January 06th, 2026

On the first day of 2026, Switzerland awoke to news of exceptional gravity. A fire in a bar in Crans-Montana claimed the lives of 40 young people and left 190 others seriously injured, most of them suffering from severe burns. According to initial findings, sparklers attached to champagne bottles are believed to have ignited the ceiling of the venue. Within moments, what had been a festive evening turned into a national tragedy.

Switzerland is in mourning, as are several neighbouring countries from which a number of the victims originated. The 9th of January has been declared a National Day of Mourning, a rare decision in our country that underscores the depth of emotion and sorrow caused by this tragedy.

In a very different, yet personally just as significant context, Monday began at 10:00 a.m. with a taxi journey to Sonnenhof Hospital. Upon arrival, the admission formalities were handled efficiently before I was shown to my room, number 244. One more room added to my personal hospital history, the ninth, to be precise.

The procedure had initially been scheduled for midday. However, several emergencies related to skiing accidents quite naturally took priority, and my operation was postponed until 3:00 p.m. At 1:30 p.m., I met the anaesthetist, Dr med Frederike Serman, whom I already knew. She had previously inserted a central venous catheter during an earlier operation. I remembered her clearly, not least because she once remarked, with a touch of humour, that she “likes to poke” a surprising, yet memorable comment from an anaesthetist.

I explained the difficulties experienced the previous week, following several unsuccessful attempts to insert an intravenous line. Back in my room, I prepared calmly, removing my watch and personal belongings before being taken to the pre-operative area. To avoid the complications encountered earlier, the infusion was this time inserted using ultrasound guidance.

Everything initially appeared to be functioning correctly, until pain developed in my arm. The anaesthetic nurse quickly noticed that the infusion was no longer working. Back to square one. The ultrasound machine was brought back, a new infusion was inserted, this time successfully. The spinal anaesthesia was then administered.

At around 3:00 p.m., I was taken into the operating theatre. Another anaesthetic nurse took over, asked whether I was ready, and before I had time to reply properly, I found myself in the arms of Morpheus.

I woke up at around 6:30 p.m. I was transferred from the operating table to my bed and then taken to the post-operative recovery area. I was offerd water and pretzels, a small luxury that was greatly appreciated at that moment. The surgeon came to inform me that the procedure had taken longer than planned, but that it had gone smoothly and without complications.

At around 8:00 p.m., I returned to my room, where a light meal was waiting for me. At midnight, an injection of Clexane, an anticoagulant, was administered. Shortly afterwards, I fell asleep and enjoyed a generally restful night, interrupted only by the necessary visits of a nurse to change the antibiotic infusions.

This morning, I woke up at around 6:30 a.m., feeling rested. Hot tea and the newspaper were brought to me, followed by breakfast at 8:00 a.m. After washing, an internal medicine doctor came to change the bandage. With each intervention, the scar becomes larger, a detail that commands respect, but there are no signs of inflammation, and the progress is considered positive.

The instruction is clear and repeatedly emphasised: do not put weight on the foot, do not load the leg. A discipline that is essential to ensure a swift and complication-free recovery. A simple rule, but one that, as so often, requires considerable daily discipline.

This evening, Dr Huber, the surgeon who operated on me, came by. It was a moment that was both medical and human, the kind of encounter one particularly appreciates after such a procedure. He first changed the dressing and then took the time to explain, in a clear and educational manner, what had been done during the operation. To illustrate his explanation, he handed me two X-ray images taken at the end of the procedure. On these images, the plate positioned along the tibia can be clearly seen, firmly fixed with several screws. Additional bands surround the bone to ensure optimal stability of the leg. A true piece of orthopaedic engineering, almost comparable to a high-precision industrial assembly, with the small difference that this one is now located inside me.

The objective is clear: to provide the leg with the necessary stability for lasting healing and, in time, a reliable return to mobility. Seeing these images and understanding concretely what was done makes the process more tangible and inspires a certain confidence in the mechanics of the human body when it is in good hands.