Through and beyond anaesthesia awareness

The experience itself

Unfortunately, something went terribly wrong. The drug that should have put me to sleep worked only partially, but nobody registered this. Instead, the anaesthetists proceeded to give me a muscle relaxant. I was partly drugged, which made me forget the context: that I was giving birth through a caesarean. Otherwise, however, I was wide awake, with no soothing effect of painkillers. I experienced how my muscles twitched then became totally paralysed so I could not breathe, and how a flat metal blade that felt like a knife was put into my mouth and jammed down my throat, followed by a thick wire-like thing that I thought further obstructed my breathing. I then felt an arm being thrust into my vagina (this was to keep my child from advancing into the pelvis, but felt as if I was being raped) and the cool feeling of liquid on my tummy, followed by agony when the obstetrician cut my abdomen open. Because I had forgotten about the caesarean, I thought that I was being raped, strangled, and cut up by some evil force. For a few seconds, I would black out in terror, then wake up again, only to realise that I was dying and unable to fight for my life.

After a few minutes my son was delivered, which was when I received a large dose of opioids and finally drifted away, not realising that I had just become a mother for the second time.

The months after

When I woke after the anaesthesia to learn that my child weighed only 751 g but had survived, I remembered none of the dramatic events surrounding his birth; I was in control and acted rationally. The next few days, however, I reacted very strongly. I cried and was terribly frightened without understanding why. Everybody, including my husband and myself, believed that it was because I was afraid my son would die, which made perfect sense because he was seriously ill. When his condition ultimately improved and he was discharged to go home, my symptoms failed to cease.

During the first few months after his birth, the recollection of how my son was delivered slowly re-emerged as nightmares and uncontrollable flashbacks. I would wake in the middle of the night scared to death about choking, with the memory of a sharp, shiny metal thing being thrust into my throat without me being able to lift a finger to defend myself, or with a strong impulse to vomit or an urge to pee, without any physical cause.

To start with, I refused to relate my nightmares to the anaesthesia—they were too horrifyingly brutal to be true. I finally told first my husband (more than six months later, when my son had stabilised), then my general practitioner about the nightmares. They suggested that there might be a link with the anaesthesia, so I contacted the hospital where my son was born to arrange a meeting with the anaesthetist who had taken care of the anaesthetic on that morning.

Coming to terms with the experience

Meeting the anaesthetist was a scary experience because the anaesthetic drugs had made me lose the context of what was happening. Emotionally, the person I was meeting represented those people who had conspired to rape, strangle, and kill me that morning, and I had spent some time before the meeting being very angry and wishing to avenge what had happened to me. My husband commented that my experience must be similar to that of a torture victim, and that being horrified was a very understandable reaction. Nonetheless, I shook with fear when I finally sat opposite the doctor who had anaesthetised me. At the same time, my rational self realised that she had not intentionally hurt me, and that I needed her help to understand what had happened.

During the following six months, I met with the anaesthetist on a regular basis, underwent therapy from a psychologist, and addressed my emotions from the awareness experience. The anaesthetist explained how my nightmares were related to the events that had taken place when I was anaesthetised and underwent surgery. Understanding what had happened helped me a lot, and I slowly learnt not to be afraid of the anaesthetist. She taught me how to intubate a resuscitation manikin, which helped me work through my own memories of being paralysed and intubated. After half a year of therapy, I voluntarily entered the operating theatre again, lay on the operating table, and let the anaesthetist stand behind me and hold my head. That was a proud and exhilarating moment.

The anaesthetist had also been affected by my awareness experience, but our meetings helped us both to get over the event. I know that several of her colleagues advised her to stop seeing me, but she continued even though it was tough for her. In some ways, my role in our mutual experience was less complicated than hers—I was the injured party, which earned me sympathy and support from people around me, whereas she was the one who was responsible for my suffering, even though it had been impossible to detect during the anaesthesia.

Finding closure

I have learnt a lot from my awareness experience. First of all, I have learnt how strong you can be when you have something very important to fight for. During the first months after my son’s birth, I had my premature baby to fight for, and I did that very well. I also learnt that it is important to ask for help if you cannot handle a problem yourself, and I’ve learnt about trusting somebody again and forgiveness. I am less afraid to die because I believe that dying will be a lot less painful and terrifying than being killed slowly on an operating table. I am also now open to the possibility that a person might need to die simply because they are suffering so much that life becomes worthless.

The anaesthetist and I have become friends, and we still see each other six years after I thought that she was going to kill me. Today, I would trust her with my life without hesitation. I consider myself 95% cured from the severe post-traumatic stress disorder I experienced. I have returned to work as a psychologist and am doing well. I have written a book about having a premature baby, published a few months ago, that includes a description of the awareness experience. It helped me a lot to write it all down. My husband and friends think I have changed, mostly in a positive direction. I personally feel that I have grown less able to sense my emotions; fortunately, I strongly sense my love for my family and my gratitude to all those who helped me heal.