First Surgery

When Michael first entered the children's ward at the age of seven and saw a girl about his own age being wheeled past by nurses in theatre attire, dressed in a surgical gown and cap, he felt his heart begin to race. He would never forget his first general anaesthetic with mask induction—the black rubber breathing tubes and the rubber reservoir bag remained vivid in his memory for years.

As he grew older, like many children, Michael sometimes found it a little embarrassing to wear patient gowns, surgical caps and disposable underwear decorated with childlike patterns on the ward and in the operating department. At the same time, he was fascinated by the appearance and feel of the soft cotton gowns and the gently scented, supple disposable plastic garments.

Quite unusual Micheal spent quite a while in hospital when e was a kid and teenager. From various reasons he had to undergo surgery and general anesthesia for 8 times between his 7th and 17th birthday:

Chapter 1

1989 – Age 7

Procedure: Adenoidectomy (removal of the adenoids)

Michael's first operation and first general anaesthetic. Everything is unfamiliar: admission, changing into theatre clothing, the anaesthetic mask and the journey into the operating theatre.

Chapter 2

1990 – Age 8

Procedure: Bilateral insertion of tympanostomy tubes (grommets)

Returning to the same children's ward feels surprisingly familiar. Michael recognises routines, staff and the comforting atmosphere of the hospital.

Chapter 3

1991 – Age 9

Procedure: Circumcision

Now more confident, Michael pays closer attention to the preparations and begins observing the people around him rather than focusing only on himself.

Chapter 4

1993 – Age 11

Procedure: Emergency surgery for acute scrotum

An unplanned admission introduces a more urgent side of hospital life while reinforcing Michael's growing trust in the operating theatre team.

Chapter 5

1994 – Age 12

Procedure: Open reduction and internal fixation of a forearm fracture

A traumatic injury brings Michael back once again. He notices the increasingly sophisticated teamwork between surgeons, nurses and the anaesthesia staff.

Chapter 6

1996 – Age 14

Procedure: Surgical removal of all four wisdom teeth under general anaesthesia

For the first time, induction is performed intravenously with propofol instead of an anaesthetic mask. Michael is now old enough to appreciate the technical aspects of modern anaesthesia.

Chapter 7

1997 – Age 15

Procedure: Excision of a pilonidal abscess (pilonidal sinus)

Another short admission reinforces how familiar the hospital has become. Many routines now feel almost second nature.

Chapter 8

1998 – Age 16

Procedure: Tonsillectomy

Thousands of children walked through the hospital's entrance every year.

Most of them stayed for only a few days.

Some were frightened.

Some were curious.

Many would remember little more than the smell of disinfectant, a favourite nurse, or the taste of ice cream after surgery.

For the doctors, nurses and anaesthesia teams, each child was different.

For the hospital, every day followed a familiar rhythm.

Admissions.

Operations.

Recoveries.

Discharges.

Then new families arrived, and the cycle quietly began again.

Among those thousands of children was one boy who kept coming back.

His name was Michael.

His first operation was uncomplicated.

No one imagined it would be followed by another.

And then another.

Over the next nine years, he would undergo eight operations under general anaesthesia.

The hospital changed during those years.

New equipment appeared.

Older monitors disappeared.

Staff members came and went.

Some familiar faces remained.

Michael changed, too.

He entered the hospital for the first time as a shy seven-year-old who had never seen an operating theatre.

He left it for the last time as a confident sixteen-year-old who could almost predict the sequence of events from admission to recovery.

With every visit, his fears became smaller.

His curiosity became greater.

What had once seemed mysterious gradually became familiar.

He began to notice details that most patients never saw.

The carefully prepared operating lists.

The reassuring rhythm of the anaesthesia team.

The quiet concentration before induction.

The almost effortless cooperation between surgeons, nurses and anaesthesia assistants.

Without ever planning to, he became an attentive observer of a world that most people experience only while falling asleep.

This is his story.

Not because his operations were unusual.

Most of them were routine.

Not because his recoveries were extraordinary.

They were reassuringly uneventful.

His story is worth telling for a different reason.

It shows how an ordinary children's hospital, through kindness, routine and remarkable professionalism, can transform fear into trust.

And how, sometimes, a child leaves the operating theatre with something far more lasting than a successful operation.

He leaves with confidence.

With curiosity.

And with memories that remain vivid long after the scars have faded.

There are hospitals that become landmarks.

Not because of their architecture.

Not because they are famous.

But because generations of families and children remember them.

This children's hospital was one of those places.

Every weekday morning, long before sunrise reached the upper windows, the building was already awake.

Night nurses quietly finished their shifts.

Breakfast trays rolled through the corridors.

Operating lists were checked for the final time.

Sterile instrument sets arrived from the central supply department.

Anaesthetists gathered for the morning briefing.

Parents sat beside small hospital beds, pretending to be calmer than they felt.

Some children had never spent a night away from home before.

Others already recognised the routine.

On the paediatric wards, medicine and childhood existed side by side.

One room contained infusion pumps, oxygen outlets and cardiac monitors.

The next contained stuffed animals, colouring books and half-finished Lego models.

A nurse might explain intravenous medication to worried parents before helping a six-year-old find his favourite toy beneath the blankets.

Nothing about this seemed unusual.

It was simply everyday life.

The operating department reflected the same philosophy.

Behind the theatre doors, every procedure followed carefully rehearsed routines.

Patient safety depended not only on medical knowledge, but also on teamwork.

Surgeons.

Anaesthetists.

Anaesthesia assistants.

Operating theatre nurses.

Recovery room staff.

Each person knew exactly when to speak, when to prepare, and when silence allowed everyone else to concentrate.

For children, however, the hospital tried to remain just that—a children's hospital.

Disposable theatre gowns often carried colourful animal prints.

Surgical caps were decorated with stars, teddy bears or cheerful cartoon figures.

Even older children and teenagers sometimes wore the very same designs if that happened to be the correctly sized gown prepared for the paediatric operating list.

Nobody regarded this as unusual.

Within these walls, age mattered less than care.

The patterns belonged to the hospital, not to the patient.

For the staff, they were simply another part of a well-organised system whose purpose was to make an unfamiliar place feel just a little less intimidating.

Over the years, thousands of children passed through these corridors.

Most stayed only once.

Some returned several times.

Each arrived carrying different fears.

Each left with different memories.

Among them was a boy named Michael.

His first admission was supposed to be little more than a routine operation.

Neither he nor anyone around him could have imagined that, over the next decade, this hospital would quietly become one of the defining places of his childhood.

This is the story of those years.

Not only of operations and recoveries.

But of trust.

Of quiet professionalism.

Of growing confidence.