That’s Probably Not The Way To Do Things (Jeremy)

LAST Tuesday I was booked in for a mid-morning gastroscopy. For those of you unaware of the delicate intricacies of this pleasant procedure, it runs through as such; Patient is sedated via an IV, Patient has local anaesthetic sprayed down the back of their throat, barely-conscious Patient has dirty great flexible tube put down their throat to see inside their stomach and digestive tract, Patient wakes up and has a cup of tea and biscuits. The Good Doctor told me that some people just have it done without the sedation; I told him that it wasn’t really something I was willing to try; he told me to go and make myself comfortable; I, not being greatest person with All Things Medical, picked up a good book and headed straight for a long, extended getting-to-know-you session with the toilet.

Back in the waiting room (heater near the front, TV stuck on the “Today” show) we all sat down and waited for our names to be called in turn. I hauled out the massive tome that I had brought with me; an exceptional and exceptionally famous, not to mention somewhat controversial, autobiographical book called Papillon (“Butterfly”). (I take great pride in the fact that a French Minister once attained the declining standards in modern French society to the wearing of miniskirts and the reading of Papillon. Being unable to wear a miniskirt, I settled on just reading the book instead). The French-speaking Vietnamese man opposite me instantly recognised the book, having read it in French, and we started to talk about the various ins and outs of it. I was later talking to my fifteen-year-old sister and casually mentioned that she might like to read it, now that she was fifteen, although it is a little ‘mature’ at times. She turned, straight as a die, and answered that she had already read it when she was 10! This hit me for six as I began to mentally tote up the amount of adult themes mentioned in just the first hundred-odd pages. (For example, if you were going to smuggle 50,000 francs in notes to a Southern American penal colony on your person, where exactly would YOU hide it?).

The people at the hospital decided to stick me at the back of the queue as I was the youngest patient there by a margin of roughly fifty years, and, as I was being picked up at one o’clock, I had no issues with that. Eventually (halfway through Mornings with Kerri-Anne, no less) I was called, asked what I would like to drink after my procedure (tea, coffee, Milo, water), and shown through to a bed. From there it was time to change into the peek-a-boo hospital gown, be tucked up into bed, and have the IV put in (for those of you who’ve never had one done, it’s not a painful thing but it is a strange feeling). After what seemed like both an eternity and not long enough I was wheeled into the theatre to have the procedure done.

The nurse (who, it turned out, nursed with Mum back before I was born) sprayed the back of my throat with some local anaesthetic, before propping in a don’t-you-bite-that-camera mouthguard, and the sedative was injected in through the IV. I felt the sedative starting to take effect, but at the same time I remember thinking that it wasn’t really doing all that much, and I have a clear memory of the nurse saying, “More (insert sedative name here).” The last memory I have is of me trying to say something whilst they start to put the tube near the mouthguard and then next thing I knew I had woken up, slowly, in the recovery room.

I gave an experimental swallow and took mental stock of my stomach. My throat didn’t hurt at all; and what’s more is that the unpleasant numbness from the local anaesthetic had disappeared too. My stomach felt fine and so did my aesophogas (sp?); instantly I felt like food. After downing a tea, some water, and some sandwiches I stood up (a tad giddy, nothing too bad) and made my way back over to the waiting room.

Mum came to pick me up and then we went over for my results. We walked over to see the doctor, who greeted us with a slightly wry smile.

“What were the results?”

“No result, actually”, said the doctor. “You didn’t respond well enough to the anaesthetic and so we decided not to go ahead with the procedure.” You’re kidding me, right? “Not at all.” He showed us the piece of paper with the little box, “Diagnosis”, filled in with the sentence, “Patient uncooperative to procedure.”. I couldn’t believe it. All that effort and a whole day off and to no effect. I’m going back again – for a much stronger drug, fingers crossed – on Thursday to get it done. At least I’m better and back at Uni now.

The drug wore off completely within about two or three hours. Speaking to other people who’ve had it done, they told me that it took them between a day or two to shake it off and had little or no memory whatsoever of the procedure. Dad reminded me of how, when Nanna had all the teeth in her head taken out under gas back in the forties, she had woken up in the middle of the procedure; perhaps drug-resilience runs in the family. I’m just glad they didn’t press on with the gastroscopy. In the finish, it fell to Grandmother to summarise the situation with a sentiment that was also expressed by a member of Kim’s family (in the nicest possible way, of course): “How could they possibly even THINK that a sedative would ever shut him up? They’d need at LEAST a general for that one!”. Onya, Gran. How’s that for a vote of confidence?
Anyway, guys, best of luck with all your mid-semester projects and all;

jez