The Surgeons

Every night I go to bed, the surgeons drag me out. One of them grabs me by the leg and pulls me away from, my wife, my family. I cannot do anything because I am already under light anesthesia.

In a long hospital hallway, they put me in a wheelchair and wheel me into an operating room. They strap me to a operating table and this is where it used to end. I used to wake up in my bed, not remembering the rest. But over time, I guess I got used to the drug and it does not put me completely out or give me amnesia. I remember.

My father is there, even though he is dead during the day. And he asks the surgeons what is wrong with me. And they say that is what they want to find out. Then they cut me open and pull my insides out and look at them. I can tell there is something wrong with them, they are rotten and covered in pus. And dirty from all the times they got them out and put them back in. But they do not seem to notice. I do not think highly of surgeons or their skills, I think they are a bunch of hacks. I am just worried that if they do not find something soon, the drug will no longer work at all, and I will start feeling the pain.

Then my wife comes to pick me up. Sometimes they make her wait until they stitch me up. She does not ask if they fixed me already, she does not care.

In the morning, at breakfast, we do not talk about it. She acts as if it never happened.

Posted by: Paweł Kowaluk