Life is fragile in the recovery room

From my hospital bed I crawl onto the operating table. I am shaking. Not because of the cold air in the operating room but because I am scared.
“Are you nervous?” the nurse asks me. “I am scared,” I say. “Why?” This time it’s my anesthesiologist asking. The same one who helped with my PAO surgery. I remember his face. And the fact that he doesn’t seem to be an asshole, like they say most anesthesiologists are. “Last time was so horrible.”Ya, that was a major and very painful surgery!” We both agree.
They ask me to spread my arms to the side. I feel tied down like on a cross. When they try to put the IV in I look straight up to the ceiling, from where the huge lights will soon shine on my unconscious body. They use me as a pin cushion. “Your veins are tiny,” they say. I know. Nobody ever finds them on their own, they always need help from someone else. I could use some help here too. A kind word. Someone telling me everything is gonna be ok. Please. I fight back my tears. I could use some help too. But then they put the mask over my mouth, tell me to breathe, I try to keep my eyes open, I fail. Forced to surrender. Into nothing. Into where they cut me open. The scar I’ve been taking care of for the past 9 months. Back to the beginning. Continue reading