31 March
12:30pm. Surgery. For an hour, I will be unconscious with a tube crammed down my throat and into my lungs so I can breathe. Surgical utensil like instruments will be forced up through my nose and into my sinus cavities, burning and cutting away in the hopes that their policy of slash and burn widening will stop this constant discomfort and pain.
When I wake up, there will be formerly sterile cotton, packing the meat red raw cavity. If I'm lucky, the tube will be out before then. If I'm not stupid, I'll have not smoked for at least a week before; if I'm dumbass, the blackened scum will all but calcify inside my lungs. As my bodily, autonomic functions slowly rouse, the tickle-flickering inside my chest will start, and against my mostly unconscious will, my chest will begin convulsing, struggling to expel the sediment that settled over the previous hour.
An hour or so after that, once they've assured themselves that they haven't caused uncontrollable bleeding, or accidentally nicked the membrane seperating my sinus cavity from my brain, they shall kick me to the curb with a gentle, white rubber-soled sneaker punch. They will welcome me back the next day, with open arms and snapping medical tweezers to remove the crusted gauze and cotton.
Seven days later, I will return. My insides will be examined with all the pride or shame, befitting the best of stage-mothers. There will be questions, to which I will reply and he will talk over. An older woman, a nurse, will smile sympathetically over his shoulder. She will listen. If I fail to make myself heard, she will speak for me. Otherwise, silent, save for the white rubber squeak on tile and the rustling of paper.
Before all of this happened, now a cold thats settled in my chest. Nothing too serious I don't think; it just makes me want to sleep. Tonight, tomorrow free. Wednesday, Italian. Thursday, Friday, Saturday I am polyester-knit and on stage.