andamu

The first time I went "under the knife" as they say I was about four years old - the traditional removal of the tonsils.
I remember being bundled up in the car in the dark around 4 or 5 a.m. and taken to the hospital. I remember being the center of attention afterwards for a little while (no small feat with a younger and cuter sister around). I remember a special toy, a wound-up crawling doll, which worked for about two or three days before it was broken. (It wasn't me, Mummy). I remember eating soup and jelly and ice cream for about a week afterwards.
But mostly I remember my parents being close to me, feeling their love and warmth and concern.

The next time I was twelve: emergency appendix surgery. We lived in the next town from the doctor's office and the hospital, so my mother took me straight from the doctor (almost 5 p.m) to a dress store to buy some nightdresses and a dressing gown, before taking me to the hospital. My dad raced from the town to meet us at the hospital.
I remember my mother -- who worked at the hospital and knew all the doctors and staff) -- came with me as far as the theater doors, much farther than mere mortals are allowed. When I was finally returned to the ward, my dad insisted that I be fully awake and talking to him before leaving for home; it must have been around 10 p.m. by then. I remember being somewhat upset by that: I had great difficulty sleeping the rest of the night with the pain and the dry lips (Nil per Mouth painted in black blockletters on the little white metal board chained above my bed); I was convinced that if I had been allowed to continue drifting in post-anaesthetic bliss, I would have been able to sleep.
But mostly I remember my parents being close by, loving and warm and concerned.

When I was about 21, I had to enter the hospital two days before the surgery to be placed on intravenous antibiotics to fight the infection before they could remove the gallbladder and the seven evenly-sized stones, each the size of half a pinkie-nail.
I remember being told that my lungs had collapsed in the recovery room. I remember at one stage the pain returning outside of the scheduled time for medication, and being helpless before its terror. I remember the humiliation of some of the procedures. I remember Nini, full of concern, and my grannies visiting.
But mostly I remember the big empty spaces where my parents should have been.

When I was 23 I was "strongly urged to undergo surgery as soon as possible to remove the growth and send it for a biopsy," but at least this wasn't another emergency surgery. I remember the woman next to me snoring so loudly and persistently that, not having closed an eye by 11.30 p.m. I begged the staff for something to help me sleep, which they turned into someWHERE to help me sleep, sneaking me into a vacant private room for the night.
I remember the shallowness and triviality around me. I remember my befuddlement after the doctor's report with no-one to answer my questions. I remember Nini dropping in, supportive. I remember various family members breezing by. I remember my upset at the callous way in which the staff treated the woman diagonally opposite me.
And I remember the void where my parents would have been.

Tomorrow my precious one will be by my side. Nini will be close by, and if all goes well I might even be home by nightfall. There will be an Angel Face getting all excited and concerned and confused and interested, popping up everywhere.
But I am already remembering the blank spaces where they would have been.