Today,
I’ll continue the saga of my surgery this past Wednesday during which the
Novocain didn’t fully take effect and I, having opted to forego any drugs that
would have left my mind “foggy,” felt much of the surgical procedure done to
me. When I left off, my surgeon had just
pulled a ten-inch by two-inch section of flesh—mine—up and away from my body,
separating it from the underlying muscle with his scalpel. Though there were blessed parts I didn’t
feel, there were more than enough that I did, which sent my mind reeling.
Why in God’s name am I the
only one freaking out here? This isn’t
normal! Least…not for me….
The
faces of my surgeon and his assistant were utterly void of any stress. Only mine was contorted into a grimace born
of extreme pain and immense mental struggle.
The assistant looked from my face to that of my surgeon and then smiled
a reassuring grin as she said, “Jazz…I think it’s time for some jazz,” as she
turned and walked to turn on the music.
A
moment later, melodic jazz filled the room.
With each note, the tension in my body eased. Bit by bit I felt my heart rate return to
normal, no longer fearful that my heart might explode from my chest. With it, my breathing resumed a more normal
rhythm, though it was still shallower and more halting than usual.
My
surgeon carried on, seemingly never missing a beat. Though I hadn’t noticed it before, his
empathetic demeanor had caused him to tense, knowing how much discomfort he was
causing me. But now, as jazz resonated
round, wrapping us in its magical releasing hold, I could feel his tension
drain. I smiled and my eyes locked on my
surgeon. Sensing I was looking at him,
he paused to view my face. “Are you
okay?” he asked.
I
felt genuine gratitude for his assistant’s turning on the music and his
recognizing how very hard this was for me to get through. “Yes.
I’m fine,” I managed, though the voice that spoke sounded foreign to
me—strained, squeakier and softer spoken than normal. I mustered the best smile I could and added,
“You can continue. I’m okay.”
My
surgeon returned my smile then bent his head to carry on. For a horrifying moment, I panicked. Visions of one end of that ten-inch by
two-inch strip of my flesh gripped between my surgeon’s fingers, the other end
still attached to me filled my mind, and I remembered the splat the first discarded piece of flesh had made when my surgeon
flicked it onto the surgical drape.
For the love of everything
good, please, please, pleeeeaaase don’t fling this strip of flesh. Don’t think I could handle hearing it go
ker-splat.
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