A day at day-surgery
I am sixteen. Two black spots appeared under my left eye a few months ago. I also develop warts on my upper wrist and knee, both on the right. My father, who notices these things quickly, takes me to the hospital. Using a laser, the black spots and warts are removed under local anaesthetic. Everything is done in minutes.
But, in an age when hormones fight back, dreaded warts reappear. My father does not relent. Another visit to the hospital, to the outpatient department in Colombo, is the next step.
I come to my senses when the nurse calls my name.
She leads me to the examination room. I follow her, leaving my father sitting in the reception area. The doctors examine me, my face, hands and knee. They look at a file. They talk among themselves in medical jargon. The nurse makes notes on a notepad.
“Listen, we will give you a novel treatment. We will treat your knee and thigh soon. It will pain a little. You will go home in no time”. Reassuring words, but I was scared.
“Lucky for you, we have the best surgeon with us today”, a doctor quipped.
I re-join my father at the reception area. Twenty minutes later, the nurse reappears. This time, she takes me to a dressing room. I am asked to remove my shorts and undies. I am perplexed but obey. I am embarrassed in front of the nurse. She gives me a white gown to wear. She holds my hand and takes me to the day surgery theatre. Huge light hangs on the ceiling. Knives, scissors, and sharp instruments lie beside a steel bed, polished to a shine. I feel afraid.
The nurse inserts a needle into my right knee and upper left thigh.
“Does it hurt?”
“No”, I reply, but it hurts, but I pretend to be strong and brave. I am a big boy now and should bear the pain.
The surgeons gather around me. I look at them under that bright light. They are covered in their masks, hand gloves and robes. I do not feel anything on my left leg now. Ten long minutes elapse. They bring the tools and remove the wart just above my left knee. They take their time removing it, talking among themselves. The nurse cleans the fresh cut, covering it with a vast plaster. Luckily, I do not feel any pain, but I feel the thrust of the sharp instruments.
“Do not look down?” I cannot but look.
I keep looking up at the giant light. I am embarrassed by my nakedness.
The chief surgeon, the expert, marks my upper thigh with a black felt pen a few inches from my groin. He brings a sharp instrument and makes an incision. Blood oozes from my thigh. The nurse, helped by an assistant, cleans my thigh, wiping it with a white cloth. They rub something that smells like Dettol.
I feel afraid of what is yet to come. I feel helpless. I wish my father is here.
A female doctor hands over the wart just removed from my knee, holding it with a clamp and hands it over to the surgeon. I cannot but look at this spectacle. However, I am scared.
Another surgeon holds a retractor on my thigh through the recent incision. Again, I want to yell and want this to stop. But there is no choice but to go through and surrender my destiny to these doctors.
The chief surgeon inserts the wart inside the space through the incision using the clamp. I watch this spectacle despite my fear and despair.
He says, “It’s all over now, son. You were brave. You were not scared to look.” Only I know how scared I was.
“It will be over soon”. I feel relieved.
Two assistants bring their suturing instruments, scissors, and needles. Within minutes they close the surgery wound with white stitches and finally cover it with white plaster. My eyes are on their action.
The surgeons disperse, perhaps taking a break before the next surgery.
I smell the disinfectant.
A few minutes later, the nurse asks me to stand up. I get up in pain and walk to the changing room. I put on my vest, blue shirt, DIS undie, white pants, and suede shoes. I limp out slowly and steadily with the nurse to meet my father, waiting at the reception. The feeling is returning to my legs as the local anesthetic wears off.
My father escorts me out of the hospital ward. We go to a milk bar opposite the eye hospital. He buys me chocolate milk. With the sweet taste of milk, I forget my pain. It subsides gradually as I stroll with him towards the bus stand near the Town Hall. We return home on a Route 138 bus.
My limp only lasts two days; the sutures disappear in three to four days. The dreadful black spots and warts vanish in a few weeks. The pain, fear and shame in the operating theatre are worth the sacrifice.
They are gone forever! Now I am a clean boy with no scars. It is a miracle treatment.
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