“It’ll be over before you know it, son,” the tall, grey-haired anesthesiologist says, without much conviction. Not long ago I knew his name.
But that line, I remember. It is the same line he used on me the last time—and probably the time before that. And on the patient before me.
Over before you know it. For a split second I think about that. Does he mean quick and painless? Or that I will no longer possess the brain cells required to participate in the act of knowing, an activity I have taken for granted until recently. When I wake up—assuming I wake up—knowing itself will be different. Less painful? Or just less?
How will that feel? But now I can’t ask. Can’t move. So the panic and mounting claustrophobia I feel are silent, evidenced only by the increased frequency of the beeping on their machines.
“BP’s going up,” the old guy says. The stern young doctor pauses, stops adjusting the dials and buttons on the dashboard in front of her.
“Heart’s fine. Just anxiety,” the old guy says.
“Shhhhh. Happy memories,” Florence whispers. I can smell the sour hospital coffee lingering on her breath. “Or just imagine you’re on a beautiful sunny beach somewhere.”
Typhoons, hurricanes, tropical storms, monsoons—the sunnier the beach, the bigger the storm.