There are so many words that could be said about the preparation for surgery, all those steps that led to that six-thirty AM call. The days of purging. The anxiety. The drive. My husband's gentle urging. That night in the Airbnb. That last shower with the Hibiclens. All that has faded. It's distored at the edge of the lens of my memory. No, what remains is the two hours before: the being so scared that I was reduced to the barest core. There was nothing left of me but fear, not even a name. I could still drive — the fear was quiet and tame — I could get us to the ambulatory surgery waiting room. But beyond that, I was a non-person. A convict. My doom was in their hands.

Non-person? Doom? Give yourself at least some credit. You still had agency. You still had a choice, could have not let it happen. You say of travel that getting you there is their job: you felt the same here. You crossed the doorway and let this mob of nurses do theirs.