I Feel Like Woody Allen
“Ray Eureste: Good luck with surgery man…. hopefully you don’t bleed out and die” As dark as this text message may seem, I find comfort in the fact that death is used as a punch line moments before I’m about to go under the knife. This tasteless, dead-pan humor actually plays a big part in settling my nerves by mocking the immensity of death. Of course if my parents were to read this they would question my friend choice but to my generation these words roast the sting of natural occurrence. This is what I believe. This is what I know. You beat death by dying on your own terms and you destroy its weight with laughter. “I’m too analytical” I say to myself as I lock and toss my phone onto the seat next to my bed. I think I’m ready.
Moments later a nurse peaks from around the curtain and informs me that my procedure has been pushed back twenty minutes. Unfortunately, having never gone through surgery, this delay allows time for my imaginative paranoia to kick in. After thirty unhealthy minutes of researching “hospital accidents” on Google, a different nurse pops her head around the curtain. “You doin’ alright Mr. Satriano?”
“Yup,” nodding, “ready to go.”
“Alright,” she says with a smile, “just sit tight for about another twenty minutes and we’ll get things started.” Before I’m able to say anything she vanishes, heightening my concerns and confusion. Realizing that there is absolutely no need for this long of a postponement I am now faced with the fact that I am probably going to die. All prior confidence has been thrown out the window and enough time has elapsed for a band of sadistic doctor imposters to take control of the operating room. I’m sure they’ve studied up on grisly movies like “Hostel” or “The Human Centipede” enough to have twisted plans for my unconscious body. It all makes sense because daylight is disappearing and to my cinematic knowledge, nothing good happens in hospitals after...