Waking Up: The Grotesque Irony
Before I describe the moment I woke up, I need to share something about myself—something that made this entire experience feel even more surreal.
I’ve always had a natural aversion to sharp things. Needles, knives, scissors—anything that can cut, pierce, or pinch the body. Even jewellery makes me uneasy. I’ve always feared the idea of a ring catching on something and damaging my finger. Piercings? Absolutely not. DIY tools, mechanical equipment, engines, conveyor belts, even doors and windows—I approach them all with caution. Not panic, but a quiet alertness. A constant awareness of risk.
I wear my wedding ring, but I remove it whenever I do anything that might pose a danger. I’ve recently started wearing a smartwatch for medical reasons, but truthfully, I’d rather not. It’s just not me.
So you can imagine the grotesque twist of fate when, in 2017, I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. Suddenly, I had to inject myself with insulin—daily. Me, the man who flinched at the sight of a needle, now had to make it part of my routine. What a joke. But that was the ticket for the ride, and I had no choice but to get used to it.
And then came the surgery.
When I woke up in the intensive care unit, there was a lot to process.
I don’t know how long I had been awake—if I was awake at all. Consciousness came later, slowly, like mist lifting from a quiet field. Bit by bit, I began to notice my surroundings. The artificial light above me. The wall in front of me. A clock ticking quietly on that wall. Sounds began to take shape—first as noise, then as voices, and finally as words and sentences.
And then I heard it: “He’s awake now.”
The nurses had noticed. They began speaking to me, gently, reassuringly. I couldn’t respond—only blink my eyes in acknowledgment. That was all I could manage.
It was already dark outside. Evening had settled in.
And so I began to assess myself. Slowly. Quietly. From the inside out.
A Moment of Awakening
I realised why I was unable to speak: a tube was lodged in my mouth, extending downwards to somewhere unknown. At that moment, the specifics did not concern me. All that mattered was the overwhelming sensation of restriction and the rising panic threatening to consume me.
Recognising that I was on the verge of a full-blown panic attack, I forced myself to focus on the only thing within my power—the clock. I watched the seconds tick by, unable to process anything else. Immersed in that singular awareness, I let the steady, mechanical rhythm of the second hand soothe me.
Minutes slipped by, perhaps even hours. I could not tell. The time was not important but the rhythm of as the second hand advancing sec by sec, disregard pain, love, hate, or any emotions just went on. Click by click, Does not care how I fill up the gap, it almost just have me a space in time to use it as I wish. Eventually, I heard someone nearby say, “He’s stable now. Nicely awake.” Soon after, they removed the tube from my throat. The discomfort was brief, vanishing almost before I could comprehend it, replaced by the sensation of an oxygen mask pressed over my face. Logically, I should have felt relief, and perhaps I did, but fear still paralysed me. I was acutely aware of what had happened, of the multitude of sensations coursing through me—though pain, curiously, was not among them.
Instead, I felt adrift—lost, vulnerable, and deeply uncomfortable, but not in pain. I accepted this state, determined not to test the boundaries of pain by moving unnecessarily. When a nurse asked if I was thirsty and offered a sip of water through a straw, I had to shift slightly to drink. That small movement brought a flicker of pain—not overwhelming, but enough to remind me of my limitations. From then on, I moved with deliberate care.
As I gradually became more aware of my body, I noticed a cannula in my arm and an oxygen meter clipped to my finger. There was a bandage stretched across my chest, tubes and wires trailing from beneath it, and something unfamiliar on my neck—a cluster of tubes stitched to my skin. A catheter was also present. Mercifully, I had no memory of any of these things being inserted, and that absence felt like a small blessing: no pain, no recollection, just a strange sense of satisfaction.
At one point, I felt an urge to cough and instinctively tried to suppress it. The nurses, noticing my discomfort, offered pain relief and gently instructed, “If you need to cough, cross your arms over your chest to support yourself.” I followed their advice and coughed.
Pain hit me sharply—intense and immediate. I had discovered the edge of my boundaries. I quickly requested pain relief, as well as something to ease the coughing; I was determined not to endure that sensation again.
Amidst this, a phone rang. A nurse answered: it was my wife on the other end, asking after me. The nurse reassured her that I was alright. She said she loved me.
I said I loved her too.
But I couldn’t let myself cry—not because I didn’t want to feel, but because I physically couldn’t afford it. Any sob, any tremor in my chest, could trigger pain or complications. My body was in a fragile state, freshly operated on, and even the act of crying could be dangerous.
So I held the emotion gently, letting it soak into me without letting it rise. It settled deep, quiet, and unspoken.
And in that space of surrender—where I couldn’t move, couldn’t cry, couldn’t resist—something powerful emerged. From deep within, a sensation surfaced. Honest. Energetic. Grounding. A quiet empowerment. An acceptance of myself, my being, independent of place, time, condition, guilt, shame, or judgment.
And all of it was sparked by the simplest thing: the expression of love. The act of love and being loved.
After coronary artery bypass graft (CABG) surgery, the body is closely monitored and supported using a variety of tubes, devices, and sensors. Each one serves a specific purpose—either to aid recovery, prevent complications, or provide real-time data to the medical team.
Breathing Support
Endotracheal Tube: Inserted through the mouth into the windpipe during surgery to connect you to a ventilator. It helps you breathe until you're stable enough to do so on your own.
Oxygen Mask or Nasal Cannula: After the breathing tube is removed, oxygen is often delivered via mask or nasal prongs to support oxygen levels during early recovery.
Fluid & Medication Delivery
Intravenous (IV) Lines: Usually placed in the arms or hands to deliver fluids, medications, and sometimes nutrition.
Central Venous Catheter: A larger IV line inserted into a vein in the neck or chest. It allows for precise delivery of medications and monitoring of central venous pressure (CVP), which reflects fluid status and heart function.
Heart & Circulation Monitoring
Electrocardiogram (ECG/EKG) Leads: Small adhesive patches on the chest connected to wires that continuously monitor heart rhythm and electrical activity.
Arterial Line: A thin catheter placed in an artery (often the wrist) to measure blood pressure in real time and allow for frequent blood sampling without repeated needle sticks.
Drainage & Waste Removal
Chest Tubes: Inserted near the surgical site to drain blood, fluid, or air from around the heart and lungs. These help prevent complications like fluid buildup or collapsed lung.
Urinary Catheter: Inserted into the bladder to monitor urine output, which is a key indicator of kidney function and fluid balance.
Neurological & Consciousness Monitoring
Pulse Oximeter: A clip usually placed on the finger to measure oxygen saturation in the blood.
Temperature Probe: Sometimes used to monitor core body temperature, especially in the immediate post-op phase.
Why All This Matters
These tools aren’t just for observation—they’re part of a critical safety net:
They help detect complications early (e.g. bleeding, infection, arrhythmias).
They guide medication and fluid adjustments.
They support vital functions while your body stabilizes and begins to heal.