[This leg of Eric’s journey is over. Sequels are being planned. If you’re wondering about anything, have any questions, let me know; maybe there are elements in the story I’ve overlooked, that should be explored. Otherwise, feedback and criticism are always welcome.]
I expected my surgery would be the end of my ordeal, but it turned out to be just the beginning of my odyssey. Cutting into my head and removing a few scoops may have stopped the seizures, but it didn’t do anything to the people already changed. And I’d attracted a lot of attention, made a lot of waves. Of course, that’s another long story.
Zoners
Epilogue: Under the Knife
Phoenix: Hospital—Monday
Surgery was scheduled for 7 in the morning; they woke me at 5. Dad was accustomed to getting up early, so he came to see me off; Jordan just snoozed through, but I wasn’t expecting her. The pot always made her unreliable. None of the nurses I’d gotten to know were on shift that early. While they were about to wheel me out of my room, Erin also showed up—she was just coming off work.
“Hey honey,” she said. “Big day?”
I snorted. “No shit, angel.”
“I can’t believe you let them cut off all your beautiful hair.” They said they didn’t need to cut my hair, but I’d opted to have my entire head shaved.
I just shrugged. “I look better without it.”
“You look like a serial killer without it.”
“Who says I’m not?” I thought about it. “Besides, don’t most serial killers have full heads of hair?”
She rolled her eyes at me. “Whatever.”
As they wheeled me out of the room, I just smirked at her. “Maybe after they cut out half my brain, you can be smarter than me.” You have to laugh in the face of tragedy; without humor, I wouldn’t have made it through all the shit life’s thrown at me.
I remember being thirsty. You can’t drink for half a day before a surgery, so by the time they brought me into the preparation room, I was parched. I met Dr. Tran, a jocular leathery-skinned Mongol of a man with the smile of a toothpaste model, and the confidence of a Navy SEAL. I also met a bevy of OR nurses, and my anesthesiologist, Dr. Melinda Jacquart. She was a Hispanic, had nice golden skin and warm brown eyes. A shapely woman, Melinda probably could have been a stripper in another life. Of course, nothing happened between us in pre-op.
They fastened me in one of those chairs you always see on TV, using screws to hold my head in place. Lucky for me, they numbed me first, but the sound of the drill still made my molars hurt. Dr. Tran told me he might need to wake me up during the surgery, in case he was worried about functionality. After all, they were cutting into my right side, it could have a negative effect on my artwork. I was a sculptor, and an aspiring architect. I needed that half of my brain.
Then Melinda put the breathing mask on my face, and I fell into the darkness of anesthesia.