by Beth Saadati
It’s only two steps. I remind myself this
is probably nothing—the odds are ever in my favor!—still, I tremble inside as I
climb.
I
lie down on the hard table, a pillow beneath my head, a pillow beneath my feet,
and turn my head to the side, away from the bustle and noise. A painted
scene—beauty to decorate the sterile?—hangs on the wall. Inches away from my
face, a CD boom box rests on a ledge. From it, falsely soothing music begins to
play.
“We
want to make this as comfortable as possible,” says a nurse I can’t see. “Almost
like a spa. Don’t hesitate to ask if there’s anything you need.” She’s kind,
quite kind, and sincere, but…a spa? Despite the heated blanket draped over me
and the wedge pillow cocooned in one arm, it’s not. It’s terrifyingly not.
With
no wasted time, the process starts—the prep to be done before the doctor comes.
I close my eyes. I try to relax. I make a respectable effort to push all that’s
vulnerable, awkward, and exposed out of my mind. It works, somewhat, until Dr.
Chaney arrives.
