162 lines
6.1 KiB
HTML
162 lines
6.1 KiB
HTML
---
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date: 2019-11-01
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weight: 4
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fit: true
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---
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<pre class="verse">There are so many words that could be said
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about the preparation for surgery, all those steps that led
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to that six-thirty AM call. The days of purging.
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The anxiety. The drive. My husband's gentle urging.
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That night in the Airbnb. That last shower with the Hibiclens.
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All that has faded. It's distored at the edge of the lens
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of my memory.
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       No, what remains is the two hours before:
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the being so scared that I was reduced to the barest core.
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There was nothing left of me but fear, not even a name.
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I could still drive — the fear was quiet and tame —
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I could get us to the ambulatory surgery waiting room.
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But beyond that, I was a non-person. Or convict: my doom
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was in their hands.
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<blockquote>Non-person? Doom? Give yourself at least some credit.
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You still had agency. You still had a choice, could have not let it
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happen. You say of travel that getting you there is their job:
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you felt the same here. You crossed the doorway and let this mob
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of nurses do theirs.</blockquote>
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And that's exactly what happened. I crossed that threshold,
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and then there I was: a patient before a team ready to handhold.
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At that point, I was no longer bearing all that weight.
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I was able to relax and let them guide me, a piece of freight
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working through a system. I even had a barcode to scan.
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Some gabapentin. My belongings in a bag. A rundown of the plan.
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An IV, and a second after the first missed. Meet the surgeon,
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then the anaesthesiologist.
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            I felt myself then a virgin.
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I was at this point being prepared for some strange sacrifice,
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a process of pain and cutting, of rebirth. A cut, a slice,
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and I would become something more...what? Mature? More complete?
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Where I'd never put stock in virginity before — so obsolete —
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it fits well, now.
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<blockquote>It's the penetration. It's the being opened up. The breach in tegument.
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There is change implied in the loss of virginity. Something elegant,
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something beyond just the physical. Maybe it's maturity,
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maybe it's a coming of age, or even some strange aspect of purity.
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It's a one-way change</blockquote>
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That no-going-back-ness grew stronger and stronger,
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and the minutes just seemed to go longer and longer,
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as I got closer and closer to the fateful moment of change.
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I was laid on my back. I wwas wheeled to the OR. "How strange,"
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I thought. "That I'll never know where this room actually is.
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I'm wheeled here on my back, the surgeon does his biz,
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and I'll wake up in post-op." To this day, I have no idea.
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Did all of my friends go through this? Did Katt? Did Lutea?
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Were we all whisked away to some dreamside room
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where we would be changed? Some strange, perhaps-tomb?
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After all, this surgery, this procedue, none of this was riskless.
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Would this be where we died? Would we pass here, resistless,
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in the depths of anaesthesia?
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<blockquote>Was that really such a worry?
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               I mean, I suppose it had to have been.
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You spent all that time polishing your will. How could you begin
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to deny the death-thoughts inherent in a nine-hour surgery?
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That you didn't still leaves you feeling like you're living a forgery
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of a life.</blockquote>
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But then I was in. I was in that room with surprisingly green walls.
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The nurses dropped me off, and from down those hidden halls
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came surgeon, anaesthesiologist, what seemed like dozens of people.
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"Here, hold this over your face," someone said as a needle
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wandered into my IV's injection port. "It's just oxygen."
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My hand began to slip. Oxygen? Some sort of intoxicant?
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They laughed, repeated, "No no, you have to hold it up."
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Perhaps it was O2, but whatever was injected began to interrupt
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any train of thought. The jazz music they'd put on, at my request,
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was overwhelmed by static. My vision followed. Silence: blessed.
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Speed: surprising. Is this death? A rush of nothing. Is this death?
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Nothing.
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    Nothing. Nothing. Is this death?
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                  Nothing. Is this death?
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Silence, static.
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<blockquote>    Was this death?
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Nothing.        Nothing, death?     nothing
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                    Nothing,
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                             Nothing.
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    Was this death?
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Death?         Nothing.
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                          Death? Nothing.
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                 There was nothing.
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Silence.
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    Static.
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        Nothing.
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                  Death.
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              Death.
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                       Silence.
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                           Death.
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       Silence.
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    Static.
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Static.         Static.
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                Death, static.
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                         Death.
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And then you woke up.
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</blockquote></pre>
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