General Anaesthetist

General Anaesthetist

Earlier this week I had my final pre-gastric-sleeve-surgery appointment with the anaesthetist, the man who’s much more important than the surgeon because it’s his job to keep me alive on the operating table.

My appointment was in Joondalup at 8:20am, and I’m the kind of person who HAS to be early for everything – I’d rather be an hour early than five minutes late – so I left in plenty of time, but then hit a ridiculous amount of traffic. I ended up with about ten minutes to spare, and after parking my car I discovered that the address I had written down was that of an empty block. Balls. I knew that it was near the intersection of two streets, so thankfully I wasn’t too far away and arrived just in time, although rather out of breath and with my pulse racing – not a good thing when you’re about to have a surprise ECG & breathing test.


I was expecting the appointment to be just a short chat with the anaesthetist, but first I was dragged into a room by a nurse (not in a good way) who proceeded to ask me all sorts of questions, and then perform all manner of tests on me (also not in a good way). She measured me for sexy anti-blood-clotting socks, and gave me some special antiseptic soap that I have to wash myself with on Monday morning. The soap came with some rather complicated instructions, and I need to pay close attention to my armpits, anus and the skin folds of my vulva. Erm…

I then saw the anaesthetist, who just turned out to be a random one, not the ACTUAL one who will be keeping me alive on Monday, so there was no point in trying to bribe him. It was quite a sobering chat, and he sensed my near-panic when he told me that the risks I’m facing are “not insignificant” and that I might have some kind of heart “episode” on the table. Back-pedaling rapidly, he told me not to worry and that much older and sicker people survive operations all day long. Hmm. I also learnt that I have a “very small mouth”, which was no great surprise to me, but that he felt the need to note it on a form makes me wonder if I’m deformed.

So all that there is left to do is turn up on Monday morning. Oh, and live through the operation – I’d better make a note so I remember to do that.

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Hello! My name is Martin. I’m a food & travel writer based in Perth, Western Australia. Morsels is where I explore my loves of good food, bad food, travel and photography.

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