Our demons, best friends

Prologue

My eyes were shut so tightly it actually hurt my temples. The male nurse asked me to take a seat on the side of my bed as he positioned himself in front of me and put his arms around my shoulders. He kept me still in a solid embrace, while my hands were wrapped tightly across my chest so I couldn't move an inch. That would not only ruin the procedure, but the worst-case scenario would be damage to my spine. The needle had to find its way through the vertebrae with as little resistance as possible.

As creepy as it sounds, I already knew all the details about the operation, the do's and don'ts. And I still had trouble staying calm. Not only because of the huge needle I had seen a few seconds ago on the tray beside my bed, which was now gone—that probably meant it was now approaching my spine—but also because I was experiencing one of the most claustrophobic hugs ever. As far as hugs go, this is not one of my favorites.

You know what they didn't teach us about in medical school? The god-awful screeching sound the needle makes while it forces its way between two bones. It probably wasn't as loud as I imagined it, but in my head it was absolutely excruciating. I was so focused on this unexpected and almost shocking occurrence that I totally forgot about the pain. In fact, I honestly didn't feel any pain at all. Even the abdominal pain I'd felt since I got up this morning—which made me curl up, scream, cry, and utter profanities to anyone trying to touch me (in this exact same order)—now was miraculously gone. The anesthetic hadn't even made its way through the needle yet, so my terror-stricken brain was clearly doing its job.

After the screeching stopped, the nurse helped me lie face-up on the bed. He instructed me not to move, and especially not to try and lift my head from the pillow. For which, of course, I knew the possible side effects—headaches after the anesthesia wears off. But for once in my life, I had to ignore the doctor's advice and try something I'd always wanted to do.

As the nurse walked out and told me to be patient until the anesthesia takes effect, I lifted my head from the pillow, supported my dizzy self on my elbows and concentrated really hard on moving my legs despite the total numbness in my lower body—the kid in me was probably surfacing with much more ease now that my mature self was so heavily drugged. I was not planning on repeating the procedure anytime soon, so I had to give it a shot.

I am now sure the whole telekinesis theory is bogus. My feet were not capable of moving on their own, but I was staring at them so hard that if telekinesis worked, I would've moved them nevertheless. My legs decided to ignore me completely, so I changed the focus on my thumb, like the size mattered in that particular situation—a small thumb surely must be easier to move than an entire leg. Again, it didn't work, and since my mature self was just dizzy and not unconscious, I decided to wait for the doctor lying down, as instructed.

Three minutes later, I was flanked by two very preoccupied nurses who began "prepping the patient" even though the patient was, on most counts, awake. They were probably too accustomed to sleeping patients because they were acting like I wasn't in the same room as they were; I was kind of expecting them to badmouth me any second. But they didn't and as I recognized my uncharitable thought, I realized I was probably not very good at handling my high.

I wondered why I didn't recognize the faces of the people around me. True, the hospital was considerable in size and I was not a surgical intern, but I'd been roaming its halls for almost five months now. Was I that self-absorbed?

Shaved (God, the shame!) and hooked to an IV, all tucked in—like an infant who had to be protected from accidentally scratching her face while sleeping—and dizzier than ever, I laid there waiting as the nurses lifted the green sheet that acted like a screen so I wouldn't see the doctor working on me.