So you’ve put on a brave face when telling everyone about the diagnosis; you’ve stoically made it through the preliminary tests; and then comes the day of surgery. You manage to hold it together for your loved ones as you’re called back alone to the pre-op area. A little jaunty wave, I’m just going for an x-ray, see you in a bit. You are stripped down and dressed in the cloth gown, socks and cap, and you lie down on the gurney, cold, as people cheerfully come in and ask you the same questions over and over again. Then they leave, draw the curtain closed around you, and you wait.
You wait, and wait. Nobody comes by; their checklists are done. You have nothing, not even a clock, to tell you how much time is passing. It could be half an hour, it could be three times that. The IV catheter aches in the crook of your arm.
This is when the fear comes. You let yourself wonder whether this was the last time your loved ones would see you. You think about what’s about to be done to you, and you wonder how much it’s going to hurt. There is nothing to distract you from the fear.
I went through this every time I had a procedure done. As hard as I tried to talk reason to myself, nothing could make the fear dissipate.
Finally, I tried contempt: Look at yourself, sniveling on this gurney. How would you like Bob to see you in this state? What would he say?
Bob was someone at work whom I couldn’t stand. We locked horns, directly or indirectly, all the time. It was all I could do when I saw him in the hall to be cordial to him.
As soon as I pictured Bob, my fear and panic went away. It was as if a new defense had been locked in. Instead of flight, I had someone to fight. I went through my memory, bringing up everyone I didn’t like, one after another. Like magic, it kept the terror at bay.
I kept doing this over and over, until the nurse came to inject me with that blessed Versed that would take all my thoughts away. Thank you, I said. Then I was instantly transported into the recovery room.
