I don’t like being unconscious.
There’s something about losing consciousness that always freaks me out. It’s the closest thing to death that we can experience while we’re still alive.
When I go to sleep at night, I think about this. It’s eight hours of darkness.
I think about death every night before I fall asleep.
Today was the day that I had my surgery. When I was sitting in the hospital bed, I couldn’t shake the thought that they were going to put me under and that I may never wake up.
My dad has a serious heart condition that stems from his mother. My dad is one of six. All but two of them have this same heart deformity. I’ve been going to the cardiologist since I was 10 years old to stay out in front of it.
I was terrified that the anesthesia was going to bring it out in me.
On a daily basis, I’d say that my hands and feet sweat about 50 percent of the time. I’m constantly moving. My nose twitches. I have a weird nervous tick with my mouth that only my wife notices, but it’s there. You’d think that I have tourettes and ADHD.
Usually I’m worrying about crap that doesn’t matter that I make up in my head. Well, today, Doc is going to cut a tumor out of my skull.
I had to take off all my clothes and put them in a bag. I got a hospital gown, and some really comfortable socks. Shit, if I had known there would be freebies, I’d come here more often.
The nurse sensed my anxiety and asked if I wanted anything to calm me down. Yeah, how about a Guinness and a cigarette?
I don’t like taking drugs for my anxiety. It evens me out and robs me of my emotion.
Today was different. “Yeah, hook me up.”
As they wheeled me back into the operating room, I felt like a warm chocolate chip cookie coming out of the oven. Damn, maybe I should reconsider my policy on drugs.
They picked me up and lifted me from the warm bed onto a smaller, colder one. Doc told me to count backwards from 100. Instead, I vaguely remember starting to say the “Our Father.” Funny how the non-religious feel the need to believe in something in their moments of fear.
That was it. After that … darkness.
… … …
When I awoke, I was so excited to be alive, and whacked out on drugs, that I puked on my bag of clothes sitting next to the bed. Good thing I got the freebies.
Doc told me the tumor was the size of a thumb. “You’re thumb or my thumb?” I asked.
“An average-sized thumb.”
Are my thumbs average sized? Doesn’t Megan Fox have oddly small thumbs? Trump does. Small hands.
If the tumor were the size of a Trump thumb, would they have had to operate?
I think I was high.
Fuck if I care. I woke up. I’m alive. The tumor’s gone. My good looks are restored. I also got a bad-ass pair of yellow socks.
Number of panic attacks I had today: 1.
Number of panic attacks I had after they pumped me full of drugs: 0.
(Semicolon count: 0)