RESURRECTION - GETTIN NAILED

4. RESURRECTION – GETTING NAILED

Is it not the case that

unless necessity wills it,

we are content to remain

blissfully ignorant of

much around us?

A femur nail – until that day,

I had not a clue what it

was. Was it used in construction

to fasten a wooden stud

to a cement slab? Was it

some exotic mixture of

various alcohols designed

to make the coherent,

incoherent, and drive

sobriety over a cliff?

“To be nailed” is a

phrase that bears

many connotations from

a triumphal sexual

encounter, to a fist

slamming into one’s

gut, to being caught

in a transgression

resulting in punishment,

yet, today, I learn

a whole new meaning

“to being nailed.”

No water, no food,

the usual prequisites

for surgery, the patient

patiently enduring

stomach pangs, and

dry mouth, awaiting

the inevitable administration

of a mini-death induced

assortment of drugs.

Pain is an excellent

distraction from thirst

and hunger, for pain

only seeks to be

resolved. I smile

feebly as you enter

my room, my leg

still in traction. The

nurse arrives and

announces that they

are ready. Hands

grasp the sheets, a

four corner transfer

from bed to gurney

for the trip down

to surgery.

You accompany this

solemn procession

walking alongside

giving me encouragement

down the elevator

to pre-op, and wait

silently outside the

curtained-off room

as anesthetists find

veins, catheter inserted,

and administer the

first of many injections.

Dreamily, I look upon

you as you reenter

and take my hand,

stroking it in that

way that you have

that communicates

a calming peace and

an overwhelming love.

The time has come,

the last drug administered

and you leave, seemingly

floating away like a cloud

as I drop into the dark

tomb of anesthesia.

Was it three hours,

three and a half hours,

three days? I do not know.

I was far away, in some

other place, as the

four pairs of hands

held me down on the

table, and the surgeon,

inserted the 26 inch

tungsten nail to my

bone and began to

pound away, driving

that long piece of

tungsten into my femur,

testing the strength

of all four people t

preventing me from flying

away as he pounded

and pounded and

pounded that nail

into my left leg.

A gentle reawakening,

quiet voices encouraging

me to return from the

darkness, light slowly

filling my vision, as

my eyes took in the

post-op room. Vitals

checked every fifteen

minutes, a general

feeling of well-being

and contentment

abounds, ah, the

wonders of anesthesia,

that is, until it wears

off and is replaced by

nausea and pain.

I search for your face

among the many

female faces in

post-op, but saw only

a stetile environment of

white and pale green

surgical caps, gowns,

and masks, if this

is the after-life,

though not much to

look at, well, at least

it is not unpleasant.

The Twain quip comes

to mind of going to

heaven for the scenery

and going to hell

for the company. At

which was I? Then,

you part the curtains

around my bed

and walk into the

room. I am at neither,

I have been resurrected

and as I look upon

your face, know that

I look upon the

Beloved of God.