We gather the morning of November 21 before 6am. We say goodbye to our loved ones as all of us are nothing more than random women who are ushered behind two automatic doors. It feels like we are saying goodbye to freedom, to the life we once knew. No one has eaten or has had anything to drink. Sleep covers all of our faces. I speak to one woman who tells me that this was her third time to have surgery. She talks to me about it as though we are talking about the weather this time of year. Everyone seems to be old. I am only thirty-five, healthy, strong, fit, and ready for anything, including brain surgery. We are told to remove all of our clothing and put all of our belongings into a sac that has our name on it. I put a gown on and lay down on my bed. The anesthesiologist comes in to give me something that would relax me. I tell her that I am quite relaxed…I joke, I hadn’t had any coffee. She presses my hand after she shoots me with liquid state of grace – I am so unbelievably fine. Everything is perfect. Life is perfect, this moment is perfect, I love this moment.

I wake to two eyes behind glasses staring at me asking me to speak French. We talk of all of my favorite French foods, pain au chocolat, fondant au chocolat, blanquette de veau, foie gras – all of these things seem to make them laugh. I am aware that I am laying on my right side. I keep feeling a dripping sensation somewhere on or in my head. I ask again and again what the dripping feeling is as I hear a beep repeat itself. It’s black.

I become aware of my tremendous fatigue. The voices are loud and the light is too bright. I try to speak but nothing comes out. Please be quiet and please make it dark. A familiar face and I realize all was well. She looks at me, smiling blue eyes. She tells me I am fine – I am in post op and they are waiting for a bed to move me to ICU.

Six hours later there is a place open for me in ICU. The quiet, the dark – it is heaven. Nothing else matters. I can sleep. I close my eyes and drift into sweet reverie.

The next morning before 6am a man comes in to wheel me in the bed that I’m lying in to have an MRI. He wheels me through the hospital. Each bump the bed crosses seems to be attached to the nerves in my head and makes me feel nauseous. We wait for the next door to open as they do, he pushes me into the sweet morning air. It is fresh, clean and it soothes me and feeds my hungry lungs. I am calm as he rolls me into the MRI unit located in the portable location.

The technicians are waiting for me as they wheel me into the MRI – no earplugs because of my turban bandage. I plead for ear plugs saying that I just had brain surgery, surely you can put some ear plugs in?! No, the respond and the drumming sounds begin. Blasting repetitive percussion – “Don’t fight it,” says an inner voice, “just roll with it.” I do.

Back in the ICU room, the doctor enters and asks me to get up from the bed and walk to the chair. My partner and family are in the room. I am on center stage, ready to show-off how well I can do this. I have a thought, what if I can’t walk? I hold the back of my gown and go for it – I do everything fast and this was no exception. The doctor tells me to slow down and I do but I’m not slowing down my emotions. I am happy – I can hear, taste, touch, walk…I am still me.