Good to Go!

There’s a bustle in the room when I snap awake, an orderly cluster of pastel-dressed nurses, neat in pink, apricot, mauve and chocolate, emitting the sort of gentle efficiency that, as a convent school girl (insert your own joke here), I still associate with nuns.

Zac is still sleeping the sleep of the dead, but he needs to go down to the basement again for a second ECG, on a big machine, to confirm whether he is safe for surgery.

Down we trot, into the scifi bowels of the hospital. “They really do have all the kit, don’t they?” S remarks. His last job in London was for the NHS, which doesn’t offer shiny spangly kit like the stuff you get on travel insurance.

In Zac goes, to the big machine. I pop outside through sliding door after sliding door for a cigarette.

More tests.

And, back up to the room, where the paediatrician is waiting for us, holding an ECG printout in his hand.

“Is there any heart disease in the family?” he asks.

S and I look at each other, curiously. “No,” we say in harmony. Our family members have died of many things, but never of heart disease.

“Then there’s no problem,” he says. “The irregularity disappeared when the cardiologist calculated it manually. If there was a history of heart disease, we might need to investigate further, but with no history there’s no risk.”

“So he’s good to have the surgery?” I ask.

“Yes,” says the paediatrician. “He’s fine for general anaesthesia.”

“This IS on the insurance, right?” I say, as I merrily sign off over twenty thousand dollars for surgery, while idly wondering what delicious food items to order from the hotel’s various restaurants on room service.

The Hong Kong approach to surgery is very different from the Greek, or the English, which is probably because this is a posh private hospital used by the type of people who have insanely expensive lawyers.

Doctor Wong comes in to introduce the anaesthetist, Helen, and talk us through the risks of surgery.

Do we understand the risks of general anaesthesia? Yes, we do.

Do we understand the operation may not be successful? There’s a slight – Doctor Wong’s face indicates minuscule – risk that the plate might not set the bone correctly and it might require further surgery.

There’s a whole folder full of paperwork about risks to read, sign and initial, and another substantial bill to sign.

“This IS on the insurance, right?” I say, as I merrily sign off over twenty thousand dollars for surgery, while idly wondering what delicious food items to order from the hotel’s various restaurants on room service, and whether we’ll be paying our own food bill here.

“Yes,” says Doctor Wong, who has correctly diagnosed both S’s and my financial situation (boracic). “We have a guarantee of payment in place for everything. They just need your signature.”

“Do you want me to come in and wait with you?” I ask. “Nah,” he says. “It’s fine.” “He’s like a little adult,” Helen observes, approvingly.

Noon rolls around. Zac’s had surgery under general anaesthesia before and is utterly relaxed about what’s to come. S heads out to sort out Hong Kong SIM cards for the three of us, plus healthy snacks for Zac.

I walk Zac down to the surgical floor.

“Do you want me to come in and wait with you?” I ask.

“Nah,” he says. “It’s fine.”

“He’s like a little adult,” Helen observes, approvingly.

“What time should I come back?” I ask. I don’t really want to hang around here while he’s in there, working myself up into a state. I’d rather head back to base and get washed, and do some work, and tend the money tree.

“He should be out from the anaesthetic around 2,” says Doctor Wong.

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll come down a bit before then, and meet him when he’s out.”

I give Zac a kiss on the cheek and wander back to our room. It was Sunday when Zac broke his arm in Mongolia. Today is Friday, and he’s having surgery in Hong Kong. Between the jeep, the helicopter evac and the air ambulance, it’s been quite the eventful week and, to be honest, I’m very glad it’s almost over.

Both Zac and I are immensely pissed off that we’re missing Beijing. But Hong Kong isn’t a bad substitute. It should, I figure, be really rather jolly.