On the 22nd April 2014, I went in for my first out of two spinal surgeries, which led to a journey that I’m doubtless I’d ever forget. When I woke up that day I don’t think I felt an inch of nervousness. I was just excited, oblivious to the emotional turmoil and pain that foreshadowed. I felt hungry from being nil by mouth, which wasn’t helped by the fact that my surgery was getting put back further and further throughout the day. I was getting restless by this point. There was already a pothole in the road – my surgeon was refusing to operate. You see, the adolescent unit was segregated into bays, which typically consisted of same sex and similar age groups with people having similar surgery. I was settled in bed 12 the night before, but then later had to be reallocated to bed 17 because bed 11 was occupied by someone with the same surname. My surgeon wasn’t happy with this, even though she was a post op patient and there was no way in hell that having the same surname compromises anything. However, he still wasn’t happy, and so I eventually had to be reallocated to a singular bay just so my surgeon would agree to operate. They then gave me a pre med, which was some sort of epileptic medication to calm me down. I swallowed it down eagerly, and quickly got dressed into the hospitals fashionable attire; forest green stockings, disposable knickers and the infamous hospital gown. My eyes then started to get damp as the reality hit me. I was scared that I would wake up and not be able to feel my legs. I was scared about the recovery. But I refused to show this, as I always feel like crying is a form of weakness. The pre med was starting to work at this point, and then the porters came to take me to theatre. The hospital is an obscure one, with old brick buildings scattered throughout landscaped woods. There was a glass bridge attaching the children’s ward to the main hospital, so I could see the blossomed hills and puffed clouds whizz past me, the branches of the trees waving me goodbye. Megan went through to the anaesthetic room, which I was secretly glad about. I enjoyed the company and laughs shared by the doctors, feeling privileged to be in their company. Then the oxygen mask was put over my face, and I was asked to count to ten. But I didn’t, and I laughed instead, until I felt like a static television about to give out…and then…I gave out.