October 31st 2001 – Halloween. I look to my right as I’m being wheeled down to theatre on a hospital gurney. People are busying themselves putting up spooky decorations ahead of a fancy-dress party later that evening. There’s a sort of calm before the storm.
I, on the other hand, was anything but calm.
Kicking and screaming – literally – I was scared for my life. I was 11 years old, and already had several years of severe anxiety under my belt. So it was almost inevitable that I would convince myself I was heading to my death.
Spinal fusion surgery is no walk in the park. Sure, I knew that success rates were high, but I’d also got it firmly planted in my head that the dangers and complexities associated with being cut from my neck to my arse, and metal rods screwed into my spine, were going to be the end of me.
Despite it now being over half my lifetime ago I can vividly remember saying over and over again; “I’m going to die – you’re sentencing me to death, I’m going to die”. To which the ward sister who was accompanying me to the anaesthetist room replied “please don’t die today, I can’t be bothered with all the paperwork”.
I cannot begin to imagine how it felt for my parents. They were putting on a very brave face for my benefit, but they must have been worried sick. In fact, they’ve said as much since.
Looking back, my overreaction was a little pathetic, but I was just a frightened boy. And I’ve been a fully paid up member of the hypochondriacs society ever since. After a few deep breaths of sleeping gas and I was under. Knocked out for nine and a half hours.
The next thing I was aware of was waking up on the recovery ward, with a nurse beside me looking at one of the monitors beside me and writing something down. I forgot where I was, or what had happened, and instinctively tried to turn over – much to the panic of the nurse.
The procedure itself was a huge success, and I am forever in the debt of the NHS. Not only did that operation bring an end to the consistent worsening of my scoliosis, but it also helped to make my back a little straighter – albeit not a complete correction of my curvature.
Things were pretty touch-and-go in the 48 hours after I woke up. My blood pressure fell through the floor and then some, and Doctors informed my parents that things weren’t looking so hot. In recent years I’ve discovered that this was quite common for those going through this type of surgery – with many patients becoming seriously ill for a short time afterwards.
Thankfully I was blissfully unaware of how poorly I was.
I asked my mother if she had any photographs of me on the hospital ward – but alas, we’ve never been the photograph-taking type of family, and so I have nothing but memories.
Since then, I’ve always felt both melancholy and grateful on Halloween, as it serves as a timely reminder of how lucky I am to still be here, happy and healthy, 19 years on. All thanks to the wonderful NHS.
Happy Halloween everyone!