I could swear the last few weeks have been trying to break me. There has been a sudden downpour of conflict from all sides. In my real life, it’s painful and hard. In my writing life, I’m learning some excellent things about how to better develop a character (hint: make the sky fall down on them when they least expect it).
One of the less pleasant things I had to do was get oral surgery to remove my wisdom teeth. The teeth in question had decided to make pain for me in my old age. I kid, I’m only in my thirties, but that seems to be old for these kinds of things. Recovery took me longer than I expected and it was a good 6 days later that I finally felt human again.
And somewhere in the middle of that recovery, I scribbled down the following lines, trying to grasp what I’d been through. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as my bizarre recollections make me laugh now. And no, I never did figure out who zipped my hoodie on me.
image by http://www.sxc.hu/profile/Jascha400d
I remember they took my glasses. Maybe that’s why I never got a good look at the doctor’s face. They took my glasses and tied down my hands.
I was wearing a short-sleeve shirt, and wires, and tubes.
Now I’m in my hoodie, my jacket, my scarf. I notice a hot tear running down my cheek.
“Who put my clothes on?” I ask. He seems to think it a funny question but I don’t recall his answer.
There was a wheelchair I was expected to get into. I can see the blur of it, off to my right.
“I could hear them,” I say. “I could hear the beeping. I could hear them talking.” He tells me it must have been when I was waking up. It must have been.
My hoodie is zipped up. It’s not easy to zip. I was in a short-sleeve shirt. Who put it on me?
“Did you come get me?” I ask. He is amused that I don’t remember.
I remember there was a wheelchair I was expected to get out of. I remember the feel of it under my hands.
I can see my jacket and scarf in a pile across the room. My hoodie is still zipped snuggly on me where I lay on the couch.
“Who put my clothes on?” I ask. He says I was dressed when they brought me out.
I remember the wheelchair, but not the time I spent in it.
“I could hear them,” I say.
“You told me,” he says.
I was in a short-sleeve shirt. My hands were tied down. The doctor asked me a question. I slurred out half an answer and faded.
I am fully dressed now, my mouth full of gauze, missing my teeth
and my memories.