I can safely say I don’t miss the days
when they wheeled you into the operating room,
smiling you assumed behind the masks,
as you shift from gurney to table, your open gown
flapping about like some wind driven flag.
You would lie there staring up at the massive lights
thankfully were turned on, blinding you, watched
as they placed the mask over your face, knowing
once you are out the tube would go down your throat
and you’d remember it for several days thereafter.
Today I stayed on the gurney, my arm, I assume,
extended, the mask resting over my nose,
and the nurse anesthetist saying quietly
you’ll be going to sleep now, and I asking
“don’t I have to count backward from 100”
and she laughing replied, “only if you want to,
but you won’t get very. . . “, and then waking
to the face of the smiling nurse who said,
“you did fine, let’s get you out of here
and off to coffee and breakfast,” never mind
that it would soon be noon. And I did appreciate
being allowed to walk out under my own power,
the accursed wheelchair sitting against the wall.