Truly indebted to the 'unattractive' Dr K, a medical expert who saved my life
While swimming recently, looking at my scar reminded me of my encounter with Dr K, a gynaecologist who looks like he sprung out of the woods! Literally!
I didn't like Dr K the minute he greeted me by handshake. His hands were big, dark and cold. They left a nauseating stench of tobacco. Add his "I woke up like this" dress sense, and the sight was enough to make me want to chase him around the ward with a bar of soap and a scrubbing brush!
He was not easy on the eye either. So the only thing he had going for him is that Zululand accent.
I held on to that as I listened to his descriptive brief of how he was going to cut me up on a damn Friday morning, pull out my uterus, put it on my torso and then start shaving the unwanted growths off it. Precisely!
I was clad in the standard theatre gown and balloon panties, and pricked exactly six times before they could locate a vein to insert the drip. So by the time some lady was violently wheeling me to the waiting room, I had already resigned to having a bad day.
She took offence to me calling her "aunty". I wanted to assure her that beer had definitely accelerated her pension face.
But my uterus was about to be butchered and the porter's fragile ego was the least of my problems. I was anxious about the surgery. The odds of bearing kids after this. The possibility of meeting my ancestors. My bikini line .
I already had a Caesarean section from my son's birth. It was neat, hardly visible and I could still pull off a beach day like a super model.
Now enters Dr K and those hands. I could just imagine him suddenly trembling and vibrating uncontrollably when his crave for a smoke hits just after he has cut me open. I was apprehensive about him handling my 'delicates'. Dr K did not display any tenderness or artistry I expected from someone with the precision and patience of stitching up a woman's body.
The way I saw him, he may have been a great herdboy growing up, probably made a name for himself in stick fighting. Perhaps even excelled in woodwork or agriculture, where you work with big sharp tools like the bush knife or hand-hoe and strike with vigour!
But a Picasso? Nah.
Theatre was not the cosiest of places either. I was presented on a tray like meat. A table full of sharp surgical instruments and white swabs and basin. That is when I prayed that none of them is forgotten inside me when that last stitch is tied up.
It was cold and I was the only one lying semi-naked.
My first breath of relief was when I met the anaesthetist. Possibly the most gorgeous man I had ever seen. When he bent towards me to mumble something I could hardly make sense of (I'd like to think he was giving me his name and cell numbers) I could literally feel the warmth of his smile.
There was a light shining on his head like a halo and I stared at it.
Eventually I looked right into his eyes. Then just as I was about to tell him that I love him - boom, Dr K shoves him to the side and totally bombs my little fantasy. "MaNdlovu, we are about to ... "
The lights went out!
If I had not survived that surgery, the last person I would have seen in my precious life would have been that Dr K. Imagine the burden of carrying such imagery to The Pearly Gates. God forbid!
While I suspect Dr K might have dislocated my G-spot, the operation went well and the fibroids were removed successfully - and I am forever thankful for his patience and artistry. I still rock in a bikini!