UNDER
THE KNIFE
from The
London Chronicle
Strong
men in short-sleeved overalls roll me away. I try to recollect forwards
rather
than backwards, the green pall of operation gowns enveloping me and a
knife
shining in the hand of a masked assassin. A remake of The
Mark of Zorro (1920).
But events are catching up. I’m stripped, my arms put in a
white shift, and
wheeled around and around in swashbuckling circles, until the trolley
stops
under a fluorescent ceiling. ‘I’ll have
that’, a voice says. I see forceps but
not the swab, a nurse’s sky blue eyes, and a needle hanging
from my arm. The
fragile patina is being cracked and scraped away. I feel the first
incision, a
soft relief, and go under.
With
surgery the matter is out of your hands, you sign your consent, but not
an
assent. Compliance is consolidated by the injection of hypnotics. You
don’t
know what you’re doing or what’s being done to you.
The disengagement of the
will has its compensations. You can’t accuse yourself of
cowardice, or being
seduced into the event, anymore than at your conception or birth.
I hadn’t
anticipated that I wouldn’t consciously participate in the
operation. When
sensual feeling, and the memory that goes with it, is withdrawn, you
might as
well be dead. I woke and the shock of lost time hit me with such force
that I
wanted to scream, ‘Give me back my life’. I had
experienced the ‘sleep and
forgetting’ that Wordsworth attributes to birth in his
‘Ode: Intimations of
Immortality’, real life as a pre-existence. And as sure as
day follows night,
we sleep and forget our dreams, but not our conditioned reflexes.
As my
eyes accommodated to the light, the blur hovering around me clarified
into
gowned creatures. ‘I’m back’, I blurted
as a smiling face came into focus. ‘You
were never away’, the nurse said. Far from being reassured,
this confirmed my
feeling that the gap between what was and what had been had narrowed to
such a
point that I scarcely existed anymore, and the present was a memory. I
was
struggling to wake up from the void I had been plunged into, but since
it had
left no traces of memory it couldn’t even be forgotten and
reinvented. That is,
put in the past.
On my
second waking the nurses with their needles were replaced by the
ungloved hands
of auxiliaries. The straps were unbuckled, but I didn’t feel
free. The past was
catching up with me. I slid out
of bed but, listless, limp, my feet went from under me. I was given
sedatives.
But I still wanted to escape. I dissolved the pills in my mouth and I
spat them
out with the water. The deception revived my sense of self.
What
self? Was my body returning to me, or was it the other way round?
Either way,
my body and mind were in a Descartian divide. I gave into it, and the
body
began to stir, leading me in a dance back into the past controlled by
conditioned reflexes. And gradually I returned to life, going through
the
motions, eating and performing my ablutions, thanking the auxiliaries
who
didn’t reply. But all my actions seemed like imitations,
shadows of a former
existence. That made me wonder if I was indeed present, or only as was,
and
time past was real time.
I sat up
and saw that I was now in an open ward. A vast space punctuated by beds
enclosed by screens. I could only see one patient. A black boy who had
his
family all around him. I had told nobody about my operation. I
didn’t think I
would be able to face visitors, after the humiliation of being reduced
to a
vegetable. Now I had time for second thoughts. Had I been putting my
friends to
a test, hoping that when I disappeared from circulation they would come
rushing
to my bedside? If so, I was being punished. Despite being fed soup and
yoghurt
at regular intervals, I was ravenously hungry.
I saw
the boy dig into chocolates and if I hadn’t been so weak I
would have got up
and gatecrashed his party on the off-chance of being offered a choice
from the
box. My jealous greed moderated when I notice he was on a drip. But if
he could
gobble down cream caramels there couldn’t be anything
seriously wrong with him.
Resentment welled up into rage, and if I could have committed a crime
to spoil
his feast I wouldn’t have hesitated. But I wasn’t
near enough to throw a heavy
object like the chamber pot. A spoon left behind after my last soup
would have
merely caused confusion. I’d have had to apologise, saying
the missile had
slipped from my hand. I would never have forgiven myself.
At the
next soup I asked for a mirror. Looking into it, I was surprised my
face was
just the same as it always was. I licked my lips and pouted at myself,
sticking
out my tongue, and replicated the smiles and grimaces that I had
habitually
used to confront the world. The face in my reflection, I thought, was
the one
that was familiar to others, who were living in my past. No mirror
could catch
my face of the moment, a minor monster contemplating an attack on a
sick black
boy. An auxiliary, noticing me smiling, remarked, ‘You must
be getting better’.
It was the kindest thing I had heard since I woke up, and it brought
tears to
my eyes. ‘Maybe not’, she said.
When a nurse appeared and took my hand to read the pulse, I had come to my senses. Politenesses were exchanged, which were mutually gratifying. Although I was a living automaton of the self I once was, nobody looked at me strangely. I may have been absent on leave, but my stand-in was performing credibly. I swallowed the pills the nurse gave me and dozed off like a good boy, dreaming of the operation.