The Sumo, all cut up!

The team of surgical nurses and doctors that stood overlooking the hospital-gown-clad Sumo had looks of certain dismay on their faces as they contemplated how they would move the 147kg Sumo from his hospital bed-on-wheels to the operating table reminiscent of a butcher’s chopping board.

As you can imagine, the Sumo, naked under the rather revealing hospital gown, was uneasy about the generally bemused looks on the medical staff’s faces and quite eager to get things moving along.

You see, the surgical team was struggling with the logistics of exactly how it was going to move this mammoth of a man from the bed on to that cold slab of equipment called the operating table. After what seemed like an eternity of uneasiness, one of the senior nurses instructed the Sumo just to “hop” on to the operating table.

The Sumo immediately obliged as he had always thought that this would be the only way to make it across the great 3cm abyss that separated the two pieces of impersonal hospital equipment. To avoid any further embarrassment, the Sumo moved across the two with the finesse of a Russian gymnast between two poles. However, the Sumo couldn’t help but display his great behind to all 17 people in the room who, from what I gathered from their sighs, were pleased with the display.

With the Sumo panting and puffing, face-up on the operating table, the team realised that it would need extensions to the table as parts of the Sumo were rather unceremoniously spilling over the sides and the nurses were struggling to keep all of the Sumo on the table. With him firmly secured on the table and having the gown removed, the team started sticking a variety of multicoloured devises on the Sumo, all the while explaining to him what each would monitor as if there would be a quiz after the Sumo came out from under the effects of the general anaesthetic.

Let me apologise, my dear reader; it would seem that I have left you in the dirt in my overzealous haste, which is just one of my many shortcomings, to tell my gruesome tale.

Here is some background on how the Sumo came to find himself in such a grave situation in a room that must be set at -40 degrees Celsius. And I wonder about that temperature: Is it really necessary for the room to be that cold? I mean, you are naked under that nice little number they call a hospital gown, and cold results in shrinkage, which is rather unflattering to certain parts of your external anatomy — and I wouldn’t want the nurses to get the wrong idea of the Sumo, if you know what I mean; some of them were hot.

You should fear not, my dear reader, the Sumo was not undergoing a surgical procedure to remove part of a beer glass from his throat which had been unfortunately lodged there after an ill-advised proof of a bet went wrong while the Sumo was trying to prove that he can, actually, chew and swallow part of a beer glass without any harm befalling him as he had once seen on the Discovery Channel. No, the Sumo is much too much of a responsible member of society to engage in such silly activities. Even if he had had a few dozen beers before thinking about such a stunt, reason would prevail and he wouldn’t proceed.

No, the Sumo was in hospital for a tonsillectomy or, as I like to call it, Two Weeks of Absolute Hell. But of course the Sumo knew what he was getting into because all the doctor ever wanted him to know about the procedure was how painful it would be before, during and after. They consultation with the surgeon sort of went something like this:

Sumo: So what does this op entail?

Surgeon: Pain … and the surgical removal of your tonsils

Su: How long will it take?

Sur: It’ll be a painful 30 minutes or so.

Su: When will I be able to go home?

Sur: Right after the blinding pain has subsided slightly

Su: Blinding pain?

Sur: Yup, you will be in so much pain you won’t know your name for two days. You won’t be able to talk for two weeks and you’ll go blind from the pain for four days after the op.

Su: You’re joking!

Sur: Sir, I’m a surgeon, I don’t joke. Do you still want to go ahead with the pain … sorry, I mean, the procedure?

Su: Ja, sure, I mean it can’t be as bad as you say.

Sur: Oh, yes, it can, but it’s often worse.

Su: Ok, I’m pulling out of the op.

Sur: You’ll get two weeks off work to recover from the worst pain of you life …

Su: Two weeks?! OK, I’ll do it!

Sur: Good. You’ll need to sign your life away to us now. Here’s the 673-page contract between you, me and the hospital. Sign every eighth page and initial and date every odd-numbered page …

At least now, eight days into my recovery, I know he was honest with me about the pain. The two weeks off work wasn’t worth it, by the way. I haven’t eaten solid food for the duration of the recovery, my staple diet has been porridge and water and even that has been excruciating to get down. I’ve had constipation for six days and when I finally got relief from that, which was a rather explosive experience, I got a stomach bug so I went from not going at all to going every seven minutes. I attempted solids for the first time last night; mash was the choice of solid, with very painful consequences. It’s a good thing my bowl of porridge was ready for me on the side table.

This experience, however painful and uncomfortable it has been for me, has had some sort of a positive effect on my mental outlook and my soul. It has reminded me of the little things that we always take for granted and which I hope to appreciate more on a daily basis from now on. See, I can’t talk, not properly yet, and I have learnt to appreciate speech as a privilege and not a right.

I can’t swallow without experiencing blinding pain; I’ve been starving for two weeks, which has made me realise just how dire the food-shortage situation is in Africa. You don’t really have an idea of how it feels not to be able to eat when you stomach says you need to until you are in this situation. You best believe I will appreciate that first bite of the double cheeseburger I’ll have after I’ve recovered. And it was hard sitting at the table slurping my porridge while everyone had a braai at home on Friday or while they had Sunday lunch, which was amazing and which I haven’t attended in about four years as I’m always busy with something or other on the weekend and never have the time to go home.

I can’t sing, which I always took for granted but now that I cannot do it for a while I’m beating myself up about whether I should have paid to make a demo and have it sent out to record companies. I mean, who knows what could’ve happened?

It is all the little things that we experience every day and take no note of that we miss the most when they are taken away from us. After I have recovered, I will make sure that I savour that malt beverage just a few seconds more in my mouth before I swallow it.

The experience has undoubtedly changed the Sumo; maybe it will be evident from this piece or maybe not, or maybe I’m still high from the morning’s batch of painkillers. From now on, I vow never again to live by “what ifs” or “who knows”; from now on I’m gonna do, and bravely so, and be a driver in life, no longer a passenger.

I rest

The Sumo