Do Asians Dream of Teriyaki Sheep?

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These were the last words that slipped through my mind as the anesthesiologist pumped me full of whatever mind-numbing chemical-of-the-gods he had in that syringe.  A moment prior, the nurse in the operating room blurted out "It's cocktail time!"  Was she was referring to me and the slurry of fluids running into my veins, or did I manage to choose a hospital run by chronic alcoholics? 

Note to self: Check your hospital gown for maraschino cherry stains IF you wake up.

The anesthesiologist remained silent, but he stared at me with this piercing gaze that instantaneously informed me that this was a man who enjoyed his power to put people into a temporary coma.  This was simultaneously comforting and terrifying.  All I could think about was how the last time I was put under for an operation, I managed to tell a nurse in full-detail what wines were in my basement, where they were from, what grapes they were made with, and when I intended to drink them.  It's as if my brain's subconscious is my consciousness' mischievous twin brother who lives in my brain's library.  I can't tell my subconscious what to do, but I have to acknowledge that he has full access to all of my archives, particularly the "fears and concerns" section.  My only hope is that this time the anesthesiologist knocks my ass out so cold that my subconscious won't grab the wheel and blurt out how thoroughly I both fear and respect this man.  I need to distract myself, I need to set my mind on something stupid, something inane that will occupy by my entire chemical-saturated brain for the duration of the operation.  "Do Asians dream of teriyaki sheep?..."

I woke up five seconds later in a daze to the sound of two nurses discussing my recovery. 

"Yeah he's coming out of it."

Thank God, there's no panic in her voice, and her hands are free of all booze-serving implements.

This room is hazy, I think the nurse just asked me where my pain is on a scale of one to ten?

"Niiiiiine..."

The blessed nurse pumps me full of morphine, and at that moment all things in the world seem fair.  Sweet sweet coma, my lover is morphine.

I wake up hours later to the sound of my mom's voice.  She's telling me that the operation went well, and that I look "good".  My mom encourages me to take a sip of water, per the doctor's instructions, and I draw a taste of the frigid liquid onto my tongue and hold it there, this isn't as bad as I thought it would be?  I swallow... ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE!  Unbeknown to my morphine-soaked brain, my sinuses are stuffed to the rafters with cotton, cotton which has soaked-up about an oil-drum's worth of blood by my estimation.  It's as if someone took a fire hose, found an appropriate adapter to screw it into my nostril, and turn the valve to 11.  My eyes attempt to escape my head as I gag, cough, heave, and launch a teaspoon of water from my mouth onto my crotch.  Great, now my crotch is wet AND life is hell.  My mom giggles for a moment, and I begin to wonder if I was raised by Jokey Smurf.

I'm too exhausted to care, I need sleep.  Hello pillow, I'm going to drool on you now...

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This page contains a single entry by Jimmy Chan published on September 25, 2008 7:23 PM.

Urine Gone is the next entry in this blog.

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