They thread a tiny needle through my skin, watching its envasion of my tissues and vein on a black and white screen, starring at it praying for the flash of blood. I hold my breath and plead; get it on the first try for I am not an ocean and I don't enjoy fishing. It is through this tiny tube that my body begins its processes of being forever changed. I fear the milky white, I see it hanging ominously in the operating room, taunting me. I know it will make me disappear for a while and with it rob me of memories. I'm told it's temporary and I should get them back. I don't know if it's true or not, I don't know which memories it's stolen. I clutch Corky; 29 years, soon to be 95 surgeries and he's been through every single one. He has quite a story to tell, I used to imagine he could talk-my what he would say! I regress and suddenly I'm a child again. Big, scared blue eyes blinking nervously, not wanting to look yet I can't stop myself. "Any questions before we start the drip?" I squeak out, "just hold my hand, I don't want to be alone." And in that moment nurses and doctors transcend imaginary borders and become friends, mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters as they all allow me to clutch onto them. They rub my arms, push the hair out of my eyes and wipe my tears away. They ask me about my children, they try to distract and take away and they smile a comforting yet timid smile as the milky white drip takes me away.
I wake up. Breathing. I feel the air. And in that moment I realize how much I've missed it.
And here I go. Again. Time to check in. Surgery in T-minus two hours.