I try to act cool and unafraid in front
of the nurse and probably fail miserably. She's sweet though,
probably sees a bunch of terrified people every day. We go over the
physical details one more time - nothing in my stomach so I won't be
choked by my own vomit, no benzodiazepines in the last few days (I
guess they interfere with the convulsion threshold?), my heart film
was okay so it's safe to fry me. We talk a bit about the general
anesthesia, since I've never experienced that either. She says I
won't probably even notice it, it's fast and efficient and safe. Why
does everybody keep repeating the word safe?
Into the belly of the beast. There are
two nurses and an anesthesiologist in the treatment room. Everything
is indeed very efficient: I'm quickly covered in electrodes, my heart
(ECG), brain (EEG) and blood oxygen level are monitored and the
anesthesia and muscle relaxant are administered through a catheter
placed in the back of my left hand. An oxygen mask is placed above my
head, which I'm very thankful for, I hate those things (or anything
else, for that matter) covering my face. All this has taken less than
two minutes, everyone is very professional. I'm lying in a hospital
bed wearing my own clothes (with a loose-collared shirt on for the
easy placement of electrodes, as requested) with my shoes, purse and
jacket at the foot of the bed. One of the nurses tells me I'll be
asleep soon. I experience mild disappointment over not having been
asked to count backwards from ten.
Next the same nurse asks me how I'm
feeling (It is the same nurse, right? Wasn't she wearing green
slippers just a second ago?). I answer truthfully that I'm a bit
nervous and she laughs, telling me that there's no need for that
anymore, it's all over. This is a bit alarming for some reason, but
since my thoughts seem to be covered in a thick layer of fog, I can't
quite grasp what it is I'm supposed to be alarmed over. The nurse
asks me to tell her which day of the week it is. I open my mouth to
answer and realize that not only do I not know which day of the week
it is, I can't remember ANY names for weekdays at all.
I can handle this, don't panic,
I tell myself. I have Sherlockian powers of deduction at my disposal,
I can make an educated guess if I just stay calm. I try to dig up
some scraps of memory from my poor, confused brain, and stumble on
the word SATURDAY. It doesn't
sound quite right though, that word seems to belong somewhere at the
very end of the week... Which has... eight? No, seven days! And
Saturday is the second to last one of them in this corner of the
world! I'm pretty sure there are no appointments for Saturdays. I glow
with pride. Take that, Sherlock!
No, wait, I still
didn't answer the question. I can't say Saturday, she'll think I'm a
lunatic (which is... probably the reason I'm here in the first place,
but never mind). I struggle for a moment longer and decide to tell
her the truth: I really can't remember which day of the week it is.
She tells me it's Tuesday, and suddenly, like the opening of a
floodgate, all the other weekdays surge forward from my mind and
settle in their correct places. It is, indeed, Tuesday. Well, at
least I got Saturday in its right place.
Soon
afterwards my head seems to clear up a bit and I sit up. I realize
that I've been moved into another room to wake up, which explains the
nurse's magical shoes. This is a waking up nurse, so she's probably
used to stupid answers and confused people. After asking me a few
additional questions which I clear a lot better than the previous
ones, she escorts me into yet another room to drink some juice and
nibble on a cookie. I don't seem to be dying, so they let me call my
mother to come and pick me up.
My
memories seem to be back intact (but how would I know if they
weren't?) and I can remember coming to the hospital very clearly, I
even take the right turns while climbing out of the basement. So far,
so good. At home I realize I feel like I've been staying awake for
four days in a row, I'm exhausted. I also realize that for the first
time in years, I feel like I could eat everything. Every
fucking thing in this house that's even remotely edible is going to
be eaten by me RIGHT NOW. Very weird, I didn't even remember there
was such a thing as an appetite. Can't tell if my depression took any
hits or not, but I still have at least five treatments ahead of me,
possibly as many as eleven, so there's still time for that particular
demon to eat electricity (I like to think of the nurses and doctors
as mages casting chain lightning on all the boogiemen in my brain,
but maybe that's just me).
All in all, not the
horror show of my nightmares, which is actually something of a
disappointment. Let's see how this thing continues.
