Personal views: A leap of faith?
Authors: Alan Cameron
Journal: BMJ (2002)

Imagine this: I am standing on a narrow ledge on the side of a suspension bridge. In a moment I am going to jump off, trusting that the elastic rope attached to my ankles will stop me plunging to certain death in the river 43 metres (142 feet) below.

Such bungee jumping derives from the harvest celebrations in Vanuatu in the South Pacific when men leapt from 20 m platforms with vines attached to their ankles. The Oxford dangerous sports club used elastic rope to jump from the Clifton suspension bridge—and were promptly arrested. The “sport” was popularised in New Zealand from the very bridge that I was on.


I am an otherwise rational 52 year old general surgeon, so what possessed me to do such a thing? 


I have learnt a new respect for those who entrust their lives to us in theatre



Firstly, I have always been scared of heights, not only because of the fear of falling but also partly because of the fatal attraction of actually jumping off. This must be some atavistic impulse since many people experience it. Indeed one of the temptations of Christ was to leap from a high place. For me the enduring image of September 11 was those blurred images of people who had the courage to jump from the twin towers rather than await immolation. A bungee jump under controlled conditions was a way of indulging my inclination with minimal actual risk.

Secondly, all surgeons have to learn to control fear. We all have testing times in theatre when dark venous blood wells up from the pelvis, or the clamp comes off the aorta, or it looks as if the common bile duct is in half. I have always been pretty cool in such crises so I wanted to see if I could be the same on the edge of the jump. Although the rational mind knows that bungee jumping is not fatal, it is still frightening even to watch, so it was a self inflicted test of nerve.

Finally, any patient in their right mind must be scared witless of entrusting their life to us during surgery and I wanted to see how it felt to be at the mercy of others' expertise.

As it turned out, there were many similarities to the “patient journey.” I turned up at the bridge expecting to jump immediately (like a patient coming to the outpatient clinic but expecting the operation there and then), but after paying my money I discovered that I was on a waiting list. Admittedly this was only four hours, but it didn't do much for my appetite over lunch.

I then had to complete a consent form. Because of my anxiety the words were just a blur, so like most patients I just signed without reading. I was pretty horrified when I looked at it after the event. The jumps were done in batches, so I was in a list of eight, but luckily was near the beginning; I now have more sympathy for those unfortunates at the end of my all-day lists. But suddenly my number was called and I was in the preparation area.

As a briskly efficient technician attached the rope I had a most odd sense of dislocation. On one level I could hear myself having an apparently calm chat, yet I wasn't really aware of anything except the river so far below. I wonder if patients in theatre feel the same as they are prepared for surgery. And I wonder if the technicians' banter is any help (although I am not volunteering for a randomised trial). I have often been surprised and a little annoyed that many patients cannot remember their surgeon. But try as I might I have no recollection of the name or face of the man who prepared me for the jump; perhaps in stressful situations memory is impaired. Then came the moment when I nearly bottled out; just as I was ready there was a delay while the camera needed more film. I hope I can remember the effect such a last minute delay can have.

So, finally, ankles bound, I shuffled to the edge. Rictus grin, quick wave to the audience, then one . . . two . . . three . . . jumppppppp (just like the anaesthetist asking a victim to count to 10?). I have vague memories of the millisecond between standing and falling, but, as with operations, thankfully the rest is a blur. Climbing up from the bottom of the gorge was an effort on jelly-like legs, so I'm no longer asking patients to get off the table themselves after even minor procedures. My groggy feeling lasted some hours, so I'm going to give patients a bit longer to recover.

Did I learn anything from this deeply unpleasant experience? I hope I have lost any desire to jump from a height; I have learnt it is possible to conquer fear; I have learnt that bungee jumping is best left to the young; and I have learnt a new respect for those who entrust their lives to us in theatre. Would I do it again? Not in a million years, unless I had to make a choice between a jump and an operation!