Grumpy Vegan

By the time you read this it’s quite possible I’m still alive. This is because I’m about to go under the knife. It’s not a particularly serious operation. Well, it’s the removal of a broken molar. But, nonetheless, going to hospitals – let alone having surgery – stirs up all manner of emotions.

The dentist tried to remove the broken tooth. He gave up because he wasn’t willing to climb over my knees to get into my mouth. You see, each time he approached me from behind (I have eyes in the back of my head on such occasions) my legs automatically rose in self-defence. I curled up like a baby on the dentist’s chair. In all other respects, I, of course, behaved like a man.

Anyway, I’m off to the local hospital courtesy of the National Health Service to have said tooth removed. At the appointment to set up the, er, appointment for the surgery, the surgeon spoke about how he would have the tooth out in a no time. It would be easy, apparently.

“How are you going to do it?” I asked.

“Injection.”

“No.”

We looked at each other.

“Anaesthesia.”

“Yes.”

The deal was struck.

I’ve had to go under the knife before. Nothing serious, thankfully; but nonetheless, still stressful. I’ve had several surgeries for trigger finger when I’m conscious. It’s disconcerting, to put it mildly, to have a stranger slice away at your digits while they engage you in conversation. I don’t like making small talk with people that much let alone in an operating theatre. There’s always the inevitable question.

“Are you married?” (No, not that one.)

“Any children?” (No, not that one either.)

“What do you do?” (Yes, that one.)

When the surgeon asked me that question as I was strapped down (crucified more like) on the operating table, I thought, “Please God. Don’t ask me what I think about animal research.”

“I write about animals,” I meekly replied.

“Oh,” he said.

I waited.

He cut.

“Hurry the #$*! Up and get me out of here,” I thought.

“You’d love my wife!” he said. “We have a house full of rescued dogs.”

I smiled. Well, I tried.

“That’s nice.” I said.

On another occasion under the knife with the same surgeon I embarrassed myself. You see, I tried to act like a man and what came out was Tom Regan. Not literally, you understand. Well, you’ll see.

This time it was surgery for carpal tunnel, which was one step up from trigger finger. This time I was knocked out. No chatting with the surgeon. Thank God. Promises made by the nurse of feeling light headed, even drunk, turned out to be much like what life is like: a let down.

Anyway, I remember the anaesthetist and the nurse chatting with me as the drip dripped away sending me on my way to Marrakech. (Margate, more like, as it turned out.)

“It’s the bodily integrity issue that gets me about all of this,” I said rolling my eyes around the operating theatre.

Thankfully, they put me out.

Any other embarrassments (e.g., farting) were thankfully not reported to me.