A Staple where you normally have a Stitch: Ken Gibbs

by Ken Gibbs

Behaving my age has never been something I understand, according to my sternest critic; and so too when I found myself helping out in one small part of Kashmir following their devastating earthquake in 2005.  The mountains are just there to be climbed and, besides, the water is sparkling when it bubbles out of the many springs one finds in the mountains, and it tastes beautiful.

We were travelling to see conditions in an area which few people had visited after the earthquake, and found ourselves in a bazaar town beside a river.  We were thirsty and decided that tea would be a good idea.  It was ordered and came, sweet and laced with buffalo milk.  We complimented the restaurateur and asked where he got his water since this was our principal mission, to determine the extent of damage to water supply systems.

He replied, “Oh, our water system was badly damaged and we need a completely new one.”  This came as some surprise because we could see that he had a full tank of water and, further down the street, a tap was busy running to waste.  “Where is the source for your water supply ?” we asked.  “Just across the river,” we were told, “and we can take you to see it.”

Assuming that this meant that the source was ‘just across the river’, we set off to inspect.  We crossed the river by car, parked and started to climb towards the source.  We reasoned that since water tends to flow downhill, we would be expected to climb a little towards the spring and were reassured by our guides that it was close by.  The word they used in Kashmiri (and I assume Urdu as well) was “nazdiq” which is common to a number of languages in the area, and it means “near”.  Well, after about 30 minutes of brisk climbing, I ventured to ask again if the spring was “nazdiq” or not.  The response was salutary: “Uporé” which means “Up”.  Not how far, just “Up”.  My Pakistani colleague Bilal, who is less than one third of my age, was breathing very heavily and obviously in some distress.  Our guides however decided that due to my own advanced age, I needed attention and one of them came and massaged my calves vigorously to avoid my having cramp, completely ignoring poor Bilal who needed the attention far more than I did.

Naturally, when finally we reached the source, it was completely undamaged, the only effect the earthquake had had on the system was to have bent one section of pipe where the earth had moved, around half a metre.  However, having tried to impress everyone with how fit I was, I must have started a process which, a week or two later, resulted in a full-blown hernia.

Consulting the local medical profession in Cornwall was an eye opener.  The GP agreed that it required attention, but when I consulted the specialist surgeon, he indicated that I could live with it like that for the rest of my life.  The only trouble you might have is when you have a strangled hernia – a condition which sounds decidedly uncomfortable and which, if it happens when working abroad in some remote corner of the globe, could be most inconvenient.  I elected to go for surgery since I couldn’t afford to let any prospective employer down over something as simple as a hernia, but I’d be required to wait for at least 6 months.  However, if I were willing to pay something, I could queue-jump.  I asked what the ‘something’ would be, was told, and blanched.  However, commercial considerations required that I pay up and get on with it.  I paid up.

For those of delicate constitution, I will only say that it had been mentioned that the surgical procedure only required a local anaesthetic and was said to be ‘very quick’.  I was invited to attend the hospital as a day patient at midday, one week hence.

I arrived, and was escorted to the appropriate unit to start the process.

I was provided a surgical gown which is required to be put on back-to-front compared to an ordinary dressing gown, making the tie (behind my neck) a bit difficult to reach.  I was also instructed to remove all hair in the area adjacent to where the hernia was, and was provided the equipment to accomplish this task.  As to whether asking me to do the job myself was a cost-cutting exercise or to save the blushes of the theatre nurse, I never did discover.  I shaved.

Sitting in the waiting room was a bit uncomfortable as the gown didn’t fully meet at the back, and the seats were cold plastic.  Happily, I was not required to wait too long before being taken into the operating area, laid down on the bed and “prepped” for the procedure which included being painted with an antiseptic which was a lurid yellow in colour, and having a number of local anaesthetic shots in the appropriate area.  A green sheet was provided between my upper end and my lower regions – a “modesty sheet”, perhaps ?  I was reassured that my preparations had been quite adequate and the surgeon set to work.

Everything went according to plan except that I felt him carving me up in one area, needing a further anaesthetic shot.  All the while, the surgeon and I kept up a conversation probably to ensure that I wasn’t going to faint at the thought of what was going on.  We talked about everything and nothing.

I was asked what I did in my time off – such as the present because he understood that this surgical procedure was so that I could accept work abroad.  I mentioned things such as avoiding working in the garden, going into schools to talk about careers, and writing memoires.  I also mentioned my occasional attempts at dreadful poetry for the book that I was writing to be entitled, “The More He Writes, the Verse it Gets”.  He asked for a sample so I gave the preamble about having worked for the UN for many years where I had all too frequently encountered feminists of the burn-your-bra ilk.  I wasn’t too enthusiastic about them so had been driven to expressing my feelings thus:

I think you all will get the gist
If I say a feminist
Is one who’s most optimist
She nothing good has ever missed.

Alternately:

A misogynist
Is one who always will insist
That never to be kissed
Is devoutly to be wished . . . . . . . .especially by a feminist !

The surgical procedure had to be suspended for a few minutes while both the theatre nurse and the surgeon composed themselves.  Dealing with almost comatose bodies who freeze-up while under such a procedure is one thing, but dealing with a budding poet who cannot shut-up is quite another.

The procedure was over very quickly and the time came for closing up, stapling and checking that all instruments and equipment was accounted for lest something be left behind inside.  The theatre nurse/sister who had had the task of sitting next to my head to monitor all my vital signs throughout the procedure, was going through the list of implements one by one.  When she seemed to have completed the list, I asked if she was checking all the equipment ?  She assured me that she was, and that all had been accounted for, and none was missing.  I asked if she’d be good enough while she was about it to ensure that my own “equipment” was also properly accounted for and still functional ?  Another break had to be taken while nurse and doctor composed themselves again. . . . . . .

Happily, when the staples were removed, I was pronounced fit to be able to start work again, and soon found myself being involved in disaster relief work in Kenya, South Africa, Pakistan and Bhutan.  Best of all, I was able again to play tennis – that is not to say that I was able to hit a tennis ball, but it did mean that I got some exercise, and was able to keep relatively fit.
And, of course, I didn’t get a stitch when I did so. . . 

*****

Ken Gibbs can be contacted via kengibbs1941@gmail.com