Memoirs of an Amnesiac

I have a preconceived aversion toward knives. I know I shouldn't be blaming the poor kitchen utensil. I do use it to cook but I have been very careful in using it since the time I first learned they could cut through and lacerate (if I may use a medical jargon) on one's skin, more so with one's life.

Upon the advice of my surgeon, I went through thyroidectomy, a procedure done on my goiter. With subsequent tests--a biopsy, an ultrasound and thyroid panel--my doctor and I decided it was time to remove the cystic lump. At 25, this was not a very easy decision. Although my doctor had assured me that he had done so many procedures (as the one he would do to me) and they had been successful, deep inside me crawled in this nagging thought, "The chances of me waking up right after the operation is high, but what about the risks involved?" I had expressed to my doctor my need to be able to speak because I am a teacher and I need my voice. He said he would do all he could not to damage the voice box. The procedure was expensive and I was just glad I was able to pool in my resources in time for the operation. I figured that since I will have them open me up, they might as well check if the other thyroid contained the same deadly mass.

So with my bag filled with all the things I needed for the operation, I walked into the emergency room just as if I was checking in a hotel, except that I was there to be treated and not to relax. I was alone since my family had to be at work at that time. I was not dying but I knew I could use a lot of moral support.

Since I was totally healthy (I had no medical aberrations whatsoever that would stand in the way of the operation), I was admitted immediately. My doctor was clear about what will happen in the operating room and made mention that there will be other doctors, too who would scrub in as his consultants. The operation was scheduled at lunch time the next day so by 5am I was not allowed to take in anything. My dreaded part of the whole experience came when the surgery gurney was brought in along with my gown.

I was prepped for operation, lying there like a helpless pig about to be butchered (or so my imaginative mind had conjured) and all I could think about was what I did the last 24 years of my life. Had they been wonderful years? Could I say goodbye to the next 24 years if I don't get to wake up after the operation? What significant things have I done for the world? How will my friends remember me? Fear gnawed through my flesh like a scalpel waiting to incise, lacerate, and cut and all I could muster was to cry as I looked at the worried yet reassuring faces of family and friends. For no one could exactly say what one feels when one decides to go through the knife--uncertainty, inevitability, perhaps?. Like the many things in life, I know that was one I would have to trudge on my own, no matter how strong the moral support.

The gurney became what I conceived to be my death bed as my anesthesiologist warned that I would soon lose consciousness. Like death, the operating room was cold, deadly cold. So I told myself as the last visages of light in the room closes in on me, "This is it." After that I slept with a dreamless sleep. I woke up six hours later, groggy and with an uncoordinated brain. I knew I put on a smile that night. I survived the surgery and made it through the day.

So what did I learn from that experience? Uhm, life is short. No matter how much you try to prepare for it, it still is short. That's why it's good to seize and grab every opportunity to change, to be better, to make a difference in people's lives. Second, you only get one shot at life and if you're ever lucky enough, you should make use of the opportunity to make significant changes in your life with the second life given to you. Third, at the death bed, it's not the achievements that matter, it is the relationships that you kept.

It's been six years since that fateful hot April morning that I went to the hospital. I'm healthy (not that I am experiencing major medical problems at the moment) and still the hyperactive me. I knew I should see my doctor again for annual check-ups. I'm relieved that I wouldn't have to pay so much trouble with medications.

Although I still use a knife for paring and peeling, I find myself putting it back on its sheath after I use it, what with all the morbid thoughts it tries to make up in my brain.

I've been through the knife and my life has so changed since then.