Adventures of an Injured Spine at Base Hospital

It was a crisp, bright morning, the kind that makes birds chirp cheerily and humans contemplate existential questions. I had landed — quite literally — in the confines of the stately Base Hospital, a military establishment that takes the phrase “on your back” rather too literally. My L4, L5, and L5-S1 discs had decided to play musical chairs with my nerves, resulting in what medical professionals call PIVD and what I call PAIN IN VERY DAMAGING-PLACES.

In other words, I was horizontal. Flat out. Immobile. Reduced to the noble state of a beached whale, with all the grace and elegance of a potato in a tuxedo.

Now, let me clarify — this fall wasn’t a result of any valourous military endeavour, or a duel over honour, or even a particularly slippery banana peel. No, it was far more inglorious — a mundane tumble with all the drama of a fall interrupted by gravity at 9.8 / m sq. I kept neglecting my condition for a month and landed up here in Base Hospital. 

The doctors, in their infinite wisdom and charming jargon, prescribed a delightful cocktail of painkillers, physiotherapy, and the occasional curious poke. Life thus fell into a routine: wake up, groan, be massaged by someone who treats your spine like a stubborn car part, pop pills, groan again, and sleep. The nurses, cheerful avtars in white, floated in and out, offering injections n medicines with the enthusiasm of someone offering candy at Halloween.

Then came The Great Surgical Surprise of the Morning.

It began innocently enough. A nursing assistant, chipper as a squirrel on espresso, arrived with an injection and said with the sort of solemnity usually reserved for last rites:
“Sir, I have to give you one injection. Pre-operation procedure.”

Pre-op? Now, I had read all my reports. I’d asked all the questions. I was assured that my treatment was non-surgical. I was as far from an OT as a goat is from a glider.

“Operation?” I squeaked, clutching the sheets. “What operation?”

He looked puzzled that I should question fate. “Sir, you're scheduled. You’re from Bed No. 5, Room No. 3.”

That, dear reader, was indeed me. At least, it was until further notice.

Before I could yell “spinal miscommunication,” he instructed me to prepare for the OT. Panic set in. Was this how it would end? Was I about to become a medical mystery on Discovery Channel? Had I, in my sleep-induced stupor, unknowingly signed up for a lumbar laminectomy?

In a moment of clarity (or perhaps the painkillers kicked in), I asked, “Could you check the patient’s name on the chart?”

The young man dutifully trotted out, returned after a moment with a sheepish smile and said, “Sir, someone has changed the nameplate. It's not you. It’s your neighbour next door.”

My neighbour! That innocent man, unaware that his surgical fate had temporarily been assigned to a chap with the spinal stability of a soggy biscuit.

Had I not protested, dear reader, I might at this very moment be writing to you from a post-op ward, wondering why my kidneys feel lighter and my pancreas has a scar.

All’s well that ends with your own organs still inside you.

So here I lie, still horizontal, still in possession of all bodily parts (to the best of my knowledge), and immensely grateful for two things:

1. My own annoying habit of questioning everything.
2. That my neighbour didn’t look like me, or we’d both be in traction.

Moral of the story: Always check your nameplate. You never know when it might decide to switch lives on your behalf.

Spinally Yours Truly

Ashutosh