After three, I love the before-and-after moments. Not minutes, moments, because I fully inhabit each, in true Buddha fashion.
An hour after I arrive, warm blankets hide the untied straps of the hospital gown and the grand canyon-sized gaps.
Without hesitation, from repetition, my name and birthdate roll off my tongue.
Nurses and doctors flock to me.
The anesthetist’s blissful words, “We’ll see you afterward,” come true in the blink of an eye.
Death and resurrection.
“Peanut butter on toast and coffee, please,” I say upon arising. It’s now been 42 hours without.
The ordinary becomes extraordinary.
“Shantel, this is the best toast I’ve ever had,” I declaim.
“Four little polyps,” the doctor reports. “We’ll know more in a week.”
Soon after, freed, Rebecca chauffeurs me to the Sugar Bowl for a hot fudge sundae with whipped cream, a cherry, and no guilt.
