Mutatis-Mutandis
03-04-2011, 10:29 AM
"Going under the knife." That is such a lovely term, no? Such a comforting little saying to think about when one is about to have surgery. Yet, I always think of it, because it's what surgery essentially is. You are knocked out, putting your life in the hands of a man who could kill you if he pumps just a couple more millileters of liquid anesthitic into your veins than he should, or turns the valve on the gas tank a bit further than is required, all so another man (a man you barely know, no less), can cut into you with a very sharp knife. You are laying down and he is standing over you, the knife is coming down on you from above. While there are many phrases that make no sense, "Going under the knife," isn't one of them.
I write this because I will be doing just that, again: going under the knife. It's quite a unique experience, though I wouldn't recommend it. There are some parts of it that are enjoyable, though. Such as a wonderful little liquid called Versed that they give you before going into the operating room, which gives the most relaxing, carefree feeling I've ever experienced. And, last time instead of giving me gas, they gave me this wonderful drug called Ketamine, which is a hallucinogen. As I laid on the operating table as they put the deflated balloon in my throat, slowly blowing it up to open my esophagus, I ignorantly and blissfully stared up at the lights above the operating table, imagining they were galaxies, and I was flying through them. It was a good trip, unlike the last time.
Afterwards, when I was being wheeled out into recovery by a woman with a very large, black mole on her chin who was taking care of me and asking me questions in a rather thick Russian accent, I decided to discuss Russian literature with her. I brought up Tolstoy and Dostoevsky (though I could not correctly say the name, no matter how hard I tried--I rarely can when sober), even though I had never read any of their works, which I admitted. "I gave War and Peace a try," I informed her in what was most likely a near unintelligible slur, "but I couldn't keep track of the names." She sympathized with my plight, as this turned out to be one of her favorite books, and said she understood how it could be frustrating for someone who does not understand Russian culture, and encouraged me to give it another try.
This whole time another curious occurrence took place, which was the overwhelming desire to write a poem, a long one, about all that was happening. It would include my adventures in space and the Russian woman, and it would be a great work, maybe even being put next the likes of Yeats and Eliot in future anthologies. I had never had such a desire to write before. I could not, though, due to my situation, and instead composed it in my head, vowing to remember it and write it all down when I had the chance. I did not. By the time I left I had lost all desire to write it, even though I had not forgotten it, and the next day all memory of my epic was gone from my memory. Too bad. It could have been a masterpiece. Or the senseless ravings of a man tripping on hospital-sanctioned LSD.
And, with this past experience in mind, I must once again trek forth into the sterile, polite prison that is a hospital, where I will intrust men with my life so they can remove what would otherwise take my foot. I'm looking forward to the Versed and the Ketamine, should they choose to use it. I just hope it's a good trip.
I write this because I will be doing just that, again: going under the knife. It's quite a unique experience, though I wouldn't recommend it. There are some parts of it that are enjoyable, though. Such as a wonderful little liquid called Versed that they give you before going into the operating room, which gives the most relaxing, carefree feeling I've ever experienced. And, last time instead of giving me gas, they gave me this wonderful drug called Ketamine, which is a hallucinogen. As I laid on the operating table as they put the deflated balloon in my throat, slowly blowing it up to open my esophagus, I ignorantly and blissfully stared up at the lights above the operating table, imagining they were galaxies, and I was flying through them. It was a good trip, unlike the last time.
Afterwards, when I was being wheeled out into recovery by a woman with a very large, black mole on her chin who was taking care of me and asking me questions in a rather thick Russian accent, I decided to discuss Russian literature with her. I brought up Tolstoy and Dostoevsky (though I could not correctly say the name, no matter how hard I tried--I rarely can when sober), even though I had never read any of their works, which I admitted. "I gave War and Peace a try," I informed her in what was most likely a near unintelligible slur, "but I couldn't keep track of the names." She sympathized with my plight, as this turned out to be one of her favorite books, and said she understood how it could be frustrating for someone who does not understand Russian culture, and encouraged me to give it another try.
This whole time another curious occurrence took place, which was the overwhelming desire to write a poem, a long one, about all that was happening. It would include my adventures in space and the Russian woman, and it would be a great work, maybe even being put next the likes of Yeats and Eliot in future anthologies. I had never had such a desire to write before. I could not, though, due to my situation, and instead composed it in my head, vowing to remember it and write it all down when I had the chance. I did not. By the time I left I had lost all desire to write it, even though I had not forgotten it, and the next day all memory of my epic was gone from my memory. Too bad. It could have been a masterpiece. Or the senseless ravings of a man tripping on hospital-sanctioned LSD.
And, with this past experience in mind, I must once again trek forth into the sterile, polite prison that is a hospital, where I will intrust men with my life so they can remove what would otherwise take my foot. I'm looking forward to the Versed and the Ketamine, should they choose to use it. I just hope it's a good trip.