The prep is its own specific ritual of the night before,
The nothing-by-mouth from midnight, the hospital floor,
Where you arrive at six a.m. with the bag already packed,
As if you’re going somewhere with an itinerary tracked.
I lay in the dark the night before the first surgery,
And took the inventory of the emergency,
Of my health history and the specific cascade,
That led to the room where the decision had been made.
The night before the surgery, the accounting in the dark,
The night before the surgery, the specific mark,
Of the information they gave you in the consent form,
The night before the surgery, the calm and the storm,
Running simultaneously in the waiting for the day,
The night before the surgery, the last things that you say.
I called my father late and said the ordinary things,
That men say to each other, the practicality that brings,
The information without the full weight of the why,
The specific efficiency of the male goodbye.
He heard what I was doing and he said the specific thing,
That he always says which is the same as the offering,
Of the ordinary in the place where the dramatic could be,
And I was grateful for the ordinary he gave me.
The anesthesiologist who came to the pre-op room,
Was younger than I expected in the morning’s bloom,
Of fluorescent and the hospital gown and the IV,
She explained the mechanism with the clarity.
And I thought this is the last person I’ll see before I go,
Into whatever the surgery and the specific glow,
Of the anesthesia is, and then I come back out,
Or don’t, and I was glad she was confident and clear without doubt.