Seven Stitches Later

“This may be a little uncomfortable,” the surgeon says briskly, “I need you to stay still.”

Knowing “A little uncomfortable” really means it's going to hurt like hell, my heart starts to pound like a runaway jackhammer and then I'm totally distracted by the pain. I whimper, cuss and clench the paper sheet in a death grip. I feel branded, like a half dozen red hot pokers were suddenly rammed into the back of my neck. Sweet Jesus, I think, why did I turn down out patient surgery and being out cold? Meanwhile, somebody - good God, it's me - is moaning and while every muscle I have is freezing up, the doctor asks for additional anesthetic. Three times. Each fresh stick and burn feels like a blowtorch. Several more minutes pass.

“Tell me we're almost done,” I plead desperately, “Dear Jesus, please tell me we're almost done!”

“Just a couple more hours,” he tells me dryly just before another white hot stab of pain shoots into my neck and almost immediately I feel/hear/sense/visualize the slice of the scalpel. It hurts far less than the injections and I somehow manage to force my body to relax. Visions of horror movies begin to play in my mind - “The Pit and the Pendulum” is the most prominent – but it's quickly followed by variations of a mad scientist reanimating Boris Karloff as the Frankenstein monster. Scalpels and scars and stitches and dear God, please let me survive this. My last coherent thought is wondering how much pain a person can actually tolerate before they pass out mixed with how fortunate I'm not a spy, I'd sing like the proverbial canary.

 Troop strength?

Not a problem. 

 Names of double agents? In alphabetical order or by country?

Nuclear codes?

Just give me a pencil.

“Am I going to have a hole in my neck?” I ask, not quite realizing how ridiculous the question is.

“Big enough to drive a truck through,” the doctor says calmly, “But I'm going to stitch it up for you.”

“How thoughtful,” I mutter into the pillow, “A surgeon and a comedian.”

Seven stitches and five minutes later, the nurse presses on a bandaid, and it's over. I leave with a script for pain, a return appointment to have the stitches removed, and an urge to celebrate my survival.