Ted Finchley is back with Instalment 3 of Dick's Surgery! Read on as the brave Mr Dick faces his greatest challenge yet, waking up after surgery only to—no, Mr Finchley tells it so much better.
DICK’S SURGERY
Instalment Three: Recovery
My awakening was
both sudden and terrifying: “I can’t move. I’m dead. Am I in heaven, purgatory
or hell? I just know I’m not alive.” Within seconds, terror was replaced by a
warming calm. I looked up and slowly brought two images into one smiling, beautiful
face.
“I’m your nurse, Sarah,”
the vision purred. As I tried to lean forward, I thought I heard: “I’ll make
you feel good for all time.”
“A-h-h, I must be
in heaven,” I thought. I heard myself asking: “Are you an angel? Tell me again
what you said.”
A poke in the ribs
was accompanied by a voice with a familiar, and loving, harshness. “Mr. Dick,
my dearest, the nurse says you’ll feel good in no time.”
“Not in heaven,
after all.” Doing my best to hide my disappointment, I looked over to my
charming wife and asked: “My dear Mrs. Dick, will I be going for surgery soon?”
Once I realised we
were no longer in pre-op and the deed was done, I concentrated on watching Sarah
drain the little plastic grenade connected to my surgical wound. I slipped in and
out of sleep, searching for Nurse Sarah in my conscious moments, and chasing
her, with the dainty Mrs. Dick at my side, romping through fields of bluebells in my drug-induced dreams.
Temperature 35
degrees C, blood pressure 99 over 66, heart rate 49; barely alive.
Gradually I
warmed up, became more coherent and realised that nurse Sarah’s shift was over—leaving me with
a comforting Mrs. Dick at my side, her gentle presence lessening the depressed state in which I found myself.
Temperature 35.5 degrees C,
blood pressure 102 over 68, heart rate 60; vital signs improving.
“They’ve strapped you in,
my love, to stabilise your hip.” I looked down to see my legs separated by, and
firmly bound to, a big blue contraption shoved up into my groin.
More drugs to the
IV; more pills to swallow; more plastic jug emptying; more despondent boredom.
As evening
approached, another recovering patient, obviously heavily drugged, was wheeled
into the space behind the curtain separating our beds. With Mrs. Dick gone, I
mentally prepared myself for a restful night. As I lay there, I became aware of
an unpleasant feeling at the base of my abdomen, as if something was pulling at
me.
More to come!
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