I nearly died where I was born. Forty-three years later in Gleneagles Hospital, Singapore.
There for a major lung operation, I was under general anesthetic and reacted very badly to it. I had an asthma attack.
My heart rate plummeted to a level low enough to give the surgeon and anesthetist cause for alarm.
I was having the lower part of the lung removed as a precautionary measure, after scarring showed up on an X-ray. Somehow I had contracted double pneumonia the previous month.
The X-rays showed up very obvious scarring, what could be cancerous tissue. The only way to be 100% certain it was benign, was to open up, remove a piece, and test it.
A straightforward, yet major operation. When you're cut and opened up on the table, its the worse time to be coughing hard and straining your body.
And the extra difficulty in breathing to stay alive, isn't to be forgotten.
I remember reading patients' horror stories about the wrong side being operated on. So as I was wheeled into the OR that's all I kept saying. "MY right side. That's the side to operate on. MY right side. Not YOUR right side."
I remember how cold it was, and waking up hours later in my room. I was so cold I was shivering.
I was given an IV-fed opiate painkiller. All I had to do was press the button and pain relief was almost immediate.
I had a nine-inch long row of stitches, plus a small hole below, that had a tube fed into it. This was to help drain the bloody liquid that would flood my lung until the internal wounds healed naturally.
The tall transparent cylinder by my bed was full of bloody liquid, like a prop from a horror movie.
The overall pain felt like I had been mugged, beaten up, and knifed in my side. Well....I had been. And had paid one of the best for the privilege of going under his knife.
I stayed in the hospital for three nights before I was released. The four days I was there, really tested me. A grown, fit man, reduced to a bedridden state, pressing a button for the nurse to help him use the bedpan to have a crap, or a bottle to piss in.
Worse still, the throbbing pain of the incision and the drainage hole on my right side.
I hate hospitals. You go there because of pain. Yours. Friends. Family. Physical and emotional pain. You leave them in pain. They even smell of pain. And death.
It took me three months post-op to be able to walk almost normally. My whole respiratory system was in a state of recovery.
Just walking to the bathroom was painful. And for the first week, I was producing enough saliva to fill up a pint glass every hour.
The muscle surrounding the incision collapsed, meaning flabbiness where once muscle had been. The nerves were cut so I couldn't feel the skin surrounding it either.
Three years later, I am probably 60% of my former fitness level. And my right arm usage isn't as adept as it used to be. My upper body strength is now pitiful. Press-ups are a joke.
I still go for annual checkups to see whether there are any abnormal growths. I felt mortal for the first time in my life post-op.
The positive was the time I had to read books. Time I wish I had again now. A time to think. Analyse. Over-think. Over-analyse.
Prioritize. Think deeply about what's really important. And do it. Or avoid doing what is no longer important. Cutting away the dead wood in my life.
Remembering who regularly checked up on my physical and mental health. Knowing who didn't give a damn.
And now with the real knowledge that mortality is not an option. Knowing and accepting that, has made me stronger and even more determined to get what I want in life.
Friends, family, a lifestyle, a career that suits me. Not the other way around.
Knowing mortality is living life to the full.
