Saturday, 20 September 2003 | Accident, part 2

I waited in a small room with a recliner, two chairs, and a view of the Empire State Building from 7:30 a.m. until after 11 a.m. During that time, four or five doctor/nurse-types wearing various colors of scrubs rushed in and out, asking me the same questions before making me sign something.

Q: Are you Lisa Renee Whiteman? A: Yes. Q: Have you checked your arm band? Is it right? A: Yes. Q: When were you born? A: Eleven-eight-seventy-four. Q: Are you allergic to any medication? A: Penicillin. Q: What happens when you take penicillin? A: My face and throat swell. Q: When's the last time you had something to eat or drink? A: Eat, last night at 9:30; drink, last night at 11:30. Q: Do you have any jewelry on besides your nose ring? You'll need to take off all your jewelry. A: An earring. Q: Have you ever had surgery before? A: No.

The surgeon came in around 8:30 to draw an arrow on my right shoulder and a smiley face on my right thumb. The smiley face is his "signature," a nurse later explained, a gesture that I think was meant to make me smile, rather than make me feel like a 12-year-old.

My surgery was supposed to start at 9:30; by the time I was called at 11:10, I was almost ready to get it over with. They handed me a pair of socks with traction on them, so that I wouldn't slip on the waxy floors.

I handed Martin my glasses outside the swinging doors of the operation wing, and was led, blurry-eyed, though a pastel maze of round lamps, faceless shower-capped people holding shiny rods, and stretchers. The woman leading me, the one who called herself my nurse, had a clear piece of plastic strapped under her chin. I couldn't imagine what it was for; it looked like its only function would be to catch drool. Right after she helped me scoot on the operating table, she introduced me to her replacement; my original nurse was going to lunch, she told me.

"Don't talk about food! I bet Lisa's starving. She hasn't eaten all morning," said the anesthesiologist, a chubby man who wore an American flag bandanna on his head. I wasn't starving; I felt sick. "Oh, there's been a change of plans," he continued, now directing his words toward me. "We're going to have to put a tube through your nose and down the back of your throat to help with the anesthesia. It's because of the way they have you lying on the table." He said it as if it were nothing, an inconvenience, one flavor instead of another. I was embarrassed by the tears I could feel forming in the corners of my eyes.

"We're going to give her a lot, fast," he said, after noticing my response.

I choked on the anesthesia. I tried to fill my lungs, but there was no oxygen whatsoever. I gasped and tried to say the words, "can't breathe." I wondered if I was drowning, and whether they knew. They made an adjustment, I thirstily drank in some oxygen mixed with my sleeping potion, and I passed out.