I always thought out of body experiences were bullshit. Yet here I am now in a wierd kind of crouching position perched high up in the operating theatre. It is all shiny white and clean, very clean, sparkling clean. The doctors and nurses are busy doing whatever it is they are doing. Just another day at the office. Each clearly has a specific role and function. Demarcation is evident. They are a precision unit, working in unison.
I can’t really see what they are up to. Their heads are all bent over me, arms move in and out, calls for instruments interrupt the otherwise inane chatter about their every day lives. I wonder if this lightens the mood and intensity. It certainly reduces me to something of lesser significance yet I am the raison d’etre, the star attraction.
An egg blue gown masks most of my body. A showercap or something resembling one covers my rich auburn hair. My face is pretty much obscured by the oversized oxygen mask and important but nasty looking equipment pulled close over my forehead. Lights flash red and blue on the screen, meaningless to me. From up here I can’t make out the purpose of the equipment or even the nature of the operation. What on earth has happened?
My winter white legs protrude from the robe and hang limply on the end of the table. Feet slightly out turned, the look of a very relaxed person, though you would suppose that can hardly be true. And what an embarrassment. Those feet, a shocker. My toenails are jaggered and sharp. It’s a wonder I can get a pair of stockings on without snagging them. Actually most days I can’t. The remnants of melon coloured nail polish well past its use by date are evident. Gym born calluses line the balls of my feet and the side of the big toes. Too much pressure, not enough padding. Definitely time for new shoes. And a pedicure. That’s for sure. Top of the to do list after this. Assuming there is an after this.
And as I stare in dismay at the shocking state of my poor feet, I suddenly see it. My webbed toe. As long as I could remember I had been self conscious of this and considered corrective surgery. As if I was some freak. Too bad I wasn’t prepared for this eventuality, I could have had a two for one special. But really why? Now that I thought about it and looked it over, the strangeness of it seemly oddly appealing. Mike always said he thought it was cute. That God only took the time to give special people a point of difference. Maybe he was right. And if that was the case and I was special then surely God would look after me now. And if God did, then I would acknowledge this gift.
And so it was that the newly issued passport for Monique Rodall noted under “Distinguishing Features”, “webbed toe, right foot”.
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2 comments:
Jenny says:
I really liked this one, Peta. The sequence of thoughts is so true to how human beings function. At the worst times, they worry about their calluses and toenails!
I would have liked a little more of an "ending" - or perhaps something at the beginning which set up the end - thoughts about being nothing special, for example.
I particularly liked the shifting view of the webbed toe. The listing on the passport gave away that the narrator survived the operation, so perhaps having it as a resolve for the future would have been more powerful.
I think not knowing whether she survives or not makes the story more emotionally poignant for the reader, perhaps inspiring some self-reflection.
Overall, a very enjoyable read, and very creative interpretation of the prompt!
A richly detailed story - I get operating-theatre-phobia just reading it.
And I love the stuff around the feet and the webbed toe. So captures denial or wherever the place is that our minds go when they're scared.
I would have like to have known SOMETHING about what this operation was about. When she says, "What on earth has happened?", I'm troubled that it sounds like she doesn't know what she's doing there. Is it pre-surgery or is it surgery where she is awake throughout?
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