so I had spent much of the afternoon drinking water while trying to judge exactly how much was enough. Too little and I might be stuck there afterwards. Too much and I had visions of creating an entirely different problem on the operating table.

The ward was brightly lit. The curtains around my cubicle had a date printed in one corner and, for want of anything better to do, I tried to make it out. I couldn’t quite see it clearly enough.

Somewhere beyond the curtain a doctor was talking on his phone. Every so often he slipped from English into another language. I couldn’t hear enough to know what the conversation was about, but at the time I became quite convinced he was talking to his wife.

The nurse came back for my bag.

“I’ll keep this for you for afterwards.”

Eventually a man arrived with a trolley to take me to theatre. He was cheerful from the moment he appeared.

“Have you been waiting long?”

“A while.”

“It’ll be over before you know it.”

We set off.

Somewhere along the way somebody called over to him.

“Did you have a good holiday?”

“Really enjoyed it.”

“Where were you?” I asked.

“Cruise. First time ever.”

“Would you recommend it?”

“Definitely. If you’re a man who likes his food and drink, you’ll love it. A lot of that was wasted on me, but I really enjoyed it.”

By the time we finished discussing the cruise, we were at theatre.

There were two operating rooms, one on either side of the corridor, with another door between them which I assumed was where the staff scrubbed up. Everything was clean, functional and modern enough, but I was surprised by how ordinary it looked. I think television had prepared me for something far more impressive. The computers looked state of the art. The rest of the place didn’t.

In the waiting area a nurse took my pulse.

“Are you a cyclist or a runner?”

“A runner. Nothing serious.”

She was a runner herself and was training for the Dublin City Marathon.

The surgeon appeared after a while.

“It won’t be long now. Let me take one look at it.”

He checked the hernia, looked directly at me and smiled.

“Yes. I’ll fix that for you.”

Not long afterwards I was wheeled into the operating theatre. People were at computers and moving around the room, still getting things ready. I had barely arrived when the orderly looked around.

“Are ye not ready?”

Nobody said very much.

A few looks passed between people and the trolley started moving backwards.

I was parked in the hallway outside.

The anaesthesiologist came out.

“Sorry about that. Policies.”

“No bother. I know all about policies.”

She laughed.

“I’m sure you do.”

A few minutes later the doors opened again.

This time nobody sent me back.

The trolley was brought alongside the operating table.

“Slide over here so.”

I looked at it. It was remarkably narrow.

Thank God I’m not any bigger.

I slid across.

The anaesthesiologist asked if I was all right with needles.

“I’m fine.”

She inserted a cannula. Somebody placed a mask over my face.

“Just breathe normally and relax.”

I did.

“About twenty seconds now and you’ll be out.”

I reckon I made five.

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