Carol’s Column

A hysterectomy means never having to say no

I KNEW I was going to die so I wrote my will, leaving my worldly possessions to those left behind. A portrait of myself done by a blind artist — I left to my husband. A bottle of well-matured Roodeberg to my oldest son. I wanted him to grow up appreciating the finer things in life. My false teeth went to our gardener's second daughter. The list was endless.

“It's a minor op,” the doctor had said. “But of course, at your age everything is hazardous.” Which is why I tidied my cupboards and put all my papers in order.

As soon as I announced that I had to go to hospital — the horror stories started rolling in.

I heard about friends of friends who'd never come out of the anaesthetic. Blood and gore flowed from every mouth-hole. So-and-so had died “under the knife”, and then there was Jan who'd had a bit nicked from his member while being shaved. Freda had a hysterectomy instead of an appendectomy.

And there was Herbert's friend who'd had a castration instead of a circumcision. Which of course, couldn't apply to me.

Everyone wanted to know exactly what operation I was having. To most I explained I was having my knees stitched together.

At the crack of dawn, one gloomy Friday morning, I packed my toothbrush and a clean nightie, kissed the children, rabbits and dogs goodbye, and set off to the scalpel.

The receptionist was charming: “Ha, you won't feel quite so frisky when you leave,” she said as I filled in the form authorising them to remove every organ in my body if they so desired.

The other fascinating thing about Johannesburg nursing homes is that it's a body or a bill. You have to pay before you leave — or make suitable arrangements — otherwise they won't let you go.

I was escorted to a two-bedded ward, told to bid my husband farewell and given a white flannel tent to wear.

These nurses are very efficient when they get their minds down to it. Before I could say help, I was attacked by one bearing a basin and a razor.

A sweet young thing, dressed in white. I couldn't believe my eyes. Under that cap worn at such a rakish angle, she sported a huge moustache.

“Roll over, lovey,” she said and I realised she was a man.

“Look, there must be a mistake,” I shrieked. “I'm a woman.”

“Yes, that could be regarded by some as being a mistake,” she laughed. “But don't worry my dear, we'll soon remedy that.”

Oh my God, I thought to myself. That's all I need in my life. A male nurse with a sense of humour.

Since the age of 12 I've claimed to be a feminist. It is not always practical.

“Look, don't worry, I'll shave myself,” I said.

“It's no worry at all, it's a pleasure,” he replied. “Anyway a do-it-yourself job never works. All those nooks and crannies you know.”

The trip to the operating theatre was uneventful. En route I passed a gall bladder, a vaginal repair job, an appendectomy and a club foot. Business was booming.

They'd given me a knock-out dose of something that hadn't worked and I felt on top of the world when they wheeled me under the spotlight.

“Relax,” said the anaesthetist as he jabbed an evil-looking needle into my arm. “A hysterectomy means never having to say no.”

I woke up to find myself attached to several multi-coloured tubes. The colour depending on the function. Red for blood, white for glucose etc.

My male nurse popped in for a tube check. “Feeling lighter and brighter now that the innards are outer?” he'd ask me as he plunged the thermometer into my mouth.

I learned I'd be hooked-up for three days, or until I “flatulated.”

Now flatulation is one of those things that always seems to happen when it shouldn't. I mean, everyone was flatulating around me. But try as hard as I could — passing a wind was something that happened to other people.

On day three, the day of “flatulation,” a kidney obstruction arrived in the bed next to me.

Sure enough, a nurse arrived armed with a razor. She unpacked the kidney case, then oohed and aahed. “It's beautiful, just like a baby's bottom.”

It was only later, I discovered my kidney friend had taken herself to a beautician and demanded a total de-fuzz of her more private parts — with Egyptian Toffee. Ouch.

The days passed quickly, tubes, injections, pills, pints of blood. I had it all. Including all the visitors. My mother-in-law arrived with chopped herring and chicken soup, my colleagues with champagne and paper cups, and the kids sent cards saying “Kum home kwik Mumi”.

I was blessed by a Catholic priest, a Methodist minister and a rabbi — a little bit of God goes a long way. With so much goodwill, I couldn't possibly die.

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