Anesthesia

True story

I’m in a black void. Silence, no sense of time, no pain, nothing, just blackness

I’m aware of one thing, I’m conscious, or at least I think I am.

Just moments before they were wheeling me into the OR. I can see what I think are the Davinci robots and it feels like I’m rolling onto the bridge of the starship Enterprise

I recognize my doctor only by his eyes, everything else is covered. He’s looking down at me and I’m thinking of something profound to say when he speaks.

“Let’s begin.”

Then the lights went out, everything!

So here I am in that void, and it feels like death. I know some time has passed, but has it been minutes, or days? Am I in a coma?

I can vaguely remember I was in that operating room, scheduled for surgery, but not much else.

Eventually I am aware of voices, like a radio playing in the distance. I can’t understand anything they are saying, but I do know that wherever they are, is where life is, and I need to get there because the blackness I’m in, is death.

That string of voices is my life line and I can’t reach it, I don’t even know where to look. I try and speak again and again, but I know I’m not making any sound. I believe that soon, the voices will stop and it will be all over. So, I desperately try to make a sound, any sound, or move a muscle. I have to communicate with them somehow before they give up.

Then I recognize my name, and I’m relieved and again try to talk. I can tell something came from my mouth, but I know it’s not a complete word.

“There he is,” one of the voices says.

Oh my God, I made it.

I can’t describe how terrifying those minutes or hours felt.

Slowly now, I can see light and moving shapes, and I can tell I’m in a hospital room and a half dozen people are working all around me. I can’t tell what they are doing or what they are talking about. I think I am just so relieved, I close my eyes only to wake again and again until I realize I’m in a different room and all those people are gone.

Now I can move my head a little and I see Susan in the corner reading. It was almost as emotional as seeing her walking down the aisle so many years ago.

Either I can’t move yet, or I’m afraid to. She tells me everything went well and the doctor said he was optimistic. Right then it didn’t matter, I was enjoying this moment. The morphine was distorting everything, but I felt content and relaxed, better than I had felt in months.

Somewhere out there are the nurses that were in the recovery room, the ones that kept talking to me and I wish I had somehow thanked them. I’m going to try though, just so they know.