15.3.17

Insomnia and her Friends

A bedtime story.
There once was a girl who couldn’t sleep. At night, she would white-water raft on her tumultuous thoughts and the blood pulsing through the veins in her head. One night, she was thinking - and, my, did she do a lot of thinking, this girl – and while she was ploughing through the files of her past, she tripped over an event in the salt plains of her history. Crack. She realised this must have been the time she had first encountered Insomnia, ushered in by her close associates Unsafety and Shame. They were to become life-long companions. Unsafety was very good at stoking up the adrenaline pots, while Shame sang mantras about how all the misery in the girl’s life had been invited by none other than herself. In the daytime, she would wear Shame like an invisible cloak of lead, and at night it became her blanket of tombstones. Over time, Shame turned into an old crone called Nagging Doubt, who would always show up at the most inconvenient times, like a cold sore at a party. One day, the girl met a Master, who did a Good-Will-Hunting-it’s-not-your-fault scene with her and things seemed to get better after that. The blanket was folded up neatly and put in the cupboard. But Unsafety and Shame had become almost inseparable, so whenever something bad happened, Nagging Doubt would again descend on the girl like the wings of a massive raven, whispering in her ear that she was an idiot, signifying nothing. “What a miserable story!” you might exclaim, “is there no happy end?” Well, of course there is, dear reader, because the girl summoned a glittering rainbow unicorn and rode off into the blood-red sunset. 

21.1.17

A slice of life and my cheek.

Or: how I got a basal cell carcinoma removed.

Cormac, though feeling sick, walks me to the hospital, the sweetheart, where we wait in the over-lit hall for my name to be called out. Finally the moment is there and the dermatologist, a young, blond Frisian woman shakes my hand.

Amsterdam is just emerging from a power outage and she can't get into the system yet, but decides to go ahead with the operation anyway. Another doctor and a nurse come in. They both shake my hand too, as if we are entering into some silent contract here. I lie down on the operating table and see they have put a large picture of the night sky on the ceiling, full of pretty stars. A bit of heaven ... Then they switch on a bright light and I have to close my eyes.

Getting an operation when fully awake is an absurd experience. First, I get overwhelmed by alcohol - and not in a good way: they are dabbing my face and the vapours are making me cough. This is followed by at least of dozen small but sharp, burning injections. She asks me if I can still feel something while pricking my face. My skin feels like thick leather.

Meanwhile the doctors are chatting about a tennis tournament one of them did and a 'sweet 16'  that the other attended. Just as I am wondering whether they have started yet, I feel blood trickling down my ear, so I guess yes. I can hear the doctors, now silent, breathing above me. "Yes, we've got it," the dermatologist announces after a time. She explains how they will now cauterise some blood vessels, which makes me think they are really barbecuing the inside of my cheek (and it smells like it).

Finally, the long and slow process of stitching me up begins. Endless sub-dermal stitches and quite a few on the outside too. Then a series of small plasters, followed by a bandage. They clean my face, neck, ear - I can only imagine the blood bath that must have taken place. And that's it. We all shake hands again and I meet Cormac in the hall.

Outside it is -4 C, the coldest day of winter so far. Home is literally a walk through the park. The city is strangely quiet; shops are still closed or half-closed, trying to get their systems back online; no rattling trams disturb the peace. At home, nothing is working either, so I decide to go back to bed.

Now the anesthetic is wearing off and my face is getting sore, but I have painkillers for that. Perhaps I will venture some lunch, in very small bites. And then I will start working on the story of how I got that scar in a fencing duel.