January 23, 2016

It is like a microscopic apartment room. At least, that is what I think as I enter. I see a television, a single bed, and a small bathroom tucked behind a door to my left. I sink into a russet armchair, a welcome contrast to the low, black stool I have been sitting on for the past three hours. The room smells a little too clean; I try not to imagine the circumstances surrounding its previous occupant.

My nurse Lori hands me an oblong, blue plastic bag. I smile — grateful and apologetic — before I empty a mouthful of saliva into the bag. At least now I don’t need to find a sink every few minutes. Swallowing spit is something I’ve always taken for granted. It’s such a basic function of the body; who wouldn’t? The clock reads four o’clock p.m. I have been unable to swallow since five minutes to twelve. New record.

Lori wipes my dry, red hand with rubbing alcohol to prepare the IV. Instantly, my hand burns as though left in a flame to dry.

As Lori inserts the IV, I think about the upcoming procedure. They called it an esophagogastroduodenoscopy. In about a half hour, a doctor will invade my throat to use a scope to dislodge the piece of uncooperative pork roast residing there. I won’t be unconscious during the procedure, but they say the sedatives will cause amnesia. I will not remember the surgery.

I wonder if that’s a bad thing.