The saga continues …

During the afternoon, an anesthesiologist came by for a chat. He told me that I would not be under full sedation, just in a ‘twilight sleep’. I said that I really didn’t want to watch; he laughed and said they would put up a little screen, and give me an oxygen mask, so my view would be obscured. “You’ll still be able to talk, though, if you have any questions. You’ll be quite lucid.” I wasn’t sure about this but wasn’t really in a position to argue.

The surgeon came, to explain the process and to make sure I was aware of all the things that might go wrong – a nicked artery, punctured lung, that sort of thing. All things he would try to avoid, he promised me. “Sign here.”

After I signed, he said, “where’s that accent from? It doesn’t sound like PEI.”

“Yorkshire,” I replied. “Northern England. Yours?”

“Nigeria,” he laughed. “Which city in Yorkshire?”

“Leeds.”

As he left, he paused at the door and looked back.

“Shame about your football team.”

---

Around five-thirty they wheeled me down to the operating theatre and ‘my’ nurse gave the OR nurse a report, my vital statistics, what drugs they’d given me, that sort of thing. The OP nurse typed everything into the computer and ran a print-out, checking the details against my wrist band. She turned to me.

“In your own words, please. What’s your full name?”

John Timothy Goddard.

“Date of birth?”

I told her.

“Why are you here?”

I was so surprised that I didn’t say anything. I mean, surely they knew? Eventually I muttered “to get a pacemaker” and she nodded.

“Right person, right procedure. Good to go.”

I suppose it is good that they check.

She looked at me again.

“Didn’t you use to be the Dean of Education at UPEI?”

“Yes.”

“You were my Dean, when I did my B.Ed.”

“Really? How did you end up here?”

“Oh, different choices along the way.”

I was just starting to share my philosophy that a Bachelor of Education degree provides a broad-range educational skill set, both philosophical and practical, that can be applied to a multitude of professions outside the K-12 classroom, when ‘my’ nurse rolled her eyes and wheeled me away.

We live in a small community.

---

In the OR they lifted me onto what looked like a paddle board, bright blue and very narrow. The surgeon grinned through his mask.

“In your own words, what’s your name?”

I told him.

“Date of birth?

“Why are you here?”

The anesthesiologist started to put an oxygen mask on my face. I half-turned to the surgeon.

“Please tell me you’re not an Arsenal supporter.”

He laughed.

“No, Newcastle. Since the days of Sir Bobby Robson and Alan Shearer.”

I relaxed. It’s good to have things in black and white.

I think I’ll call my pacemaker ‘Geordie.’

Ha’way the lads.

---

I have no recollection of things after that. Another doctor who was in the OR insists I was awake and talking to them, but I don’t remember a word. I’m not quite sure how they define ‘lucid’ but perhaps it falls into the “let’s have fun with this fellow, mwah-ha-ha-ha” category. Surgeon humour? Perhaps they’re all aspiring novelists? Stevenson and Dickens, du Maurier and Wilde, they must all have got their ideas somewhere.

I was back on the Progressive Care Unit by seven, bloodied and bandaged and covered with sticky circles to which were attached a variety of wires. These, in turn, were attached to a portable black-box transmitter thing about the size of a heavy paperback. Signals were sent from there to the visual monitors behind me, which beeped and whistled and flashed.

I had a quiet evening. If I shifted position, one wire had a tendency to unclip itself, which led to loud beeping noises and brought the night nurse running, but generally things were quiet. They brought me a sandwich and a cup of tea, my first food or drink for 26 hours. I’m not recommending this as a diet plan.

The next morning, Saturday, a different doctor came and checked my monitors, read my chart, and asked me if I lived alone. When I told him I was married he nodded and left. A little later a new nurse came in to tell me they were sending me home. At 2.00 pm on Saturday afternoon, forty-three hours since the paramedics had rushed me out on their stretcher, I walked back into our apartment.

---

Of course, something like this makes you stop and think about things. I’m still processing all that and will abstain from deep philosophical meanderings at the moment. I’ve booked an appointment to see my GP next week, and the Pacemaker Clinic phoned to arrange a follow-up assessment in six weeks. The medical folk all seem so matter-of-fact about things, whereas I’m still nervous as heck that it’s going to happen again, and find it hard to even leave the apartment.

I’ve been banned from work for the week, doctor’s orders, and I don’t think that watching England at the Euros will do me much good at all. So, as a character in one of my novels (Missing) said, “sometimes I sits and thinks, and sometimes I just sits.”

To all who have sent notes, good vibes, happy thoughts, prayers, and other wishes for a speedy recovery, thank you so much. I don’t really know who reads my blog, I’ve never been much into the analytics side of things, and it has been tremendously pleasing and gratifying to see all your names. Thank you for taking the time to write.

Yesterday was Canada Day and, although I did not go and watch the fireworks, I did go out to the garden. Victoria drove me down to see how things are looking, while Sally got her fresh air and fun by cutting the grass on the ride-on lawnmower. It’s only three weeks to the Garden Party, which is definitely going ahead on Sunday 28 July. I’ll write more about that over the next few days, and report on our recent trip to the Lower North Shore of Labrador. After all, it doesn’t look like Geordie and I are going to be able to do much else, for the next week at least!