The Surgery

Beep.

Beep.

The light in the operating room swings back and forth; casting shadows on the instruments. My eyesight is blurry. I'm partially conscious as they saw away my skull and begin prodding around in my brain.

"You're doing good," one of the surgeons says. I can tell from the crease in his eyes that he is smiling behind his mask. The room fades in and out of fuzziness while the instruments continue to hum and beep.

Beep.

Beep.

"Can you count to ten?" asks another person.

"One...two..." I droll out the numbers. My speech is slightly groggy, but I manage to complete the task.

I look to my left. I can see the metal instruments poking around in my brain on a flat screen tv that hangs just over the monitors. I watch for a bit -- wondering how long this will take.

One of the nurses begins to hold my hand. I realize that tears were silently streaming down my cheek. I guess the grogginess prevented me from feeling anything.

"Why don't you strike up a conversation with her?" I hear one of the doctor's say to the nurse. She nods before saying, "So, they tell me you were having nosebleeds?"

I try to nod, but my skull is screwed into some sort of metal brace. So, I whisper, "Yes".

"You're very lucky" she says and holds my hand a little tighter. I can smell burning flesh - salty, like a barbecue, except, it's my brain. I can't bear to look at the monitor. I just want this to be over.

I don't feel like talking to the nurse, and so I ignore her when she asks me another question.

Beep.

Beep.

"Karen," one of the doctor's says "we need you to keep talking with Jackie so we know that we aren't affecting any of your speech functions."

"Ok," I whisper.

Beep.

Beep.

"You're one of the first to have this surgery" says the nurse enthusiastically. I don't respond for a moment -- but then remember what the doctor just asked of me, and so I say "yes".

She continues with the small-talk. "You must be so excited, just think how different your life will be once this is all over."

I suppose she is right. At the moment, I'm more concerned with surviving this lame conversation.

The barbecue smell has left the air, so I look back to the screen. There is a white patch on my brain where the black mass used to be. I see another nurse walk with a tray to my left. The black mass is in there. I readjust my focus to see tiny strings hanging from what must be the mass. At the end of each of those strings are all my emotional mistakes. Regrets hang from the cords like marionettes without their puppeteer. Some of their faces I recognize.

I breathe a sigh of relief as the nurse tosses the mass into a yellow bin marked biological hazardous waste. I hear it all thump to the bottom -- and smile, before sleep takes over. The last words I hear from one of the doctors is comforting, "We got rid of it all."

And with that, I fall into a deep and long overdue slumber.