Thursday, 6 March 2014


The wall is white. Boring white.  Sterile white.  Thank God for that colossal clock.  It rivets my attention - oversize numbers, giant hands, black on white face.  Do they know the second hand pauses and then jerks into place with each passing second?  It is as if this hand reluctantly let's go of the past to move on to future seconds and then jumps into place just in time.  I wonder if this jerking reluctance slows down time.  I'll just check my - hell, where is my watch?  I'm so tired.  My arm is just too heavy to lift.  Can't remember where I left my watch.

Sounds behind me sporadically invade my groggy consciousness.  Muffled footsteps.  Not the click of high heels or leather soles on hardwood or terrazzo, but footsteps definitely with a purpose.  Do they know that the second hand does not move smoothly, that it doesn't want to move forward? I should tell them.

Hushed voices I can barely hear.  Extreme fatigue - I want to concentrate enough to listen, but oh, my heavy eye lids want to rest.  Concentrate!  I'll concentrate on that second hand - count it through sixty jerky seconds.  Will it to move forward.

The slight clink of metal behind me.  Beep!  Beep!  Someone turn off that microwave.  I am parched.  What I would give for a cool glass of water.  How many seconds will it take me to attract someone's attention?  Did I watch that clock move through sixty seconds?  Can't remember.

From behind, a firm hand gently squeezes my shoulder.  Ah, now I can tell them about that clock.  Mrs. Lockett, we are ready.  I am going to administer the anesthetic through your IV tube.  I'd like you to breathe deeply and count to ten.

One, two.....ah, there are three

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