I am currently grieving the loss of the mouth I have become accustom to these last 60 years whilst, at the same time, trying to adjust to what feels like somebody else’s oral cavity complete with stitches and sensations which range from simple discomfort through to moderate pain. I am generally good with the latter; it’s the flatness that I really don’t like – probably a side effect from several more hours of anaesthetic than what was originally planned.
I have undergone the latest ‘must-have’ periodontal procedure which is
all the rage in Hollywood and the less trashy parts of Europe – the removal of
enlarged and fibrous gingival tissue – an oral circumcision of sorts. I joked about that but it’s come back to bite
me.
Having been ringbarked at three or four days, like almost all Australian
males of my age, I was certain there was nothing below my chin that would enter
into proceedings so imagine my surprise and discomfort when I woke up to find a
plastic tube protruding from my penis.
There had been no discussion of this during the planning stages but we
were originally talking about a two and a half hour operation, not the five and
half hours I ended up with.
I understand that there are individuals who actually derive pleasure from
recreational ureteral intrusion but I can assure you that I do not count myself
amongst their number!
I woke up good with the anaesthetic but feeling as if the lower part of
my face had been battered about with a brick, both inside and out. And not a quality brick either, more of a grubby,
mortar-encrusted common from the very bottom of seconds pile. I appeared to have a mass of attachments in
and around my mouth. These ranged from
icepacks to what I was certain was a shoe horn.
This later revealed itself as the back of my upper front teeth – an uncomfortable
reality that I am still in the process of accepting. I thought I had a mouth full of packing and
dressing but the vast majority of it was simply the new trim and exposed me.
The complex and protracted conversation about litigation I was
overhearing from the nursing station in the recovery room turned out not to involve
me which was an eventual relief but then I was set upon by my periodontist, his
assistant, the anaesthetist and several others which was just way too many
people in one small space but it got worse when I was wheeled, not-so-gently,
to my private room with the very nice view across Middle Harbour, over The Spit
and on to North Head beyond.
It was an anti-tardis – smaller on the inside than the outside! How could this be? I had only viewed the rooms from the exterior
of the building and must say the bay windows are completely deceptive. They make the rooms look spacious but in
reality I was tightly wedged into an undersized bed which fronted a mushroom
colored wall all-too-closely.
Now, I’m tall but not exceptionally so.
Why is it that all hospital beds seem to conform to dimensions
established by Florence Nightingale during the Crimean War when your average
male was the height of a malnourished Yorkshire coalminer? Four people were fussing over me; checking my
BGLs which were hovering around 19 and my blood pressure which was similarly
elevated; packing more ice on my swollen face; checking the cannula and the
accursed catheter; and generally making a very small room close in even further
on me.
There seemed only one course of action to take. I burst into a sweat and all the terror of
that hideous night I spent imprisoned in a Gold Class cabin on that godforsaken
relic of the 1970s, the Indian-bloody-Pacific, came flooding back. “Drugs trolley, sweetie; drugs trolley!”
They all retreated except for Anne, my own personal RN who worked with
me through the night to bring my BGLs down to a glorious 4.9 and then by change
of shift I was an unheard of 3.4 so it was onto the sugary orange juice – pure
luxury.
Somewhere along the way a very pleasant young man in Muslim head gear
arrived with an extension for the bed. I
thanked him in a most sincere, if somewhat sibilant, way. He had every opportunity to decapitate me
whilst munching on a halal lamb chop and crying “Allah Akbar!” but of course
99.9999999999% of them just don’t do that – contrary to what Senator Jacqui
Lambie and the scare-mongers from the Murdoch Press would have us all
believe. There would be no relief that
night!
After a long and very close relationship with Channel 11, dawn finally
broke and Our Lady of the Orange Juice returned to check my BGLs and blood
pressure but this time also announced that she would remove the catheter. This instilled in me the expectations of all
of my childhood Christmases bundled into one single, beautifully wrapped package. Oh joy, oh bliss! Perhaps the reason slightly more twisted
individuals willingly assault their urethras is for the shear physical and
psychological relief of having the bloody obstruction removed.
Two jubilant rainbow lorikeets flew by my window, turned and flew back
again then, with the cannula also removed, we were all ready for a new
unattached day.
Castlecrag
Private Hospital Tip #1
Request – no, demand – room 21.
It is the only one with an unobstructed water view. The hospital is actually the expansion of a
house designed and built by Walter Burley Griffin and just out my window and to
the right was another of his treasures.
Periodontal
Tip #1
If you are on long-term blood pressure medication have a serious talk
with your doctor about the periodontal implications of your particular pharmaceutical
brew. Some 30+ years of the same
inappropriate drug is precisely what caused my gingival tissue to become
fibrous and enlarge – and you don’t want to go there, trust me!
Postscript
I am, of course, home now. Two
nights in hospital was quite enough, I was eager to return to my own familiar
space. Peter is taking great care of me
as are Jan and Tony and Kevin was simply beside himself at my return. Our boy does like to have both his dards corralled in the same space where
he can be fully in charge of all proceedings.
I have an appointment with Bill the periodontist on Friday at which time
the stitches may or may not come out. I
will at least be reassured by his examination.
Of course some sedation may well be in order when I receive the updated
account. The original estimate was a
shocker so given the extra time on the table I’m bracing myself for something
closer to double, less than half of which will be covered by my health fund and
Medicare combined. Good news is the
hospital stay was fully covered by Teachers Health – my first claim in 40 years
of contributions.
Hospital Wine
List Tip #1
Should you ever have oral surgery and find yourself served grilled
barramundi with mango salsa the following evening, best break with tradition
and select a red. The white was far too
chill on the back of the teeth.
