My tummy’s been acting up. Nine days at the hospital. I felt a sharp pain at night. I thought I would put up with it and call later in the day a doctor friend at her hospital. But the pain became so unbearable that I phoned her at 7 in the morning. She told me to take a taxi and come straight to the hospital. The speed with which they worked at me saved me. Scanner, X rays, tests, operation theatre. All in record time. The surgeon who operated on me told me later that if we had waited a few hours I would have had a very bad time. Just in time. What had happened?

54 years ago I had been operated upon for appendicitis in India. And this crisis now, however strange that may seem, comes from there. By the way, that appendix operation at the Emery Hospital in Anand, Gujarat, at that time was quite amusing. The anaesthesia did not work, and though they thought I was anaesthetised, I felt the first cut, and they had to pour in a hurry liquid ether from a bottle on a cotton pad under my nose to knock me down with its vapour that extended through the operation theatre. It almost anaesthetised all the doctors and nurses around. The surgeon was the justly famous doctor Cook, an Australian Salvation Army missionary, who during the day performed operations at the hospital and at night went to preach the gospel around with a trumpet. When I was admitted in the hospital he had already gone out with his trumpet, and so other doctors examined me and diagnosed hepatic colic. As all the beds were occupied as usual, due to the well deserved good name of the hospital, they laid me down on a couch in his office where I remained alone. At midnight I felt much pain, tried to get up to call somebody, and fainted on the floor. Just then a nurse happened to come in, and went at once to wake up doctor Cook. He came in his pyjamas, saw the chart about hepatic colic, put it aside, and made a single test. He asked me: “Father [though I was not yet a priest], give me your breath.” He sniffed my breath and said: “Typical acute appendicitis smell. Operation theatre number 1 immediately.” And he saved my life. Clinical eye. Or rather clinical nose.

To top it, alter the operation he came to thank me. I told him it was I who should thank him, but he explained: “Look here, I’m an Australian and you are European. We have big appendices. These Indians here, I don’t know why, perhaps it is because they do not eat meat, but the fact is they have very small appendices. It was a long time sine I had seen a big appendix, and while operating on you I felt I was back at home and I had a grand time. When I removed your appendix I showed it round to the doctors and nurses that were helping me and I told them: ‘This is an appendix, and not what you have.’ It was a treat.” I told him I always endeavoured to give satisfaction.

Now, it is not that the operation was badly performed, but even in the best intestinal operations filaments can result and grow till they form what doctors call a bridle which can extend from side to side and on which, following a sudden movement in sleep, my intestines got hanged and strangled. The ensuing pain saved me. I can stand pain and hate to complain and give trouble, and so I thought I would wait and call the hospital later during the day. But the pain became so excruciating that I had to call early. And that saved me. Pain can save us. It gives us notice.

That an action on the body 54 years ago can have its effect today made me think of the law of karma. Whatever we do leaves its imprint. On the body as on the mind. Without fail. My dean of theology at the Pune seminary, Fr Joseph Neuner who has reached a hundred this year, used to tell us in class that karma was “the law of metaphysical congruence of the universe”. More simply: If you do it, you pay for it. Or: “What man sows, he also reaps.” (Galatians 6:8). Or again: “When I throw a stone, I alter the centre of gravity of the universe.” (Carlyle) Or, yet: “When I move on earth I feel I am disturbing the stars.” (Pessoa) The butterfly effect. Everything I do has its consequences, for good and for evil, and they are inexorable. This is not to get frightened but on the contrary, encouraged, as we all have done some good in our lives, often without giving importance to it or even remembering it, and all that bears fruit in benediction. “Cast your bread upon the waters and it will come back to you.” (Ecclesiastes 11:1)

I was the first to be surprised at my own good mood after the operation. When friends came to visit me I was the one who did most of the talking and cheered up everybody, not on purpose but spontaneously. They all told me I had a good aspect. I realised how much of an optimist I am and how much this has helped me in life. A niece brought me a watercolour painted by herself to cheer up the relentlessly white walls of the hospital room. I’m going to frame the picture and hang it in my house to gladden me. Thank you, Elena. I have also appreciated friendship all the more. How nice have my friends been to me these days! I had very good friends in India, and when coming back to Spain after 50 years I understood I needed new friends here, and I sought them and I now have a good group that accompanies my life. They have been my strength these days.

Suffering gives credibility. When everything goes well it is hard to console those for whom things do not go well. Of course, since you have no problems! But I’ve had problems and I have them and they give me the right to talk and console and cheer people up and declare that life is beautiful and it has full sense. A surgical operation can be well worth its while.

I gave three big chocolate boxes to the nurses, one for the morning shift, one for the afternoon shift, one for the night shift. Just one question: Why is it that some nurses are charming, and some are unbearable? It’s so easy to smile.

Just as the operation of 54 years ago had this untoward effect today, so I’ve been warned this operation now may cause a similar crisis later. I hope it’ll take another fifty-four years.

A young couple of my close acquaintance came to see me at the hospital when I was in my bed of pain, and my own pain was reflected in theirs. They came again when I was back in my home, and on seeing me in good shape, standing and moving around, their faces suddenly lit up with joy in spontaneous reaction. Observing the sudden change in their faces I felt the affection and the care of those good friends. Seeing their joy at seeing me well made me feel even better. It is worthwhile falling sick in order to appreciate the love of friends.