I'm yellow from a Betadine bath and making involuntary crunching sounds with my fashionable green paper legwarmer. Guards up: it's time to go. Wheels in motion, the ceiling floats by and peering faces block the flying lights that line the sterile corridors. You talk to me, and although I'm jabbering away, my mind is on a philosophical plane far, far away, trying to escape the events that are soon to occur. Although, I do have enough coherent brain space to wonder why there is an oxygen tank in the lift. Drs Drugs joke and poke, and I stare at the huge dishes of theatre light; I'm freaking out, this is the point of no return. Oh, what have I done?! IV in, lights down. Is that you, Dr Knee?
How's the pain, you ask? 8, and I'm shivering. But I can't tell if I feel cold or not. I think it's cold and it looks cold, but I'm just not sure. Morphine and blankets: now its a 6 but I'm still shivering. More morphine and I'm suddenly all nice and warm. It's great: I can't feel a thing, half my brain is asleep and the other half is a fuzzy haze, and my body has stopped trying to find its resonant frequency. Ooh, I'm happy, very relaxed, and I want to eat! You poke your head through the door and your face instantly changes from an expression of investigative curiosity to brotherly concern. I've never seen you look like that before: am I in that bad a state? But now I can't even put a sentence together to assure you that I'm not actually in any pain: I can't seem to stop sleep from taking over. Left eye: open! Right eye: open! Now both together: open! Open, dammit! *retch* Oh, those horrid anaesthetics - o wherefore art thou Dr Drugs?!
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