I am alive and I have plastic skin. It's true and it's awesome. They spray it on using an aerosol can and you generally need a wound of some sort to warrant this synthetic epidermis. I have two such petite wounds incurred in the name of investigative (all good) surgery and once the doctor mentioned plastic skin as a dressing option I made sure the nurses didn't give me the gauzy plaster ensemble.
The last time I was in hospital for some kind of procedure involving a general anaesthetic was as a teenager when I had my wisdom teeth removed. Staring down the barrel of elective unconsciousness a few (ahem) years down the line, was pretty nerve wracking for a control freak like myself. It was with a sense of fatalistic doom that I checked into Kingsbury, Pat very respectful of my resigned state, by my side, and climbed into the lift with the porter. Normally I would have insisted on the stairs, but why bother entertaining your lesser phobias when you're about to have your lights knocked out and your insides oggled.
After nearly losing it when the sister asked me whether it was alright for them to incinerate any bits that might be removed during the operation or whether I would prefer to take these home and making clear that my religious position on blood transfusions was “Give me the frikkin blood, I believe in Science”, I managed to keep it together enough for the theatre nurse to comment on how calm I seemed without a premed. If I am going to face a life threatening situation, I need to be alert dammit! To hell with common sense.
Arriving in theatre I tried to be as dewy, delightful and charming as is possible in a lurid green theatre gown, so that my anaesthetist and surgeon would be emotionally manipulated into doing their best to keep me alive during this minor procedure. My charm offensive worked and I woke up groggy and disorientated with Noxolu, the angelic recovery nurse, urging me to cough. Nothing beats the cough of the recently unconscious to let you know you're alive.
A few minutes later I was drooling at Pat, feeling like hell, but supremely chuffed to have made it. Someone appeared and asked whether I wanted supper and after toying with the indignant reply of, “Lady, seriously, I have just come round from major surgery, do you think I want to worry about food right now?” I said, “Yes, I'm starving!” A mince pancake, some sloppy ice-cream and a pint of saline later and I was feeling remarkably human.
Later that night, after refusing a sleeping pill (must be alert!) I found myself wandering to the loo at midnight with my trusty squeaky-wheeled drip. As I emerged from the dim ward into the fluorescent corridor, I noticed that coiled on top of my hand and running up to the drip switch which was hanging below a desiccated bag of saline, was a plastic tube filled with my blood. Phew. I'm not a big one for bodily fluid flowing external to my body and had to steady myself against the basin before hightailing it to the nurses station and presenting the night sister with my vampire drip. “Don't worry, lovey (term of endearment a result of the broad based charm offensive), it's just your blood, it will flow right back,” she assured me as she plugged another bag of saline into the suction plug. Somewhat soothed and with the cooling saline pumping into my hand, I went back to bed. Without the sleeping pill, sleep was fitful and I woke up regularly and pinched my skin, like the guy who cut off his arm in 127 hours, to check my dehydration levels.
My vigilance paid off and I made it through the night to be rewarded with a thumbs up from the doc and some plastic skin. Now, that I'm home, I just need to mentally wrestle with the prescribed sleeping pills which come with the helpful warning, “Might cause drowsiness.”
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