Surgery
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@ -60,4 +60,21 @@ You spent all that time polishing your will. How could you begin
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to deny the death-thoughts inherent in a nine-hour surgery?
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That you didn't still leaves you feeling like you're living a forgery
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of a life.</blockquote>
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</pre>
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But then I was in. I was in that room with surprisingly green walls.
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The nurses dropped me off, and from down those hidden halls
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came surgeon, anaesthesiologist, what seemed like dozens of people.
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"Here, hold this over your face," someone said as a needle
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wandered into my Iv's injection port. "It's just oxygen."
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My hand began to slip. Oxygen? Some sort of intoxicant?
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They laughed, repeated, "No no, you have to hold it up."
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Perhaps it was O2, but whatever was injected began to interrupt
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any train of thought. The jazz music they'd put on, at my request,
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was overwhelmed by static. My vision followed. Silence: blessed.
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Speed: surprising. Is this death? A rush of nothing. Is this death?
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Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Is this death? Nothing. Is this death?
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Nothing.
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<blockquote>Nothing. Was this death? Nothing, death? Nothing, nothing. Nothing.
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Death? Was this death? Nothing. There was nothing. Death? Nothing.
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Silence. Static. Nothing. Death. Death. Silence. Death.
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Static. Static. Silence. Static. Death, static. Death.
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And then you woke up.</blockquote></pre>
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