edge of vision

“It is the nature of man to gape and marvel at the big bang, but ignore the subtle majesty of the Silence that preceded it”

-Obi

(Really bad day)

The day I died started like any other day. As some sort of cosmic "fuck you" to my bleak itenerary for the day, the birds are merrily chirping away and the sky is coated in varying shades of the deepest indigo interspersed with fiery comet streaks of blazing orange, a mad artist’s canvas of colors blended together in violent symphony. I'd spent most of the night restless between the sheets and took the glazed pre dawn hues spilling in through the blinds as enough excuse to roll off the queen size bed I share with Mei, My wife of just over two weeks, in our small studio apartment on North Washington Avenue. I have lived in the United States for roughly three months, and my life since I got off the plane at the Minneapolis St Paul Airport has been an adventure of Tolkien proportions. I stare at Mei’s features in the soft pre-dawn light, and I can't help the smile that breaks across my face. I wince at in pain as my dry lips split a little. You’d never hear anyone describe her as “beautiful”. Words like "interesting" or "compelling" seem more appropriate. I’ve learned from experience to avoid ascribing any adjectives to her. My Mei is as prone to change as spinning dice.

I gulp down a cup of cold tap water and run my wet tongue over my lips. The cool sensation on my skin is sharply juxtaposed against the acute bite of water against the cracked arid landscape of my lips. The water tastes a little bit off, but all tap water has that distinct tap taste, a history of all the pipes it has run through, lingering on your tongue even after your last swallow. I’m really thirsty so I suppress my distaste as I pour myself another cup.

I give Mei a small shake, we always joke that she could sleep through her own kidnapping.

"Good morning puppy"

Her groggy look and mumbled reply morphs into a look of alarm as she catches sight of the empty cup in my hands.

"Obi, You aren’t supposed to drink any liquids!"

“This ... uh, is for you. I was going to pour you a cup of coffee."

I’m not sure why I lied, but I shuffle over to our designated kitchen space and pour her a cup of coffee, to convert my lie into the truth, and also to hide the guilt on my face.

A little over an hour later, and we are in a taxi on Highway twenty two heading towards the Mankato Surgery Center. My stomach is a bit unsettled, and I feel slightly nauseous but I chuck that up to nerves, and the realization that in a few hours I will be getting cut up by a total stranger. There is a general indifference from doctors to the act of surgery that feels psychopathic at its core. How do you dissociate from the action of slicing up living tissue and playing around in its insides ?

I can tell Mei is nervous as well because she is obsessing over the sheaf of pre-surgery information that was handed to me at my last doctor's appointment.

"Did you stop taking the aspirin?"

"Yep."

" No food or drink in the last twenty-four hours?"

"Check." I respond, even though it's only half true.

"No rashes or illness?"

"Check."

"No alcohol or tobacco in the last twenty four hours?"

I can't help my sigh of exasperation "You've been with me the last twenty four hours boo."

I instantly regret my outburst, I can tell she is only trying to fill the nervous silence with some chatter, but the subject matter is depressing and I'm quickly developing a headache. The silence that follows is even more so, and I almost kiss the driver in gratitude when his stereo system slices the silence with some music. Punk rock is not really my style, nonetheless I let myself sink into its noise, and I only realize I had dozed off when I feel Mei's hand on my wrist.

"We are here."

Pre-op is a blur of nurses checking my vitals, with that mix of detached concern and low energy optimism that seems to be the norm for medical practitioners. I go through the pre-op questions in something of a daze, providing the appropriate "Yes’and''No's" with all the enthusiasm of a cold cut sandwich, Until the nurse asks.

"Any food or drink in the last twenty-four hours?"

"I had a glass or two of water." I reply, as I studiously avoid Mei's gaze.

My heartbeat quickens, and my palms get a bit sweaty, I realize somewhere in the back of my mind that I hope this is a deal breaker, and that my surgery will be postponed. But, the nurse just marks up her chart with a disapproving frown on her face and a small "Tsk", and moves on to other questions.

The Nurse is fiddling with the sole computer in the room when a balding middle aged man walks in.

"Hi, "/Ah . Knee . Ro . Nye . Row/ –” I jump in, before he has a chance to butcher my name any further.

"Just call me Obi, Everyone does."

"Oh hey, Obi Everyone Does."

The nurse is the only one to supplement his cackle with a giggle of her own.

"You can call me Doctor Phil, everyone does. Except for my mother, who calls me Philemon."

I can tell he's still trying to be funny, so I give him, my best "can we get on with this please" smile.

" I will be the doctor in charge of your surgery. The anesthesiologist will be here in a moment to discuss your options on that end of things. But, rest assured we've been doing this for a long time and we are good at what we do. I will be going over what you should expect really quick."

I give him a furtive once over, and almost instantly regret it. His blue button-up shirt is stretched taut in a failed bid to hold his gut above baggy brown pants, A lab coat is draped loosely around his wide frame. My eyes are drawn to a small stain that looks suspiciously like blood under one of its buttons.

"As you already know, you have Keratoconus. big word, but it simply means that your cornea which is normally round, thins and begins to bulge into a cone-like shape, deflecting light as it enters your eyes and causing distorted vision.

“While you may not go completely blind, your situation could potentially worsen till you are for all legal purposes considered blind."

I am through all his rambling, fixated on the red stain on his coat. I have half convinced myself that it is ketchup and nothing to worry about, When I hear him wrap up his dreary monologue with a cheery.

"See you in the operating room, and good luck."

I don't know what strikes me as off about the entire situation. The entire conversation feels slightly stilted, almost scripted. Perhaps, it's his overly cheery disposition, or the "good luck" at the end. Should a doctor tell his patient good luck? I'm still trying to figure out the intricacies of surgery etiquette when the anesthesiologist walks in. He is almost the exact opposite of the last doctor.

Tall and lithe, with dirty blonde hair, striking blue eyes covered by rectangle cut glasses, and an immaculate lab coat, he oozes savvy and confidence even without uttering a word.

"Hi I'm doctor Stevens, I'm your anesthesiologist." His handshake is firm without being crushing.

"It says here that you had a cup of water, so we might need to fit you with a bag depending on what anesthetic you choose to go with here".

I realize that I am at a point of no return, so I shake off the lethargy and dissociative fugue that has somehow crept over me and lean forward to listen.

"We can give you a relaxing sedative. The downside of this is that we will have to push a catheter through your penis, on the off chance it relaxes your bladder as well."

I have to make a conscious decision to unclench my thighs, I’d clenched them protectively around my privates at the mention of having tubes pushed through them.

"The alternative is a spinal block that effectively paralyzes you during the procedure. Unfortunately, you might have trouble urinating after the surgery as a result. it usually takes a couple hours for your bowels to regain feeling from said paralysis."

"I choose the spinal block !" I almost can’t get my answer out quick enough, fuck a tube going through my penis.

"Good choice, we'll have you prepped and good to go in a couple minutes here, see you soon."

As if the second doctor's exit was a sign to get things rolling, The nurse hands me a gown.

"Put this on."

As my finger touches the gown, it occurs to me that millions of men and women have died similarly garbed. I say a quick prayer in my mind, as the nurse exits the room to give me and Mei some privacy. I hastily strip myself of my clothes and slide into the loose-fitting, coarse, cotton hospital gown. The strings at the back must be designed for someone with rear facing palms or at least steadier hands, because they confound my fingers and I need Mei's help to eventually get it knotted. I have barely settled into the creases of my gown when the nurse wheels in a gurney following a brisk knock and instructs me to lie down on it. The ceiling is a continuous blur of white as I'm wheeled away from Mei and into the operating room.

I am wheeled into a sea of white coated men and blue gowned nurses, their face masks lend them a terrifying air. Perhaps it's the fact that I cannot see their facial expressions, but they seem to be robbed of their humanity somehow. Their muffled voices drift in and out of unintelligible conversation. I focus on the white bulb above my head, and it strikes me how white the light is without being really bright. My musings on the nature of diffuse light are interrupted by the feel of warm latex on the sides of my head, as I get strapped into the operating table.

"We don't want you moving your head around so much now do we ?"

His voice is muffled by his face mask, and I realize I can't tell if it's one of the doctors I've spoken to today.

"We are going to lift the bed and administer the spinal block now –".

The bed activates with a loud hum even as he is speaking and drowns out the rest of what he says. I feel a prick in the small of my back and a sensation that is more uncomfortable than painful. Like lying down on a full stomach after a particularly hefty dinner. My bed is lowered back into its original position and I'm left staring at the white bulb. After what seems like an eternity, I hear a disembodied male voice.

"Move your legs."

So I do, It seems to weigh a ton, but is clearly still under my command. It occurs to me that I should perhaps be alarmed, Should I be able to move my legs? I can't seem to whip up the right level of empathy for myself, so I shift my focus to the sensation of the sheets against my arms, taking comfort in its reassuring warmth. I feel my bed rise up again, followed by another prick in my spine. The hum from the motion of the bed reverberates in my teeth and settles in my bones. I wait pensively for the uncomfortably full feeling that signals that the contents of the syringe have once again been emptied into me. This time when I feel the discomfort that follows the voiding of the syringe I know something is wrong, and by the time my bed is back in its reclined position, I'm in excruciating discomfort. I am experiencing some distant relative to pain. If my back was my skull I'd call it a headache.

"Doctor, Something is wrong!"

My vocal cords feel like hollow columns of granite, and I'm not sure the words that leave my lips are understandable, they seem to be coming from miles away.

I hear a disembodied voice say something that sounds like.

“...clonic seizure in the legs..."

On hearing the word seizure I am hit with a panic, and I struggle against the drugs to regain control of my body, I can hear my heart beating in my ears, its thumping is continuous and loud, I hang on to its reassuring beat, close my eyes and intensify my battle with my unresponsive muscles.

I try to focus my mind by chanting my family’s mantra “ I am the water, I have no enemies.”

I feel cool, slimy spittle pooling on the pillow beside my chin.

"Relax, relax, you are okay. We are going to give you something that should have you good in no time."

I ignore the doctor and focus my attention on my fingers. I bend the entirety of my will towards regaining control of my body, limb by bloody limb. Perhaps if I can move my fingers just a little bit.

I pour my will into the receptacle that is my thumb. “Move dammit!”

"Please count backwards from ten to one"

"Guh…"

I don't recognize the words that burst through my lips, but I know I am trying to say “Ten”. The wail of despair that pours through my soul and out of my mouth is primal. The thin veneer of control chanting the mantra imposed on my mind shatters. I am afraid, and I decant that fear from my spirit into my voice as I scream.

"Please no!"

What emerges is less like words and more like a language seldom witnessed in civilized society, unarticulated and undiluted terror. I feel a lethargy pour through my veins, and as I gain detachment from my pain, I realize that I must have been injected with another anesthetic, and I am filled with even greater despair. I can't trust these men. A wave of blackness sweeps across my vision.

“No, no!” I can't let myself pass out.

I focus on the steady pounding of my heart, and force my eyes to stay open by sheer stubbornness. It takes me a few seconds to realize that something has changed, my “headache” has traveled from the site of the injection in my back all the way to my chest. Every beat of my heart, so loud in my ears, heavy with grim foreboding, seems to have been bought dear. There is an uncomfortable vise around my heart, like ill-fitting clothes or a too firm handshake, when you are not prepared for one.

"Doctor, Something is wrong." My words make no sense to my ears but I can’t stop trying.

"Increase Amital to ..."

I do not hear the rest of the doctors' words, but I know it's a mistake. For the first time since things started to go wrong I let myself think it.

“I'm going to die.”

I stare at the light above my head, and let myself sink into its whiteness. I feel a new wave of lassitude spread over my muscles, More anesthetic? I can't bring myself to care anymore. This is the end and I know it. There is no bright light at the end of the tunnel, There is in fact no tunnel. There is just whiteness, the completely unaffected industrial whiteness of an operating room bulb above my head. I am tired of the cement vise around my heart, I am tired of all the pain on the threshold of my senses just waiting to consume me. I just want the endless unfeeling whiteness. I feel myself gasp as the feeling of discomfort in my chest suddenly unravels and spreads warm relief down my stomach and onto my legs, I am dimly aware that I have peed myself.

I should not have had that cup of water.

My father bends over me with a slight frown on his face

I am declared clinically dead for exactly twenty seven minutes and four seconds.