Passing Blurred Lines

The next morning, the last time I would feel hunger for a very long time, they rolled me down to the operating room in the basement of the hospital.  They told me to leave my prescription glasses in my room, so they would not be lost.  The entire ride was blurry, to say the least.  My myopia and almost blind left eye prevented me from seeing even the face of the man above me that took me who-knows-where.  Even though I should be used to the lack of vision, it makes me uncomfortable outside of my own environment.  I don’t know who’s looking at or addressing me, so I seem standoffish or just rude.  I usually follow the voice, and no details can be made out.  At home, I know where everything is, so it’s easier to get around, even in the dark.

In what I could see, once the attendant stopped rolling me around, was a small hallway, likely near the operating room.  He told me my family was here to wish me well, but then I had to get prepped next door.

You could tell my mother’s fear from her repeated kisses, and her unwillingness to let go of my hand.  “I’ll be okay.  I love you.”

Then I was brought into the large operating room.  It was cold and bright, busy with nurses preparing equipment and medical tools, and the anesthesiologist approaching me to explain her procedure.

“Good morning.  I am Doctor…”  She asked me to confirm my name.

Remembering my knee surgery, I laughed when the anesthesiologist told me to begin counting to one hundred.  I barely recall saying number three.  As my eyes shut, I entered a tranquility that lasted mere seconds;  and I was whisked away to sleep.  Or was that the medication making me feel amazing?  Pray for me.

 

Be well,

Patricia

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