I promised Jodie at Succulent Savage Says that I would write soon about this experience. I also know that Bill of Rope, Roses & Red knows about this little fetish of mine, so it’s bound to raise a few eyebrows.
So the story goes..
In December 1998, I developed a lump on my right foot. the doctor believed it was a ganglion cyst a referred me for consultation with a orthopaedic consultant.
Xrays done, examination complete, the consultant left the room and came back a short while later. He looked me up and down, flashed me his charming, young Asian doctor smile and spoke,
“What you need, is a magic sleep” he said.
I’d never had surgery before, and certainly not of that level. I imagined horror scenes in my head. Huge cuts, arterial bleeding and flat-lining monitors. Surgery!
In May 1999, while at the hospital, I was given my own private room. I’d never had one of those before, and in a way, being isolated from the ward was both cool and oddly daunting. I was alone and usually it was just my Mum and my Dad in there with me.
“Is this where I’ll be staying? Is this where they do the surgery?”I asked inquisitively.
I was terrified by the size of the room. There was nothing in there to suggest surgery, nothing I’d seen that looked menacing. Tubes and dials for levels of oxygen, cubbyholes to put my belongings. I eyed the room cautiously. Okay, maybe I was safe. Maybe they had changed their mind and wouldn’t do the surgery?
While I was in the room, a young man came down to visit me. He’d heard about the newcomer and bought me some jigsaw puzzles to play with. My mother gushed over him and told him what a nice young man he was. I could already tell she was making all of the big decisions for our upcoming wedding day.
I stayed in the hospital for one night and my new friend who resided across the ward would visit regularly. He’d been trampled during a rugby match and was supposed to stay in bed to rest, but undeterred, he’d wander across the ward to visit me. I also met a young girl in the games room who had taken an overdose of 100 paracetamol tablets to try and and her life. At 10 years old, I didn’t know what an “overdose” was, but I do remember my mother lecturing her on how stupid she’d been.
Ahh, my Mum, never the most sympathetic.
In the hours before my surgery, a team of doctors came down to visit me. I later found out that I wasn’t just having the foot surgery, ooh no, I was having the foot surgery, 4 molar teeth removed and a blood test taken – two teams of doctors working on little old me, all at the same time!
I was terrified, and the staff soon knew it.
A kind nurse came waddling down the ward and she passed me a small, plastic shot glass with a green, minty liquid.
“It’ll help you relax” she said, so I took it.
What happened between being wheeled down to surgery and being sedated is something of a blur. So I have been told, I tried to get out of the wheelchair because they absolutely were not going to operate on me, not on my watch. I also apparently bodychecked my Mum while trying to escape from the sedation room, though I don’t recall that part. The only part I do recall is agreeing to lie down on the trolley, but pointing at the anaesthetic trolley and vehemently shouting “fine, I’ll lie down. But don’t you fucking come near me with that thing!”
Needless to say they did, because they had to.
The anesthetist tried to hold the mask over my face for a while. I got hold of his hand and pulled it away so that I could breathe without the gas. He removed the mask and replaced it with a nebula, holding the clip under my nose with his gloved hand. I tried to resist and even bit him, but about 5 minutes later I succumbed to the gloved hand with the gas.
I woke up about an hour later. I didn’t believe they’d removed the cyst at first, but looking down at my foot, I was presented with the view of a deeply bloodied gauze pad. Gross!
“Good morning, lovely!” chimed the the recovery room nurse. She was an old dear. Kind, compassionate, sweet.
“Let’s take the mask off for you,”she said, lifting the oxygen mask up and away. “Would you like me to sit you up? Would you like some water?”
I know that I wasn’t awake enough for water, so that was taken from me. Having washed myself in it, she decided to take the empty cup away. She propped me up by one or two clacks of the head-rest and finally, I could see.
The trip back to the ward was equally a bit of a blur but I do remember going in the lift. Of course, what most people in lifts generally ignore after a while is that lifts usually have one cute characteristic – mirrors.
“WHOZZAT?!” I demanded, looking warily at the girl in a gown and a hospital bed opposite me.
“That’s you!”the nurse laughed.
“Oh, wha’ she av done?!”
The nurse, trying to hold herself together, decided to ignore me.
At the end of the elevator ride, I was handed over to two porters who wheeled me back to the ward. I saw one of the doctors reading a patient’s notes and, high off of my face on heaven knows what, I decided to give him the fright of his life,
“WHEEEE!! Toot toot!!” I shouted at about 8ft rage, waving my electronic oxygen monitor around frantically. Needless to say, he lept out of the way.
Apparently my mother heard me coming from about 60ft away.
Back on the ward, I saw my mother waiting for me,
“Hi, Mum!” I hollered, completely ignoring all of the other poor patients around me.
The porters used a bed slide to transfer me from the recovery room bed to my main ward bed. Even in spite of having 6 staff help to shift me, I still wriggled and made “pop! pop! pop!” sounds with my mouth. Apparently, I’d decided, I was now a fish.
About an hour after surgery, I decided I needed a bathroom break. Id given the staff quite the run around and so they decided that I would use a commode. Refusing to pee in front of my new beau, I hopped myself out of bed, IV stand in one hand, and waddled for the bathroom. I was found sat with one ass cheek off of the toilet seat, smalls halfway down, fast asleep on the loo.
De-peed, cleaned up and somehow magically transported back into bed, the nurses decided to try me on some simple food and water. I was given semolina pudding and.. uhh.. water.
“Elena, please” my mother pleaded with me, trying to convince me to take a spoonful of the sweetened, grainy paste.
“Ahh!” I’d say, concerning anyone witnessing the sight of my gaping oral chasm.
Mum moved the spoon a little closer.
“No”, I resisted, crossing my arms across my chest and turning away and grinning to myself.
“Don’t wanna”. I was in one of my tormenting moods, combined with god alone knows how many chemicals.
I was given the choice between water and semolina pudding or IV fluids with nutrients and another night in hospital. Either way, the doctor was now concerned by my behaviour and I wasn’t going home until I was much more coherent than I had been.
I chose to eat the semolina and ten minutes later, I had rapidly improved.
Before I left the ward my new shift nurse, Rebecca, came to see me.
“Do you want to take home your cyst?” She asked. Apparently, the surgeon had put it in a bottle of liquid and I could take it home to show off to my friends if I wanted to. I decided not to, a lump of my own human flesh was hardly to be considered a trophy.
“What about your teeth?”. I’d have them, they were worth some money from the tooth fairy. Exchange rates went up all of a sudden, and the tooth fairy now had an interest in all human remains. She left me a £5 note for the four teeth, and the cyst that had already apparently been taken to her castle.
Rebecca put a small bowl on my bed, held my hand and smiled at me.
“What do you think of our Spot the dog poster?” she said, pointing up at the wall, “We put it up while you were asleep.”
I looked up. As I did, I felt a sharp pull on the inide of my wrist, like someone had pulled out my veins. I whipped around to look at Rebecca. The cannula in my wrist had gone, and in it’s place, she was holding a cotton wool ball.
“No good crying about it now, it’s done” she said, matter-of-factly.
She sent me home with a purple and green “OUCH!” plaster on my inner wrist. If there is one thing that I have insisted since my operation, it’s that “OUCH!” plasters are a must, in all first aid situations.
And as for my rugby playing romeo? He came over again to see me once the porters had transferred me back to my ward bed.
“How are you feeling?” he asked tentatively.
“Fuck off”, I replied, apparently, thankfully, half asleep at the time.
He didn’t speak to me again after that.
How I discovered my fetish
On a trip to the dentist, the touch and smell of latex gloves anywhere near my face would make me deeply submissive.I could only put it down to the surgery all of those years before, the smell of latex and the loss of control.
There is some theory to suggest that fetishes are a response to trauma (lightly mentioned in this Healthline article here), however, whether or not such is true very much remains up for debate. If such is the case, then it quite likely stands to reason after the anaethetic. After all, anaesthetic means a loss of control, combined with latex gloves. I was.. shall we say,conditioned, but fortunately in a way that my body had decided to respond to favourably.
I do know that I experience ASMR, However, my latex glove fetish almost seems deeper than ASMR, and a completely different tingle ASMR is normally felt in the scalp and, for me, just behind the ears, whereas my response to latex gloves is felt more in the cheeks, neck and breasts. The tingle from ASMR makes me feel relaxed, safe and sleepy, but the tingle from latex gloves makes me feel aroused, ashamed and submissive, then wet. ASMR also has zero effect on my nipples, but the sound, smell and feel of latex gloves does. So unmistakably then, I think it’s fair to say that it’s a fetish.
Do you have a fetish that you can link back to a certain event? Let me know in the comments!