I see the sun setting through the slats of the blinds. Orange turning to red, the light filtering in as the sun sinks below the horizon. There’s a man wearing surgical scrubs looming above me. He’s about to do something very painful to me, but only at my request.
“…because of your sensitivity to the anesthetic, Mister Rote.”
“Of course,” I say. You can’t put a man who never sleeps to sleep.
He continues: “This needle will numb the pain somewhat. But I cannot guarantee that you won’t feel anything. And of course — ” the syringe is lifted from a stainless steel tray beside me “– you will remain aware.”
I tell the doctor that needles don’t bother me. Pain just a bit more, but not too much. A man in my business deals with pain everyday. Other people’s pain. My own. Sometimes, I’m the man who inflicts both.
There are several pieces of broken glass embedded in my back and shoulder. A small calibre bullet in my ass. A rusted spike of metal impaling me just below the collarbone from when I fell from the window.
I’m lying on my side, a paper gown protecting my dignity. As it is, I just want this stuff out of my body. The sooner, the better. I’m still on the clock, on the job. This is cutting into my deadline.
The doctor works as fast as he can and I grind my teeth and try to deal with the situation. Performing mental tricks to take my mind of the procedure. Always curious to learn a new trick, I watch him pick up the scalpel and open me up to better grab the lead slug. My mind falls into a narrow black pit as I watch, a casual observer of an interesting medical drama. My eyes are not my own. My body isn’t either. The man laying at a thirty degree angle is the subject. While the doctor reaches in with some forceps and works his magic, the subject turns ghost-white. Erol imagines a lesser man would be screaming right now, but I wouldn’t know. That is not me.
When my mind returns from the well, the doctor is packing the wound and taping it closed. He’ll remove the glass next, a much easier task. The rusty spike is a blurry reminder in my peripheral vision of things to come.
“Those may scar…” he says to nobody in particular. More to himself, I think. He’s a good doctor. Efficient. He turns his attention to the jagged sliver of metal protruding from my upper torso and then I hear myself scream and then pass out.
For one who doesn’t sleep, this is a strange thing. But then again, I’m not awake to consider it. When I emerge from the black hole of unconsciousness the doctor is tidying up in the washroom. Gauze and tape cover large patches of my skin and it every few seconds, the wounds throb and burn, causing my eyes to water and my mouth to go dry. I feel the urge to vomit, I imagine the result of the medication. I lie in bed. I can’t sleep.
The next day I feel better. It’s been a day since I’ve eaten food and I need to do something about that. The doc has a small refrigerator in his office and I grab a yogurt and make some coffee. The stuff doesn’t wake me up but I like the warmth and the taste. I flip through a stack of takeout menus while the coffee drips down into a promotional mug advertising some pharmaceutical wonder. I plan my meals in advance, four a day to keep my energy up, with snacks in between. With my metabolism and a strenuous workout regimen I can do this. Food is one of the few joys I have in my life but it comes in two varieties: fuel and entertainment. Right now, I need to feed the Erol machine. I make an order and leave the money on a plate outside the doc’s front door. A note says to ring the bell and leave the pie.
I can’t sleep through pain, through sickness. I can’t escape boredom by closing my eyes and drifting off into a self-induced coma. Plane rides are a nightmare, especially long jumps on cross-country or international flights. I sit and I read. Earplugs in, I avoid eye contact and conversation. I feel the thrum of the engine, the whine of air conditioners and babies suffering from the cabin pressure. I stay at the doc’s, eating pizza and chinese food and pad thai and spicy curries and burritos and eventually I’m well enough to be where I am right now. Crying babies. Whining engines. No eye contact. No conversations.
The woman on the plan bends down and asks me if I’d like a beverage. I can read her lips but her chipper, cheery voice is on mute. I hear myself say “water” and she hands me a tiny plastic bottle and a larger cup of ice and a napkin. Five hours until I reach California. There’s a tiny television screen in front of me. Looping travel shows, sitcoms, re-enactments of homicides, hockey and basketball.
Five more hours of this. I forgot to bring a book.
I see the sun setting through the slats of the blinds. Orange turning to red, the light filtering in as the sun sinks below the horizon. There’s a man wearing surgical scrubs looming above me. He’s about to do something very painful to me, but only at my request.
“…because of your sensitivity to the anesthetic, Mister Rote.
“Of course,” I say. You can’t put a man who never sleeps to sleep.
He continues: “This needle will numb the pain somewhat. But I cannot guarantee that you won’t feel anything. And of course — ” the syringe is lifted from a stainless steel tray beside me “– you will remain aware.”
I tell the doctor that needles don’t bother me. Pain just a bit more, but not too much. A man in my business deals with pain everyday. Other people’s pain. My own. Sometimes, I’m the man who inflicts both.
There are several pieces of broken glass embedded in my back and shoulder. A small calibre bullet in my ass. A rusted spike of metal impaling me just below the collarbone from when I fell from the window.
I’m lying on my side, a paper gown protecting my dignity. As it is, I just want this stuff out of my body. The sooner, the better. I’m still on the clock, on the job. This is cutting into my deadline.
The doctor works as fast as he can and I grind my teeth and try to deal with the situation. Performing mental tricks to take my mind of the procedure. Always curious to learn a new trick, I watch him pick up the scalpel and open me up to better grab the lead slug. My mind falls into a narrow black pit as I watch, a casual observer of an interesting medical drama. My eyes are not my own. My body isn’t either. The man laying at a thirty degree angle is the subject. While the doctor reaches in with some forceps and works his magic, the subject turns ghost-white. Erol imagines a lesser man would be screaming right now, but I wouldn’t know. That is not me.
When my mind returns from the well, the doctor is packing the wound and taping it closed. He’ll remove the glass next, a much easier task. The rusty spike is a blurry reminder in my peripheral vision of things to come.
“Those may scar…” he says to nobody in particular. More to himself, I think. He’s a good doctor. Efficient. He turns his attention to the jagged sliver of metal protruding from my upper torso and then I hear myself scream and then pass out.
For one who doesn’t sleep, this is a strange thing. But then again, I’m not awake to consider it. When I emerge from the black hole of unconsciousness the doctor is tidying up in the washroom. Gauze and tape cover large patches of my skin and it every few seconds, the wounds throb and burn, causing my eyes to water and my mouth to go dry. I feel the urge to vomit, I imagine the result of the medication. I lie in bed. I can’t sleep.
The next day I feel better. It’s been a day since I’ve eaten food and I need to do something about that. The doc has a small refrigerator in his office and I grab a yogurt and make some coffee. The stuff doesn’t wake me up but I like the warmth and the taste. I flip through a stack of takeout menus while the coffee drips down into a promotional mug advertising some pharmaceutical wonder. I plan my meals in advance, four a day to keep my energy up, with snacks in between. With my metabolism and a strenuous workout regimen I can do this. Food is one of the few joys I have in my life but it comes in two varieties: fuel and entertainment. Right now, I need to feed the Erol machine. I make an order and leave the money on a plate outside the doc’s front door. A note says to ring the bell and leave the pie.
I can’t sleep through pain, through sickness. I can’t escape boredom by closing my eyes and drifting off into a self-induced coma. Plane rides are a nightmare, especially long jumps on cross-country or international flights. I sit and I read. Earplugs in, I avoid eye contact and conversation. I feel the thrum of the engine, the whine of air conditioners and babies suffering from the cabin pressure. I stay at the doc’s, eating pizza and chinese food and pad thai and spicy curries and burritos and eventually I’m well enough to be where I am right now. Crying babies. Whining engines. No eye contact. No conversations.
The woman on the plan bends down and asks me if I’d like a beverage. I can read her lips but her chipper, cheery voice is on mute. I hear myself say “water” and she hands me a tiny plastic bottle and a larger cup of ice and a napkin. Five hours until I reach California. There’s a tiny television screen in front of me. Looping travel shows, sitcoms, re-enactments of homicides, hockey and basketball.
Five more hours of this. I forgot to bring a book.
