I wanted to remember them, each one. The nurses, the doctors, the anesthesiologist. I wanted to remember their smiles, their warm, loving hands, their kindnesses, their understanding, and I can’t because there are so very many. More than dozens.
I’ve kept a mental diary so that I can put the names to the faces, and I find now that they are more notes and snapshots, somehow disconnected much like the whole thing from the beginning. It’s as if I went in and out of consciousness at times, often totally in the moment and then at other times, not there at all.
Flashes come back from time to time, like this morning when I suddenly remembered being wheeled into the operating room for my surgery. Without even realizing it, my eyes were teary and I found myself recreating being wheeled through the corridors of Brigham & Women’s hospital. The nurses had covered me with warmed blankets for the cold ride, and I remember that the corridors were narrow and filled with unexpected things. Like recycling containers. I never expected to see the large blue top loading plastic containers in the corridor outside the surgical suite. And the room itself. It was much smaller than I’d expected. Probably 12x14, the size of an average bedroom, but without the accouterments of a bed, or a sofa, tasteful artwork, end tables, and mood lighting. Not even any throw pillows. Nothing except stark white cold walls and huge, round amazing lights over the table strategically placed in the center of the room. They looked like giant bug eyes peering down at the empty table, waiting to swoop down and sting me as soon as I settled into where they set their sights.
I remember hearing someone tell me to make my way from the gurney to the operating table as best I could, so I scooched my way over, the ties on the back of the Johnnie flapping, devoid of pride or caring, and felt my cold butt cheeks against the cold white surface.
That’s the last thing I remember until I asked for crushed ice. I’d already been through hours of surgery and hours in recovery, and I didn’t remember a thing. As much as I wanted to remember them all, I couldn't.
Flashes come back from time to time, like this morning when I suddenly remembered being wheeled into the operating room for my surgery. Without even realizing it, my eyes were teary and I found myself recreating being wheeled through the corridors of Brigham & Women’s hospital. The nurses had covered me with warmed blankets for the cold ride, and I remember that the corridors were narrow and filled with unexpected things. Like recycling containers. I never expected to see the large blue top loading plastic containers in the corridor outside the surgical suite. And the room itself. It was much smaller than I’d expected. Probably 12x14, the size of an average bedroom, but without the accouterments of a bed, or a sofa, tasteful artwork, end tables, and mood lighting. Not even any throw pillows. Nothing except stark white cold walls and huge, round amazing lights over the table strategically placed in the center of the room. They looked like giant bug eyes peering down at the empty table, waiting to swoop down and sting me as soon as I settled into where they set their sights.
I remember hearing someone tell me to make my way from the gurney to the operating table as best I could, so I scooched my way over, the ties on the back of the Johnnie flapping, devoid of pride or caring, and felt my cold butt cheeks against the cold white surface.
That’s the last thing I remember until I asked for crushed ice. I’d already been through hours of surgery and hours in recovery, and I didn’t remember a thing. As much as I wanted to remember them all, I couldn't.
