On Saturday 26 July I was admitted to Mehr Hospital for an obstetric operation. I had a private room with its own bathroom. If it wasn’t for the hospital gown and the oxygen outlet over the bed, one would almost mistake it for a hotel. Private rooms are paid for at double the rate of a two-bed ones, primarily because patients want a relative to stay with them overnight and not, as in the case of freaky foreigners, in order to be alone.
On the Saturday nothing much was happening, so I welcomed the opportunity to finish off some reading and some writing I had started. Except for the two hours of visiting (3-5 pm) when Hossein and the children came to see me that afternoon, I spent a day of perfect solitude, except for the nurses, the catering lady and the cleaner who came and went in the course of their duties, repeatedly asking, “Haven’t you got a companion tonight?”
Sunday morning I was scheduled for the operation between 8 and 8.30 am. I had hoped that Hossein and his sister, who had kindly offered to stay the night with me, would be there before that. As it happened, the doctor came in at 7.30 to say hello and shortly afterwards I was wheeled into the operating theatre. I had to take off my glasses in the room, before getting on the wheeled stretcher (incidentally, why can’t patients walk to the operating theatre?), so from that point onwards the whole thing is, literally, a blur. I looked at the ceiling of the lift, at people’s heads looking down at me and felt like a scene from Casualty. The first porter handed me on to another, as far as I could see, younger one. “Are you in for a Caesarean, lady?” he asked me. Well, I don’t blame him.
“No, thank you,” I answered.
“But you are scheduled for no. 6, which is a Caesarean room,”
“Well, please make sure…it’s not a Caesarean,” I stuttered.
“The doctor knows anyway,” he answered.
The young man left and a nurse took over. She chatted warmly, trying to help me relax while she tried to find a vein for the drip.
“Not very easy,” she said. “Your arms are chubby. But then, Iranian women are chubby, just like me,” she joked.
“Firstly, I am not Iranian, and secondly, you are not chubby,” I retorted.
“Oh, aren’t you? So how come you speak Persian so well?”
The doctor came in at that moment, dressed in green.
“My husband is Iranian,” I answered.
“So,” the doctor asked, “are Iranian men good?”
“Well, mine is; I don’t know about the others.”
“Excellent,” the doctor said, “that’s a fine answer. There are good and bad people everywhere.”
The clock showed 8 am when the needle for the drip went in.
The next time I remember looking at the clock it was 5 pm: I was back in my room with an oxygen mask on my face. I was feeling sick and very thirsty, but at least I had survived the anaesthetic. I had been worried about that.
That night passed without major problems, except that I couldn’t sleep comfortably because of the drip. I came home on Monday afternoon and I was advised to rest in bed as much as possible for the following two weeks. Today is the eleventh day after the operation. I am feeling much better but I get tired easily and if I stand or sit for too long I feel the internal stitches pulling, just like now. I’ll sign off now and take it easy until Monday 18 August, when we are flying to Constantinople, where we will stay for five days on the way to Athens. Fingers crossed, I’ll be all right by then.