Helpers seen and unseen

Your cells are a country of ten thousand trillion citizens, each devoted in some intensively specific way to your overall well-being. There isn’t a thing they don’t do for you. They let you feel pleasure and form thoughts. They enable you to stand and stretch and caper. When you eat, they extract the nutrients, distribute the energy, and carry off the wastes—all those things you learned about in school biology—but they also remember to make you hungry in the first place and reward you with a feeling of well-being afterwards so that you won’t forget to eat again. They keep your hair growing, your ears waxed, you brain quietly purring. They manage every corner of your being. They will jump to your defence the instant you are threatened. They will unhesitatingly die for you—billions of them do so daily. And not once in all your years have you thanked even one of them. So let us take a moment now to regard them with the wonder and appreciation they deserve.

Bill Bryson, A Short History of Nearly Everything

A week ago, last Wednesday, I went into surgery for a definite inguinal hernia operation on the right side of my groin with the possibility of a second one on the left side. Opening my eyes after the anaesthetic wore off, the surgeon said that he had actually performed a triple hernia operation with the third one being an umbilical hernia.

Initially, I was glad that all the holes had been patched and sewn up, but, as the invasive nature of the operation covered a wider than normal section of my belly, the pain associated with “one” hernia operation was multiplied by three, and, as the morphine’s soporific effect diminished, I more than once cursed the frailty of my body as I attempted to walk from the bed to the toilet; as, I attempted, even to pee.

However (and here is why I started off with the Bill Bryson quote), as the days moved along and I could ease into the comfort of the fireside sofa more freely, I was able to look down onto my belly and not just see an ugly wound. Rather, it became an area of marvellous magic; a continuous healing machine working 24 hours, seven days a week to keep itself whole.

The bruise, whilst seemingly not the prettiest thing to look at, is actually a very visual indication of the cells Bryson talks about doing their work. Isolating the bruise, as in the above photo, reveals a beautifully abstract “live” color-field painting that daily takes on different hues and patterns. The little wisps of black brush strokes are the re-emerging belly hairs; not yet curly, but definitely well on their way. The first days of anguish are now gone and I watch in fascination, and gratitude, as this vastly complex system rearranges itself back into health.

So, a round of applause to all those involved in this great group effort. First, to the billions of cells doing their thing so that I can continue doing my thing. Second, to the very skilful surgeon, Rob Bohmer, and the many nurses who took care of me while in hospital.  And, thirdly, to my partner, Sally, who not only has had the sole task of feeding and looking after my comfort levels here at Windgrove, but has also had to do all the daily chores around the place, including splitting two wheelbarrow loads of wood each day to keep the house fires burning these wintry days and nights.

Come to think of it, I’m beginning to like the cosiness of the sofa and all the attendant services. Maybe, I’ll fake the pain a bit, just to have one more tea and cake served with, yet another, kiss on the forehead.