SEVEN SIXTEEN THIRTY-NINE
By Chuck Semenuk
Knee replacement surgery completed, I’m in bed with a number of hoses attached to my veins. Hands push and pull on my leg. “What’s the pain level on a scale from one to ten?”
“Ten”
“Who are you?” commanded another voice. “Where are you? What day is it?”
My mind attempted to comply but every question seemed to bring another question. My lips moved but incoherent noises were all that came out. Images of worried family members float past. Busy hands poke more needles into collapsing veins.
“This one isn’t working,” said still another voice. “We’ll have to find another spot.”
“What’s wrong with him? Why doesn’t he know who he is?”
“Sometimes there’s a reaction to the anesthetic.”
“What is your birth date? Do you know why you’re here?”
“Leave me alone, dammit! Why do you people keep badgering me?”
“Why aren’t you eating? You have to eat.”
“That stuff tastes like crap. Even the water is bad. How can you screw up water?”
“You haven’t been pushing your pain button. Push the button. Get more of that medication in!”
Someone stuffed a button attached to a cord into my hand and I dutifully pushed the button. The instrument on the other end of the cord beeped as it pumped another dose of mystery fluid into my arm.
“My God, it hurts. I thought this stuff was supposed to help with the pain. I’m so tired. I need to sleep.”
Faces of family members fade in and out. A compression sleeve intermittently squeezed my leg.
“How’s the level of pain in your leg?” the voice asked. “What is your birth date?”
Another voice from someone tugging at my leg commanded “Okay, time to get you up. It will hurt but you need to start putting weight on the leg.”
“It will hurt? What the hell does she think it’s been doing? “
Two female therapists trained in the ancient art of torture began to ready me for my first trip out of bed. Rusty was a youngish redhead with so much energy it seemed sinful. The other one, I learned was well known at the hospital as the Disney character Cruella DeVille and seemed to derive considerable pleasure in trying to scare me into submission.
As the leg was moved off the edge of the bed, the pain was excruciating. Another session of bending and stretching muscles and tendons that cried to be left alone. A few steps with a walker and then to a chair for more stretching and bending. Finally, back to bed. Must sleep. Can’t sleep.
“What day is it?”
“How in hell would I know?”
“What’s your birth date?”
Struggling to remember. “Why can’t I remember? Seven sixteen thirty-nine.”
“Do you know where you are?”
I know where I am but struggle to answer. So many questions. So confusing.
“What is your birth date?”
“Six sixteen thirty-nine.”
“Are you sure?”
Futile attempts to sleep. More questions. At some point, a new voice; dark and ominous sounding.
“What is your birth date?”
“Five fourteen thirty-nine.”
The new voice laughed.
“It won’t be too long now.”
“Too long for what?”
“You haven’t been paying attention, have you? Don’t you realize that every time you give your birth date you reduce it in time?”
“So what? What’s the difference?”
“You’re counting down to your date of conception.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your date of conception, fool. The date that you were conceived. When you reach that date, you will no longer exist!”
