Essays That Got Me into Uni: The Dream Meets the Nightmare

“Now this is some nice skin.”

Why, thank you. I moisturize every day.

“Smooth and elastic.” 

“You’re right- I see no blemishes.”

I also wear sunscreen, no matter what the weather is like.

“It could be worth hundreds.”

Psh. Take me out to dinner first.

“How much do you think there is?”

“Can’t be sure, she’s awful small… Grab me the scalpel.”

Wait.

I open my eyes and lurch forward, swing my feet to the cold floor, and take off at a sprint.

Well, I try to open my eyes. My eyelids won’t move. It’s not that they’re heavy, it’s not that they’re stuck… they’re not mine. I pull my hands up to my face, try to feel the problem. My arms do not flex, and my muscles remain slack. My mouth refuses to budge; I scream instead, but my throat fails to produce any sound. A sickness burns in my stomach, crawls up my throat, and fills my head. 

Focus. The air around me is stiff and smells faintly of alcohol. I'm lying on my back, face up. Why am I here? Surely this is a dream. This must be the anesthesia. The blackness around me spins; my mind becomes murky.

My phone was ringing. I sighed and reached for my nightstand. The alarm clock read 2:54. After a 48 hour shift and only 3 hours of sleep, I was exhausted. I remained in my bed for only a second before getting up. I had long been resigned to the fact that this job didn't allow for proper sleep, and exhaustion was a feeling I had become used to. 

I threw on the jeans I had been wearing earlier and grabbed my keys. I nearly forgot to lock my apartment door before skipping down the stairs and starting my car. 

I'll be the first to admit my job isn't easy. Being a surgeon requires commitment that only a select few can handle. On occasions I am able to make it to the bar for a drink or two, I make sure to stay away from the topic of my occupation. Most men cringe when I tell them; this usually is followed by an endless string of questions in no way romantic. "What's the grossest thing you've seen?" "How much schooling was that?" And, my personal favorite: "You make how much?" While comments like these from strangers are understandable, it irks me when I hear them from coworkers. The male doctors that can't tear themselves away from the hospital long enough to retire; they are the worst. Of course, they're all just lonely. Unfortunately, this makes the new, young, (coincidentally female) surgeon seem like the perfect prey. Dodging their advances may be awkward at first, but the moment I mention pay grade they seem to simmer down. As one of the hospital's only orthopedic surgeons, I tend to make a considerable amount more than them. To a man, this is a threat. The long, unpredictable hours rarely leave room for relationships anyway.

Aside from the drawbacks, I'd never change a thing. I love my job. Even when it wakes me up in the middle of the night to tend to a patient. I pressed the gas harder. 

  My mind drifted away to thoughts about my upcoming case. I wondered what it could possibly be at this hour. Heart attack, car accident. It was a shame that I had only gotten a few hours of sleep; otherwise I'd be able to run through hundreds of scenarios with ease.

My eyes closed, just for a minute. 

I opened them to the taillights of a ford pickup, quickly approaching. My foot fumbled for the brake, slipped. At almost 60 miles an hour, my Nissan slammed into the bed of the truck. I remember thinking, I forgot to put on my seatbelt, before flying through the windshield and smacking the pavement. Moments later, the ambulance arrived. A familiar voice was standing over me. "Hurry, there's not much time!"

My mind returns to the room. The conversation is continuing. 

“... but the wife will be excited. Our sons have worked really hard to make it into this school, it’s the least I can do.”

I am stunned to recognize this as the voice of Chase. What is a paramedic doing in the OR? The fog around my brain begins to dissipate. Accompanying him is a man I am far more familiar with. My former superior, Dr. Ramond, clears his throat before replying. 

“No, I get it. Sher and I are looking at investing.” 

Small talk! How unprofessional! Who is looking at the monitors? 

Now I’m scared. I feel my heart thump in my chest. Surely, this will be a sign I’m awake. If I can just get my heart rate to quicken, they will notice the jump. I work to speed my breathing. My lungs won’t expand when I tell them to- something else, something mechanical, fills them at regular intervals. 

“... have to be quick. Hell, if she’s healthy enough, we could make enough to go into early retirement.”

They must think I’m asleep. Where is the anesthesiologist? They don’t know that they’re making a grave mistake… I hope that their liability insurance can cover this one.

The screech of wheels approaches me from across the room. They come to a stop, maybe feet away. The snap of surgical gloves. 

No.

A heavy sigh. Spearmint gum, used unsuccessfully to veil the stench of garlic and coffee, smacks between teeth. The overhead light squeaks as it is adjusted. 

“Oh! Just a minute! Found a playlist.”

Shoes scuff along the floor. The phone is placed on a table with a thump. 

“Alright.” The shoes return.

“Ready?”

“Ready.” 

Acoustic guitar and banjo accompaniment trill from the speaker. “Plowing these fields in the hot summer sun. Over by the gate, yonder here she comes, with a basket full of chicken, and a big cold jug of sweet tea!”

No.

The scalpel tears easily through my flesh. I can feel it as it slips underneath my skin and glides across the muscle.

Kenny Chesney hoots, drowning the ripping sound of my flesh, “She thinks my tractor’s sexy!”

The exposed muscle stings as the flap of skin is folded over.

Dear God, if you're there, I'm begging you. I'll quit my job and become a nun...

My mind floods with pain. What could possibly have happened to my body for this to be necessary? It must be an infection. The accident must have thrown me from the car. Across the pavement. I must have pebbles, glass, dirt, deep in my skin. In my muscle, probably. They're concerned about necrosis. This is a preventative measure. 

Another strip of my skin is folded back. This time, the scalpel slips into my muscle. The jagged edge digs into my flesh. "Whoops!"

Fuck that. Fuck this, there is no God.

"She's the only one who really understands what gets me. She thinks my tractor's sexy!"

The scalpel fumbles, tearing a chunk of muscle fibers away from my abdomen. It is one thing to be cut to pieces by your coworkers, but to be tortured with Kenny Chesney? What have I done to deserve this?

Just days before, I was talking to both of these people. Chase, to gain information about a patient, and Dr. Ramond, for advice on that same patient.

A hoarse chuckle. “Let’s leave some for the funeral.”

They think I’m… dead? Why remove damaged tissue?

“What do you say we open ‘em up? See what the kidneys are like?”

Why keep me alive? Torture?

“We’ll get the rest before unplugging the machines. The fresher, the better.”

These motherfuckers know damn well I'm alive. 

A snort. “Hell, I think we should take a look at her lungs while we’re at it. Heard there’s a severe COPD case in Seattle.”

Organs. I’ve been reduced to a breathing refrigerator.

"You know, the weird thing is, I don't feel bad for her at all."

"Why's that?"

"She's stuck up. Stuck up and selfish. All those times I've asked if she wants a drink, and she flat out ignores me. Or brings up her salary."

Both chuckle. 

How do I deserve this? By working hard? They must have used something to make me unconscious. A paralytic.

"Hey, wait…"

The music pauses abruptly, mid-howl. 

"Yeah?"

"She's… well, she’s moving."

"Psh. You're tired."

"No, Mark, come look at this."

There is silence as they stand over me, investigating the quarry. 

“Her eyes… are moving.”

Focus.

"Don't worry. We'll put her out of her misery soon."

My fingers flex, willing just one tendon to move. They merely twitch despite my straining.

“It’s nothing. Got that all packaged up?”

That's not going to work. My attention turns to my breathing. I must be intubated. The tube becomes heavy in my throat. Suddenly, I can taste my breath. Stale blood and sour air smart my tongue.

“Sure do. When do you meet the guy?”

Nauseousness overcomes fear. Hot bile climbs up my throat.

"Well, are you ready to take a look inside?"

The tube twitches. My throat seizes, my chest contracts. I'm choking now, uncontrollably. My skin burns and my abdominal muscles fail.

"SHIT!" 

My eyes peel open to the sight of two figures in white. The overhead light is blinding. My fingers grasp for the intubation tube, clawing at my mouth. The figures lunge for me. I flop towards the edge of the table and gag. 

“Grab her!” 

 The tube shreds my throat as I wrench, a vain attempt to pull it out. Blood fills my mouth. I pull away from my assailants, flailing as I fall to the ground. I hit the linoleum with a dull smack. My throat tears as I scream, muffled by the plastic. The lining of my esophagus splits, causing blood to gush from the wounds. My eyes clear, revealing the men. With a final tug, the tube loosens and slips out, spraying discharge. I crawl to my hands and knees, holding my arms in defense. The skin on my abdomen peels back and sags. A hoarse rasp escapes from my mouth. They’re fumbling. On their faces, a look of disbelief… and fear. 

The scalpel slithers out of a hand, clatters to the floor. At once, we tackle the ground. Chase reaches it first. I careen for him, a snarl slipping from my hematic throat. The scalpel tumbles from his bloodied grip. I snatch it from the floor and take a swipe at his abdomen. It misses by several inches, slicing his wrist open instead. He strikes my head with his fist, sending me back. I lurch for him again, this time taking aim at his chest. The blade glides into his flesh and slips, gouging into his neck. Shrieking, he clutches his wound and reals backward.

“Bitch!” Ramond lunges. I wield the scalpel like a dagger, waving it wildly. I slash at his face; it reaches his breast instead and tears his scrubs. He pauses, raises a hand to inspect the blood. 

My chance. 

Mustering all of my strength, I leap for his face. This time, I do not miss. My blade punches his cheekbone and diverts, sinking into the muscle of his jaw. He screeches and jerks away, leaving the scalpel imbedded in his face. It twists as he struggles, his eyes wide and his mouth open in horror. Disoriented, I fall onto my knees, eyes wide. On all fours, I clamor for the exit.

“Stay… away,” I grunt in pain. I climb up the slick wall, my muscles straining. My knees wobble. My fingers merely brush the exit button; the door whooshes open. Gasping, I stagger to my escape.