I Had a “Procedure”. It Involved a Scalpel and a Slight Identity Crisis.
Recently, I was sliced open for an hour and a half under general anaesthetic. But apparently, I didn’t have an operation. No. I had a procedure.
A procedure.
Sounds like something polite. Minor. Something you squeeze-in between buying toothpaste and sending an email. But when you’re fully unconscious and someone with a scalpel is rearranging your organs like a tariff adjustment, is that still a procedure… or are we just afraid to call things what they are?
These things used to be called operations. Operations came with theatre lights, dramatic pauses, and the right to demand soup, silence, and sympathy. You could milk an operation for days. You had earned it.
Now? It’s all been rebranded, sanitised, softened, almost whispered. What’s the big deal? You didn’t survive major surgery. You only completed a routine intervention. Possibly with a go-home balloon.
Let’s be honest: language has gone under the knife too. Procedure is just medical PR. It’s healthcare’s way of saying, “This won’t hurt a bit,” while a masked human plays build-a-bear with your insides.
“Operation” suggests danger. Procedure sounds like something your browser performs while updating. At best, this is a partial truth, the kind that lets people nod and the let’s the billing roll-along smoothly.
Now no one suffers anymore – we experience discomfort. We’re not unconscious – we’re sedated. No one cuts you open – they access the site. You didn’t almost die… you underwent a low-risk event with minor complications. Okay, okay – I didn’t almost die. But still, you know what I mean.
And while we’re renaming everything, here’s what happened in my ward: I woke up, groggy but grateful, and told the nurse in isiZulu, “uNkulunkulu emuhle, ngiyahamba namhlanje.” Her eyes widened. “Hawu?!” I had to clarify quickly –home, not heaven. Ngiyahamba can mean both forms of leaving and to both destinations for that matter, and in a hospital, context is everything.
It’s funny now, but it reminded me just how easily language flips from comforting to terrifying. Especially when euphemisms sneak in wearing surgical masks.
So yes, I had a procedure. And yes, I’m recovering. But no, I won’t pretend words don’t matter, they do.
Maybe the goal isn’t to fight every scar or rename every wound – literally or figuratively.
Maybe it’s this: To live honestly, laugh when it hurts, and when the final discharge comes, to glide out – not rushed, not rattled – but with your dignity intact and your hospital file still calling it what it was: an operation. Subscribe and be part of this important conversation. More Ethics Article
Think. Choose. Be.
