May 02 2009
Post-epidural ramblings
Had myself a lumbar epidural yesterday. First night I have slept comfortably for a very long time. I can move my body without pain; let us hope I can extend this metaphor to the rest of me.My wife accompanied me to the hospital and - once in & getting prepared for the ordeal - left to allow me time to centre and find my own space, which I did, quite successfully, with a mixture of prayer, positive thought and realisation that May Day is always a good basis for anything revolutionary and victorious. The thought that I was having an epidural on Labour Day cheered me no end.
The process was odd. There is no other description for the sensation of having someone ferret around your spinal column with a great big needle, anaesthesia or no. I would feel the internal structural workings of my body - albeit second hand because of pressure rather than touch - in a way not experienced outside of the dental chair or the orthopaedic ward.
Perhaps the closest approximation is the “No sh!t Sherlock” moments one encounters in psychotherapy when the blindingly obvious is finally revealed and the explanation for life-long confusion or Muppet-like behaviour becomes painfully apparent.
That said, something else positive came out of the experience: inspiration for a new painting, which I have reduced to three colours in nine areas: that is two regions more than usual: progress indeed!
The walls of the room in which the procedure took place were fascinating on a visual level. They had what was probably originally a floor covering: off white with small black streaks. I presumed the streaks to be the clawing finger marks of previous denizens in their frantic attempts to escape; informed otherwise, I considered using the pattern for a background motif. That is probably for a later date.
To centre myself before the procedure, I explored the geometry of the ward, especially that of the door through which patients passed on their way to and from surgery. I had the proportions and colours set in my mind’s eye when a young African porter pushed a metallic trolley through the double doors. The trolley bore the legend “Dirty Instruments.” Thus, a picture was born, along with the continued realisation that - once again - I would be “forever changed”
