el.is.in.wonderland

I had my surgery at the end of December 2025. The procedure was a laparotomy—an open incision in the lower abdomen—for suspected adenomyosis and endometriosis.

Before the surgery, the head anesthesiologist asked, “I need to ask again to make sure—do you have any medication allergies?”. To my knowledge, the medications I react to (as in: that I usually take) are ibuprofen, paracetamol, opioids, and progesterone hormones. So I answered, “To my knowledge, no.” She then proceeded to inject something into the vein in my left arm.

Little did I know, that injection marked the beginning of a moment I will never forget.

Let me rewind for a bit.

Earlier, a colleague had asked me whether I was afraid of the surgery—whether I was afraid it could cause death. I said no. Adenomyosis and endometriosis are not deadly by nature, but they can disrupt a person’s life to the point where living itself feels unbearable. Touché.

Back to anesthesia. Back to the unforgettable moment.

I slowly felt my eyes becoming heavy, harder to keep open. My mouth was open too, but I couldn’t say a word. A few seconds later, I couldn’t breathe.

I don’t know if this is normal or not, but stay with me. Imagine this: you are still awake and conscious. From the hips down, you can still move. But it feels like you’ve just exhaled—and someone suddenly covers your nose and mouth. You cannot inhale again.

And yet, you are conscious.

With maybe 0.3% of the strength I had left, I tried to speak—awkwardly—trying to say that I couldn’t breathe. I attempted to lift my left hand toward my nose, but it wouldn’t reach. By then, it had been around seven seconds without air (and no, I didn’t get a chance to inhale in between).

In my conscious mind, I thought: Oh Lord, before I say goodbye to the world, let me try one more time to tell them I can’t breathe.

Fortunately, my legs still worked. I shook them hard, like an almost-dead fish.

That seemed to get her attention. The anesthesiologist immediately placed an oxygen mask on me and pressed the left side of my lower jaw. Maybe she injected something to reverse the effect—I’m not sure. All I knew was that I could slowly breathe again, and then I began to pass out.

Just before losing consciousness, I vaguely (and I assume) heard her say something in Greek along the lines of, “She said she doesn’t have allergies.” And with my final ounce of strength, I muttered silently in my heart coz I couldn’t speak obv haha —How was I supposed to know I might be allergic to anesthesia?

I woke up about two hours later, after the surgery was finished.

During those 15–20 seconds of being unable to breathe, I thought my life might flash before my eyes. But apparently, my survival instinct was stronger than any cinematic life montage.

The moment wasn’t traumatic—or maybe it was, and I just don’t feel traumatized. Either way, it became a mental note for the future. Hopefully, there won’t be a next time.

My sister later asked, “Didn’t they do an allergy test before the surgery?”. She had undergone the same procedure, and they tested her beforehand. I said no.

In the end, I was just grateful—maybe even lucky—to be alive. I still haven’t visited Monas or the Acropolis yet, after all.