At least you have a story.

This, from Dr. Wreck, caught me off guard. 

The tonality was off. Suggesting that I was lying. Like getting caught in a lie in the principal's office. Guilt by association. 

Or, if not guilty, that I felt needed to fabricate a story tty that she's not interested in. Everyone who enters her domain has a story. The patients' stories are immaterial. What's important is the procedure. 

The anesthetic.  Rendering me unconscious. Or unfeeling. Speechless. A human form,         just like any other human form, a mass of flesh. A human being without a story. Reduced to numbers, readings, outcomes. 

The surgeon performs the work. But the anesthesiologist is the one that makes surgery possible. Dr. Wreck is the one who will transform me from a sentient being to a fully prepped and unconscious state, something that can be cut and sawn and scraped and stitched. I will be a homeless, nameless lump of flesh. A body without a story. The only story that counts is what unites us in the cold operating theater:  rotator cuff tear. A procedure, not a story, will take place. And then she will return me to consciousness. I will return to the wonders of thought and speech and story. 

How did it go?, they will ask

Fine, I will say, not really knowing. I will be the evidence that an event took place, but without a witness or a sense of awareness, it will only be an event. A process. A medical procedure. 

Do I want Dr. Wreck to know my story?

Yes. But only because she asked.  I want her to know that it's my story, it's why I'm here, drama. It has energy. It has a beginning, a sense of place, specific images and details. It has an ironic point of view. I want to enchant my listener with, give them a sense of delight.

It's my story.