Stranger than Fiction.
Lately I have read a number of ‘true’ stories and wondered how true they actually were. Did this type of thing really happen? Then I remembered I had one such story! Even my wildest imagination could not have dreamed up a story like mine. Some people call them coincidences, others call it divine intervention. Whatever you call it, sometimes things happen that leave you wondering. And I thank God that I’m still here to tell my story…
‘You are a breath from becoming quadriplegic,’ the neurosurgeon said.
I stared at him in disbelief as he took a hospital admissions form from his desk drawer and started filling it in. He continued. ‘If I wasn’t going away for the weekend, I would have you in hospital tomorrow. I will operate on Wednesday morning. You will have to make an appointment to see the anaesthetist. My secretary will give you the contact details.’ He finished the form and held it out, holding onto it as my fingers closed on the paper. ‘And if you are involved in a car accident and are hit from behind, you will be quadriplegic. So be very careful between now and next Wednesday.’
I was still in shock when his secretary handed me a white business card with Dr Hannon’s details (name changed for privacy).
Two days later, and half a city away, Dr Hannon called me into his room, gave me a brief glance from head to toe and promptly took a seat at the desk as he turned his computer screen so that I couldn’t see it.
I didn’t know what to do and just stood there, thinking that this was very strange.
He glanced up at me. ‘Take a seat,’ he said. ‘I’m just sending a message to the hospital.’ After a moment, he turned to face me and said; ‘Let’s start with previous operations.’
That is an odd place to start, I thought. ‘Well, in 2003 I had two foot operations, followed by another the next year-’
He interrupted me. ‘Have you ever had gynaecological surgery?’
‘Y…es,’ I said, a bit mystified. ‘Eighteen months ago. Actually I wonder if that’s why I’m here.’
He put his pen down, stared at a point on the floor and said; ‘Tell me.’
‘Well, I went in for a very simple procedure, and when I woke up I had this hard brick like thing in my arm and I couldn’t turn my head. Before the operation, I told the anaesthetist that he might not be able to find a good vein in my left hand or arm, but I had a really good one in my right hand which had been used 6 times in the last 5 years. But he was determined to prove me wrong. He kept trying from my hand all the way up my left arm until he found a vein. I watched him empty the entire needle of white liquid into the vein. Then he used the mask to put me to sleep. He came to see me later and apologised, saying that he’d missed the vein and injected the entire anaesthetic into the muscle of my arm. When I asked why I couldn’t turn my head, he said that my breathing passages had shut down before they could get the tube down my throat, so they had to hold my head back at such an angle that my airways would open on their own.’
‘What hospital was this?’
‘Armadale.’
‘Who was the anaesthetist?’ he asked.
‘I don’t remember his name. But he was -’
Dr Hannon mentioned a particular nationality.
‘Yes,’ I said, wondering how he could possibly know that!
He said; ‘Dr S…’
‘Yes!’ Now I was starting to wonder if I should get up and leave. This was bordering on creepy.
He was looking at me. ‘You’ve had plastic surgery since then.’
Now I actually felt afraid. That was not written anywhere! There was no way that he possibly could have known that! ‘Yes,’ I said hesitantly. ‘But that had nothing to do with this…’
He wasn’t interested in the plastic surgery and started his rapid fire questions again. ‘Was the operation in the afternoon?’
‘Yes, first on the list after lunch because of the latex allergy.’
‘Was the gynaecologist Dr Y…’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know if anyone else had been called in to help?’ he asked.
‘No-one has ever spoken with me about what happened, but I know someone else had been there, because when I was coming around I could hear the nurses talking about someone being there.’
‘Do you know who that was?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘It was me,’ he said. ‘I saved you.’
We sat there looking at each other for a moment, neither knowing what to say.
Eventually he said, ‘We have to listen to our patients. I don’t work there any more.’
I immediately thought, Who’s going to save the people now?
So… If I wrote romance novels, and had a dashing young doctor and a young woman he had previously saved, who would think it was possible? I for one, would have thought it was just a little far-fetched :) But truth really can be stranger than fiction. And no, I didn’t fall for the dashing young doctor, but he is one of my heros.
DJ
