Sandy Krolick

Notebooks - A Philosophical Memoir Sandy Krolick

Then a nurse and two aides came for me in the men's ward of the hospital. They woke me early that morning. Mom and dad were at my bedside as well. Mom said everything would be fine. But she had been crying. I know this because when I kissed her I could taste the salty tears on her cheek. Dad helped the nurse move me from the bed onto a gurney. The sheet was cold against my flesh. I didn't talk or cry; I was too sleepy. The aides rolled me out of the unit down a long corridor and into a surgical suite.




Doctors and nurses hovered around and over me, scrubbing hands and suiting up. They moved me from the gurney onto a surgical table. I was colder now and frightened. There were muted voices, but otherwise silence. The surgical team was masked. One of them leaned in and told me he was giving me something so I'd sleep during the procedure. I didn't understand. He held up a wire-mesh mask and placed it carefully over my nose and mouth. He then covered the mask with some gauze pads and slowly began dripping a liquid over the gauze cotton pads. The smell was overpowering. I felt as if I were suffocating. I couldn't breathe. The smell filled my lungs as my brain went silent, my body limp. It wasn't a dream!