I looked up at him as he wheeled me on a gurney through the hospital to the operating room.
He stared off for a minute while he rolled me into the elevator. I thought maybe he wouldn't talk anymore, or talk about something else.
"Those children, how? How?" he began again.
"Yeah..." I said tepidly. It was unspeakable, but I had no idea how to convey that and every attempt I made sounded inadequate, or almost fake. It was like when you find out from your boss that another employee was caught stealing and you feel like everything you say is a lie, even though you know you didn't do anything.
The I.V. in my hand was throbbing, swelling and bruised. It had been there for hours and was more uncomfortable than the hand they were about to operate on. My ass was sticking out of the back of the gown and nakedly sitting on the gurney sheets, not matter how many times I tried to arrange things. I still don't know why hand surgery required underwear, off.
"You know, there are those 47%ers that live off the rest of us, on ENTITLEMENTS" the nurse stated, shortly after telling me that she had herpes. I was guessing that she didn't even know what 'entitlement' meant. I smiled weakly. I wasn't getting into this with her. I just wished she would realize that it was inappropriate. Actually, more inappropriate than talking about downstairs herpes, as far as I was concerned. She brought it up a few more times throughout my six hour wait for surgery. I continued to smile weakly and think of all the 'entitlements' she was probably taking advantage of: Old Pell grants that she used to get her R.N., mortgage interest write offs, tuition deductions for kids, health care costs. As well as the real freebies: SOCIAL SECURITY and impending MEDICARE! I actually liked her though. She was a stone cold cracker that kept offering me Valium, just to 'take the edge off'. I said "no thank you" politely, anticipating anesthesia and pain killers.
"Hey!" a number of jovial people asked me, wearing colorful headgear.
"What's your name? Your birthday? What's getting operated on!?"
I impressed them with my fascinatingly correct answers until the doctor finally came and wrote 'yes' on the finger that he was going to operate on.
"Bring her my cocktail!" chief crazy headgear wearing anesthesiologist announced.
"So, is this like a pain killer or the stuff that will put me under?" I asked, as one of the crew injected a syringe into one of the outlets on my I.V.
"You are going to laugh like crazy for a second and then you'll be out" he answered.
I felt fucked up for a minute. 'Mother's Milk' I thought, thinking of the term the cracker nurse used to describe the 'cocktail' that they would be using on me.
I woke up in the same place that I had fallen asleep in. An ill fitting oxygen mask hovered over my face. A large cast and wrap covered my left hand. My I.V. had been moved and was pierced into the outside of my forearm. I realized I was sporting a very off the shoulder look with my gown, the neck had been spread out and wires were attached to sticky things. Someone pulled them off and helped me not be so, er, naked, and rolled me back to the cracker nurse.
My mom was waiting for me, having sat with me all day without biting her tongue off, trying not to go at Romney nurse. I found out that an hour and a half had passed. It was dark outside. The nurse reminded us that we could leave when we wanted. I could hardly stand and stumbled into my clothes. I was actually relieved when they brought a wheel chair to take me outside.
I sat in the bathtub the next morning, trying to get ready for work. Hideous bruises lined my I.V. arm, dark, black and yellow ones. My surgery arm was bathed in a strange orange substance that wouldn't wash off. Skin was missing where some sort of tape had been removed. I splashed water on myself. Under my surgery arm, some weird electroprobe thing remained. I ripped it off and threw it on the floor. Along with the tape and cotton that covered yet another black I.V. bruise.
Then, I went to work.
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