Daniel Frears Surgery Day
_ 12 _ 24
Surgery Day 6 12 24 by
Daniel Frears
Copyright © 2025 by Daniel Frears All Rights Reserved
First Digital Publication April 2025
Cover Design by Finnialla Wright Published by PULP Literary Magazine pulplitmag.com
I turned on the slow cooker and left for surgery. The recipe stated ten hours cooking time, which would have it ready around 8pm. Honestly, that’s a bit later than I’d usually eat dinner, but given that I would be spending some of the day anaesthetised I accepted that my regular eating habits would have to adapt. I’d been aware that this procedure was going to take place for a few months, but I hadn’t really thought about it until yesterday evening, when I set an alarm on account of having to eat my breakfast before 6am. The alarm was for 4:30am thinking I might go to the gym first, then return to eat, but I scrapped this and set it for 5am - a home workout would be just fine. I’d also felt like drinking a beer last night, but of course I did, it was one of the only times that I was precluded from it. So, I went to bed without a beer that I probably wouldn’t have even wanted in another circumstance. I slept well and even dozed for a while this morning, which is most unlike me, not getting out of bed until about 6am. These things told me that I was untroubled by the procedure ahead. In fact, I’m sitting in the waiting room right now and I feel nothing but relaxed. Of course I’d rather it was over already, that I’d been briefed and prepped, that I’d been undressed and redressed, that the anaesthetist had told me the incredibly minute risks of any complications and the way that the drugs would work. I’d much rather the liquid had entered my veins and dispersed throughout my body, rendering me unconscious, and that the surgical team had made the necessary incision with their incredibly honed, pristine blade. I imagine that it will cut through my flesh like a bread knife through warm butter, minimal force needing to be applied. Once the surgeon has parted the flesh they’ll uncover what it is they’re looking for and proceed to cut it away with a finely tuned technique. If surgeons do ever have off days then I hope it isn’t today. I’d like mine to be on form. Following my first engagement with a nurse, I’m sitting in an ophthalmology room. The schedule for surgery has been pushed back (of course) and I now have three hours until I’m expected to be in theatre. More time to write though. I’d never considered the crossover between the artistic theatre and the operating theatre before, but here I am now, pondering it. Theatre is from the ancient Greek ‘theatron’ - a place of seeing. As we know, these are used for all types of performance; drama, dance, orchestra and so on. It turns out that early operating theatres were designed in a similar way to those tiered constructions. This so that students and spectators alike could watch a surgeon at work. It of course isn’t the case anymore due to modern requirements for sterility etc.
Anyway, during my briefing and quizzing by the nurse I went through all of the standards, measuring blood pressure (110/73), heart rate (59 bpm), height (189cm), weight (76kg) asking whether I have allergies, dietary requirements, the list goes on. I inquire as to whether my measurements are healthy and the nurse assures me that they are. They leave to get something from another room and I glance at the machine behind me to see the readings. I see them see me looking. When they return they immediately explain that if anything my blood pressure is a little low, but this could be for many reasons. They describe my heart rate as relatively low as well. Later on, when I have time to myself I Google both of these and my brief inquiry tells me that yes, I’m slightly below normal blood pressure range and my heart rate is at the top end of Excellent, slightly below Athlete, the other categories being Good, Above Average, Average, Below Average, Poor. I’m here to be operated on, but I feel Excellent. Of course I’m a little sad that I didn’t make it into the Athlete range, but then I’m not an athlete. One unexpected question I am asked is whether I want to have any surgically removed tissue/body parts returned to me post surgery. This one gave me pause for thought. I asked whether it was usually for cultural reasons that this would be done, and they confirmed that is the case. The nurse informed me that in a lot of Pasifika culture they wish to keep all parts of a person together, so if something is removed, they will ask for it back. In my mental flux I stated that I wouldn’t need any parts of me returning, but a few moments later an urge grew within me to change my mind, to tell the nurse that I would in fact like what tiny amount was likely to be removed. Now that I reflect it’s funny that I should want it, as the part that will be removed has been a nuisance to me, a mild discomfort that has come and gone over the last twelve or so years of my life, and now, for some inexplicable reason I have decided to have it returned once the professionals have extricated it from my body. How bizarre. I still don’t understand. I told the nurse that if it is a hassle or extra work then I’m happy not to have it, but they assure me it’s no bother. I filled out a form titled ‘Release of surgically removed tissue/body parts and explanted devices form’ and that’s that. The room has an air conditioning unit which is actually rather cold. A few degrees colder than I’d like it to be, so I reach for the remote control on the nurses desk. It is set to 19 degrees. My surgeon ‘Tony’ came in just before I was to change the temperature. He inspects the site to be operated on. He provides very concise information regarding wound care and any follow up to be carried out to try and avoid any recurrence of the issue.
His blue cloth cap has ‘TONY - SURGEON’ embroidered in white stitching, his name centred above the word surgeon. I like him a lot. He is wearing mahogany brown boat shoes which I'd estimate are a size 7 or 8 at the most. Small feet make for sure hands. I just made that up. As he leaves he tells me that he'll see me shortly and I muse on the fact that shortly for me would be 5 minutes, whereas I'm not due in his theatre for another 145 minutes. He probably has one or two people to operate on before he sees me again. These thoughts of minutes and hours take me back to my lamb in the slow cooker, ever so slowly heating through. I note the fact that I'm not likely to be home until 7pm at the earliest, nine hours after I set it going. Oh how happy I'll be to see that lump of lamb! The stock in which it sits will be unimaginably rich by that time. The onions in the base will be as soft as silk. It's still 19 degrees as I snap out of my food dreaming. I grab the remote and turn it up to 21 degrees. Over 20 seems reasonable. My mouth is pretty dry by this point and I'd love a big guzzle of water, but I decide to stick to the suggestions, nay instructions of the medical professionals. No water for me. Strangely, I'm not so hungry, but I anticipate this will hit me with a vengeance later and I smile, excited to feel that deep rumble in my stomach. Less than two hours to theatre, supposedly, and I have been sitting on this same chair for the last 90 or so minutes, all except for standing to use the bathroom and get measured and weighed. Oh, and to change the temperature, which incidentally feels just as cold at 21 as it did at 19. I am typing this on my phone, and intermittently I have been in correspondence with friends and my brother whilst I write. Surgeon Tony told me that I would do well to wax the affected area in around a week's time as this will increase the chances of staving off an infection. He then asked who will be at home when I return and I told him it would be my brother, which is the truth. Whilst not explicitly suggesting I ask my brother to wax me he does use his hands to indicate a roughly 20cmX20cm sized square which he thinks would be advisable to remove all hair from and looks at me as if to say ‘if your brother wouldn't mind waxing the top of your arse and the bottom of your back then that is what you should do’ I take this unspoken information with a nod. The nod is a smile as I message my brother the words ‘the surgeon just suggested that you wax my ass for me in about a week's time. cheers bro.’ to which he responds ‘is he sick in the head?’ and then ‘Surely you have a Bumble match gagging for that’ I do not have any such match.
I've been moved to a bed by Robyn. Robyn left me to remove my clothing and put on a pair of funny little white cotton pants and my patient's gown. She has since fitted me with a pair of compression socks, doing so as I lay on the single bed covered by a heated blanket made of what looks like bubble wrap. Robyn stated that the anaesthetist has now arrived (they hadn't when she first brought me through) and as such she hopes I'll be going to theatre before long. It's 1:30pm and as per the earlier schedule I'm not due until 2:45pm. I hold out little hope of an early entry, but maybe Tony is flying through patients! My desire for even a sip of water returns to me every now and then, but all things considered I'm pretty content with my lot. The bed is very comfortable. Everyone is incredibly kind and considerate. I know that my procedure is not serious, but still, I am made to feel extremely at ease in what could be a rather disconcerting environment. In fact, I'm tired now. I'm in a warm bed and I think that I could nap. Would that be a faux pas? Surely not. Surely it happens from time to time that whilst people are waiting to be sliced and diced they catch a few winks under the warm bubble sheet. I decided that I won't nap. I'll be plenty knocked out soon anyway. In fact, does an hour or two in a drug induced unconsciousness count as a nap? Possibly not. It could be that I'll have to pause this account rather soon, and if that's the case then I'll endeavour to continue as soon as I'm again awake, slightly less encumbered and of a right mind and environment in which to proceed. I'll read a little now. I read around five pages and then fell asleep, oops. I awaken to Robyn telling me that it will still be a while until they’re ready for me. Someone comes to take my food order for dinner and also breakfast, if it should be that I stay over. I think to myself that there’s no way I’m staying over, and once they’ve left me with the multiple choice menu I first tick four boxes for Dinner: Poached fish with a slice of lemon, rice, seasonal vegetables, Diet Lemonade. Two boxes for Dessert: Chocolate Mousse, Coconut Yoghurt Breakfast: I start to choose from the wealth of options and they return to ask whether I’m finished. We come to the conclusion that I’m not finished, but I won’t be staying, so I leave the half filled breakfast menu where it is. They are, like everyone else, an angel disguised as a human. Robyn is finishing her shift. She bids me farewell but then returns a minute or two later to let me know the good news, they’re ready for me. She introduces me to Lisa, the anaesthetist, and then takes away my belongings in a large brown paper bag and bids me farewell.
Lisa wears a multi coloured cap, with the words LISA - ANAESTHETIST embroidered in dark stitch, maybe navy blue. Maybe black, but more likely navy blue. The lettering is formatted the same as Tony’s. Lisa is a dream disguised as a human. She offers me dulcet assurance, she describes the Fentanyl that will enter my body as likely to make me feel ‘floaty and happy’ which I can later attest to being true. I forget our discourse exactly, but it is pleasant throughout. She fits the cannula in the back of my hand after saying I have ‘lovely veins’ and talks the whole while; the classic tactic to distract those that are averse to needles. She is a seasoned veteran, it’s clear, and as she continues to be a dream she flushes the line with a cold liquid that makes it halfway up the back of my forearm. A both soothing and unnerving sensation. Once she leaves it is only a few minutes before Robyn’s replacement comes into the room, and unfortunately I didn’t catch her name. Unfortunate because she is a gem disguised as a human. She smiles radiantly as she makes the final preparations for us to go to the operating theatre. She asks me considerately whether I’m ok to walk there, which of course I am. She checks my details and then we’re on our way. As she leads me on the short walk she points out certain areas of the wards, the other theatres etc and she chuckles at my inane observations. She is lovely. She is a gem. We enter the operating theatre and the room is as I would have imagined it, if I had tried to imagine it beforehand. It has no tiers up the side. It is predominantly white and there are anywhere between five and eight teal clad figures in attendance. Lisa is one of them and she greets me just after one of the surgeons, a short lady from whom I can see a huge smile despite the mask covering the lower half of her face. This surgeon (surgeon's assistant?) and Lisa show me to the table/bed and ask me to lie on my side. I clamber onto the flat surface and do as requested, facing the two of them. Lisa explains that they will be administering the anaesthetic very shortly and the surgeon? offers me an oxygen mask which I receive gratefully. At this point I lose sense of who is talking to me, but I understand I’m being told that I will start becoming drowsy. Their soft voices feed like a Brian Eno track into my ear. Never have I experienced a more soothing sound. I start to close my eyes as soon as the mask is on and lightly scold myself; isn’t it too soon for me to be closing my eyes? I do it anyway and before long the drugs and the voices and my eyes all conspire to send me off.
I'm awake. I wake up to Nicky. Nicky is a pure delight. She is a pure delight disguised as a human. She offered me a lemonade ice block which I accepted and consumed with the utmost pleasure. She talked, I listened, she listened, I spoke. I feel incredibly warm and relaxed and grateful to be in such a caring environment. I could in fact cry at the level and quality of attention I'm receiving. I am with Nicky for around fifteen minutes as she assesses whether I’m in any pain. We speak about her upcoming christmas party and other items which I forget now. Nicky explains that I will be going to a room shortly and duly Marian appears to take me there. As she wheels my bed to the room the top right corner hits two door frames. Marian apologises, but there’s no need. The halls are tight and she is doing an amazing job. The other nurse with Marian asks whether I’d like a drink and offers me a coffee or tea. I would have asked for water if not for the prompt, but the prospect of a coffee is utterly delicious and I accept without delay. Seemingly within moments of being in the room there's a coffee and a chicken salad sandwich in front of me which are luscious. I could drink a bucket of this coffee and eat a suitcase full of these chicken sandwiches. A truly lucky man wakes up and has his every need tended to - it’s a true story! I'm able to enjoy these treats before I'll bus back home to a waiting hunk of delicious meat and a cigarette. Existence is something indescribable; to be present in these moments and take in so much beautiful energy from people of such lovely disposition is a joy I barely feel deserving of.
A quick note. The element of transportation from pre surgery to post surgery is a quite seamless and intoxicating thing. I was in one place. I was administered a substance/substances. I am now elsewhere. It happened and no time seemed to elapse. Sleeping in this way is my utter ideal. Bliss is all around me and I will try my utmost to cling on to this gratitude.
After my chicken sandwich and coffee I am brought dinner, can you believe it. Everything that I ordered arrived; poached fish with seasonal vegetables and rice, and a vegan chocolate mousse with coconut yoghurt. I'm in heaven. I am in heaven. The piece of fish is humongous and the roasted yellow capsicum is perfectly charred. I eat all of the fish - mostly with my left hand - and the vegetables. I leave most of the rice with later lamb in mind. And then I get on to the mousse. I am a man with a sweet tooth. Too sweet of a tooth, truth be told.
I could definitely stand to reduce my sugar intake, but I lose no sleep over such things. Anyway, this mousse is astounding. It is the texture of ice cream that isn’t ice cold, and scoops in a similar way. As I run my spoon through it comes away in alluring chocolate peels and I dip these into the coconut yoghurt and into my mouth. I am sitting in a hospital bed eating one of the most delicious desserts of my life. It may be that my memory is short, but for as far as it does extend I can remember nothing that has tasted this good. The flavour is situated in the perfect ground between decadent milk and rich cocoa. I do my best not to devour the pot in seconds. The meal was impeccable, but I should get on to Marian. Marian is a divine being. A star disguised as a human. Marian comes to take my blood pressure, my temperature, my pulse. She does this two or three times over the course of an hour or so and eventually tells me that I’ll be good to go next time she returns. My blood pressure has been a little low on the first few attempts, but on this last one she emits a celebratory ‘yes!’; the figures returned must be just what she’s after. Marian tells me that I can change and she will gather my medication and after care in the meantime. When Marian returns I have transformed from a white gowned in-patient to a black t-shirted out-patient, soon to be back in the real world where not everyone is something so warmhearted- disguised-as-a-human that it beggars belief. Outside it is mostly regular humans. Marian explains everything to me. Everything I could possibly need to know, and then her colleague walks me to the front door, and I’m gone.
A surgery day is something that is rarely looked forward to, I’d imagine. Of course the outcome of surgery could be much anticipated, but I’d think that the tension preceding the act and the ensuing after effects are something that people would rarely ever want to repeat, let alone enjoy. However, I must say that the 6th of December was a remarkable experience for me. I say this with the utmost humility and understanding that I am fortunate to be generally healthy and only afflicted in the most minor sense. I have been left with a huge respect and admiration for the public health service, but when I say that, I mean the individuals that I spent my time with yesterday. Each of them was exceptional, not only in their duties, but in their completely human qualities. I have been able to find utter joy in many facets of life over the past few years, and this was up there with the most profound of them. I will keep the conclusion brief. I took the bus home. The lamb loomed.
Upon getting back I was equally excited for the meat that awaited me and a cigarette, despite my throat being rather raw - possibly due to the effects of anaesthesia. Also, to see my brother, who was just as supportive as I would have wanted in the lead up to the day. I came home in a state of hushed euphoria, he cooked rice, I prepared the meat, we botched together some gravy and ate to our hearts content before watching two episodes of the Sopranos. I smoked one cigarette during this time and one before bed.
Daniel is a UK native that has been residing in New Zealand for close to 10 years. He produces short stories, prose and poetry. He has had short prose pieces published in Salient, Shabby Doll House and miniMAG and short stories featuring in CRAFT literary and Northridge Review.