Coming from a family of doctors, I have witnessed enough operations in my life. However, I certainly learned that it was a whole different experience when you go under the knife yourself.
It all started almost a month back when I went to Ahmedabad to get some tests done. I was sure I would either have diabetes or thyroid since I was putting on a lot of weight, was having crazy hunger pangs, other hormonal imbalance and so on and so forth. It all seemed to go fine till I got a sonography done and the doc said that there was a cyst in my stomach. This led the ‘Kapoors’ to get into a huddle to decide the next course of action and it was unanimously decided that I would get an operation done to remove the cyst.
Nobody prepares you for an operation. You have do it yourself, and I do a fine job of mixing fear with doubt which results in a ‘khichdi’ of nightmares with each passing day. A month seems like 6 and the days seem to be getting longer and longer. To make things worse, I start with my ‘What if I don’t survive the operation jokes’ on my boyfriend, which in turn becomes an actual doubt in my head and then I am mad at myself! Speaking to too many people including family doesn’t help much either because everybody has their own theory. My mother was the icing on the cake of dreadful thoughts here. Her recipe for preparing her daughter for the operation is simple – a few sprinkles of ‘It will all be fine’ and tablespoonfuls of ‘Bohot pain hogi’ & ‘Will you be able to take it’. It really doesn’t help!Finally after what seemed like eons, the D-day finally arrived – 26th May, a day I had chosen for all numerological reasons (The number 4 and 8 work for me). I changed into my hospital robes and about 5-6 injections later, I was in the operation theatre. My aunt and uncle who were part of the team of doctors (it looked like an army trust me) assured that everything would be fine. Everything was soon a blur as the anesthesia started to kick in. The team of doctors turned into a bunch of silhouettes and I was out. When I woke up (to my relief), I could hear my parents and brother. Everything was still a blur and apart from the ache in my stomach, being unable to move and not allowed to drink water for hours, everything seemed fine.The first 72 hours were quite painful. But Christmas came early for me when after countless number of pills, syrups and prayers, the ‘Piku’ moment relieved me of my agony. As light as I was, it didn’t occur to me that others would be as enthusiastic as me. My friend for one expressed her delight at being given an update on my bowel movements right when she was eating with as much sarcasm as she can muster, and my Dad had a similar look of bemusement on his face.
But the days had its plus sides too. Nobody bothered me about taking baths. The operation and me shared one thing – our mutual discomfort of having to go through the ordeal of bathing. But soon, I got tired of that too and since irony always has a way of getting back at me, the day finally came when I could take a proper bath and I was relieved. Being bed-ridden didn’t mean I was without any activity. Thanks to technology and people around to assist, I was still able to occupy myself with ‘Boomerangs’, ‘Selfies’ and ‘Self-videos’. No, nothing interferes with social media time!And finally the day came when the stitches were to be cut and I couldn’t be happier. The ‘damned wires’ were cut from my body which prompted my Uncle to say that in his 35 years of medical experience it was the first time someone had referred stitches to ‘wires’. I was glad it was all finally over. Yes, the stitches did leave their mark, but I know it will serve as a long-term memory of my ‘Tryst with my Cyst’!