Surgery

I’m lying on a hospital bed with a tube in my arm. A month had passed since I broke my left forearm for the second time. I had only been alive for eight years and I was going in for surgery. The nurses put everyone awaiting surgery in a room together. There is a bed next to mine and I lean up just enough to tell that it’s an old woman.

“Hi, what are you here for?”
“I have something wrong with my heart.”
“Yeah my arm is broken they might stick pins in it.”
“Well it’ll all go over smoothly I’m sure.”
“So what are they going to do with your heart?”
“They are going to take out a piece.”
“Oh.”

There is a long awkward silence. The nurse takes me to the operating table. As I try not to think about the old woman, I go into a room looking up at four men. They scare me, but they’re trying hard to smile and get me to relax.

“When is this over?”
“You won’t feel a thing, when I count to ten you’ll be out.”

Four hours later.

I’m lying on a hospital bed with a tube in my arm. My mom is smiling at me but I can’t lift my head. The doctors must have pistol whipped me in my sleep. I panic. My throat is scraped up. As happy as I am to see mom, the pain is too strong.

“I’m going to go to bed mom.”
“O.K.”