“Take three deep breaths.”
They were giving me oxygen. Until this point, I got my air, just like I got everything else—on my own. I took a deep breath.
I closed my eyes and took another, deliberate breath.
The next time I opened my eyes, I was back in recovery, looking at a strange painting of an Italian café. For some reason, before I went under, as I sat in my recovery/prep area I looked at that painting—closely. I made a point to note not only the imagery, but the wall on which it sat. I had no motive, but as I lay there wearing nothing but a hospital smock and my dignity, it felt necessary.
And when I woke up, as I shook off the anesthesia, I managed to avoid the initial confusion and disorientation.
The doctor poked his head in.
“Your colon is just fine. We didn’t find any nodes or pockets or signs of distress in any way, shape or form.”
Should I have been relieved?
It’s not that I wanted there to be something wrong per se, but there is something wrong.
And now, we still don’t know what.