Before I went in for my “minor surgery”, I idly wondered if I’d dream.
If I’d take the deep breaths they wanted me to take, and then dream.

The thing was, it really bothered me that I didn’t dream. I had no
concept of time, no idea how long I’d been out. No dreams, no happy
root beer floats or trippy light shows.

And that made me keenly aware of my mortality.

No “bright lights”. No voices. Sure, those are all Hollywood, Unsolved Mysteries-style expectations, but I expected…something. Or, did I expect because the other thought was scary and not at all calming?

Because when they put me under, I was done.

I suppose there is a takeaway here, that when you do go, it’s quick and over in a second and then the curtains fall on your play. But to have the curtains fall…and then go up again makes it feel like you have a second act, or the show has to go on.

And there you are, picking up where you left off, and maybe it’s a new beginning, or just a Friday afternoon.