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August 24 phantom painThe only part I feel grateful about surgery is the sedation part where sensation is lost, memory evaporated and pain disappeared.
Time seems to soar by quickly like a gust of wind.
All I can remember is the melody of The Beatles swirling in the operating room.
It is the morning of a surgery day. Everything runs normal for everybody.
The clock in this nuclear medicine room never astray from 2, as if time has never been correct except for 2am and 2pm.
Doctor walks in, first to apologize for the pain I have to endure in the next 3 seconds as if I am a victim already.
Doctors are like story tellers, sometimes vivid, sometimes plain. But I never heard them telling the same story about pain.
His assistant opens up a heavy metal box within which sit two syringes. Each contains certain amount of radioactive medicine.
After a quick peek, I surrender myself to this man in a knowledgable white robe with an ignorant hope that his story about pain is just fiction.
I know my eyes must look down, muscles firm up and teeth clenched to accommodate this.
First there is a sharp sting, then there is a hell. It feels like all the cells in my thumb are stabbing themselves with a knife.
Soon, as is promised, I see a beautiful drop of blood coming underneath my nailbed.
The clock on the wall still points at 2 as if nothing happened, a crime erased from the register book.
Yesterday I was thinking about our dream club in college. I never had a chance to be in part of the show other than directing it.
Here I am in the States playing around the idea of establishing a theater club of my own.
When the culture is meager and rough I miss how we used to scream, to howl and to fly.
Really, that is all I can recall about this surgery - The Beatles. Everyone is trying to take it light. The pain of flesh is nothing.
I remember the long needle piercing through my skin next to neck.
I remember the doctor ask his residents to push the syringe.
I don't remember if I felt the pain.
My neurons are under rest, my sensations are under rest.
The next thing I can remember is people talking to me.
And all the sudden, I burst into tears, fluids of unconcious sadness pushing out of the body.
Nurse tells me this is side effect of the anethesia. And I believe her. I am feeling sleepy, it might be the morphine and pain killer. Everyone who survive from cancer is a hero.
Everyone who die from cancer is also a hero.
Imagine there is no illness.
What a bliss it would be.
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