Paper undies are a small price to pay for such a great sleep

Last Tuesday, I had a truly magnificent sleep. I put on a gown, pulled my hair into a cap, stretched out on the bed and pulled the sheet around my chin.

“Now I’m just going to make you a little more comfortable,” said the nice man looking down at me.

I closed my eyes. Something cold touched my arm. “That feels really good,” I murmured.

When sleep is so evasive, it’s no wonder an anaesthetic feels novel and exciting, and even a little magical.Credit:

I must have dropped right off because next thing I knew, a woman with a British accent was calling my name. “It’s all over,” she said, resting a hand on my arm. “Can I get you a cup of tea?”

“Yes please!” I said, and yawned and stretched. Mmmm. I do enjoy a light anaesthetic.

Now, nobody wants to have major surgery, but I was just in for a routine colonoscopy. Sure, the preparation was a bit gross, particularly one urgent and dramatic trip to the bathroom at 4.30am. But I was asleep for the truly egregious part of the procedure, and the rest of the experience was very pleasant indeed. I could switch off my phone and be looked after by kindly nurses for a few hours. I could be the centre of attention at a theatre party. I could go braless and makeup free and wear little red booties.

Best of all, I had a fabulous sleep in the middle of the day, followed by a cup of tea and a delicious egg sandwich served to me in bed. It was like a long-haul flight to nowhere in a fully reclining business-class seat. I give it five stars. Recommend. Would do it again.

I have had several anaesthetics for relatively minor procedures, and whilst the recovery process has been variable (my tonsillectomy at the age of 50 was apocalyptically awful), I have always enjoyed the sensation of being put to sleep. After all, slumber can be quite the elusive beast in my regular life.

I can get into bed exhausted and still take half an hour or more to drop off, and then sleep fitfully for the rest of the night. I have all sorts of tricks to make myself unconscious: counting in threes or sevens, reciting the alphabet backwards, running through my favourite movie scenes, or recalling all the things I’ve ever done wrong. (Admittedly, that last one rarely works well.)

When sleep is so evasive, it’s no wonder an anaesthetic feels novel and exciting, and even a little magical. On every occasion, I have tried to catch myself in the moment of going under, wishing to pinpoint the second I lose consciousness. It’s not easy. Once, I was distracted by the pain of the anaesthetic going into my arm, and thought, “Ouch! This hurts”… and then woke up in recovery. Another time, I was offered a pre-med in the anaesthetic room, and can recall absolutely nothing after it went into my arm.

Once, during a twilight anaesthesia for an angiogram, I was completely unaware that I was even sedated. I lay on the theatre table, a catheter in my neck, utterly convinced I was being fitted for a gown. I kept raising my arm, attached to its IV drip, trying to insert it into an imaginary sleeve.

“No, no,” the surgeon would say, gently pushing down my hand, and I would wave it again helpfully in the air. I remember it all so vividly. It still makes me laugh.

Only one time, before a minor gynae procedure, did I manage to do it. I declined the pre-med, and was fully alert as the anaesthetic hit my bloodstream. One minute I was conscious, the next minute there was a whooshing sensation at the back of my head, and I could feel myself being sucked into nothingness. When I woke an hour later, I marvelled at the miracles of modern medicine: a dreamless sleep at the touch of a button.

Now, I’m no Michael Jackson. I’m certainly not seeking out anaesthesia. I feel guilty even taking the occasional sleeping pill! But to me, an anaesthetic is the silver lining of the medical procedure. Sure, I may need to do a bowel cleanse beforehand. I may need to wake at 6am to go to the hospital. I may need to wear paper undies and a cap!

But at least I’ll have a great sleep.

Kerri Sackville is an author and columnist.