Before Surgery

This was a period during which I was in deep clinical depression, and although death held no fears for me, I arranged all my affairs prior to going into hospital. I felt sure that I would not survive the operation (by the way…. I did!). On the way to the hospital I told my wife that I had this feeling. She replied that she had the same feeling. Naturally, that boosted my confidence no end.... well, maybe not...

I arrived at the hospital the day before my operation, and settled myself in. The day dragged on, and evening gave way to a sleepless night.

As morning arrived, the day-time activities of a busy neurosurgical ward commenced. There were two of us due to have an operation in the neurosurgical theatre, and I had hoped that I would be first, to take advantage of the night-time cleaning and the smaller risk of infection (which was tiny in any case). The surgeon came to see me and said that I would be second. Disappointed, but still certain that the operation was the only way to proceed, we discussed the (still unsigned) consent form. I said that I wanted the operation to be performed by him, and he assured me that there was almost no chance of him being called away. This assurance was sufficient for me, so I signed the form and racked my brains to think of any last questions. I had been fairly thorough in my decision-making, so there were none.

He then said, "Now, we've discussed the many risks of this operation, and I think that they are all very small, except one." My heart-rate increased.

The big risk was that the operation would take away my sexual function. He said he felt there was an evens chance. I thought about the various reasons for and against surgery, which I had considered so many times in the preceding months, and felt that this was not sufficient to counteract the possible benefits of the surgery.

He left to operate on the patient prior to me, who was having an operation to remove a cyst, and I went back to my apprehension, which the pre-med. drugs seemed to do little to help.