Going Down
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he snuggled her head into the cushion, let her back relax against the vinyl seat.
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She hadn't slept well the night before, too anxious about the uncertainties of the coming day. She'd tossed and turned, imagined and worried, slept a few fitful bursts at most.
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Well, morning had arrived, her husband had dropped her off, and thus far everything seemed to be going well. A pair of headphones provided Baroque at its finest.
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The drugs nowadays worked almost too rapidly—two pills, a sip of water, and her mind felt cleared for take-off.
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Probably most patients showed up like this before their breast augmentations, so emotionally depleted that their sedation kicked in hard and fast. The anesthesiologist would be arriving shortly to put her out.
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Until then, the nurse had promised, if she would just close her eyes, within minutes she'd be flying high.
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A moment later she was airborne on a small red plane cruising at fast speed with the scenery all around her just a blur. Was this a memory from her childhood?
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No! She was in a real plane —a run-down real red plane —and the cabin was cold. She didn't recognize her two fellow passengers and couldn't recall boarding or her destination.
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The pilot was dressed in green surgical scrubs, while she and the others wore white cotton gowns. The plane hit an air pocket, and she heard herself let out a yelp.
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"You okay, dear?" a lady said.
She cracked her eyes open and saw the nurse standing at the door."Thank goodness it's you," she said. "I was flying on a plane full of patients."
"Yeah, hon, dreams can go that way when you're first going down. Dr. Meyer got tied up in traffic, and so we're running a little late. Try to fall back to sleep. Want a blanket?"
She nodded yes and shut her eyes.
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Back inside the plane, she was in the second of only two rows. Everyone was now dressed normally. To her left sat a lady she didn't know. In the front row, she could see the back of a man's head and the pilot at the controls. The sky outside was cloudy and land below looked barren.
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She'd lost all faith in flying on her fifteenth birthday, the day her father crashed his private plane into the Colorado foothills.
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She'd vowed at his funeral that she would never ever fly but then had relented as an adult.
But even now, she had a fear of flying and a greater fear of heights. Just how she'd gotten herself inside this tin-can flying saucer was beyond her.
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The lady next to her began pointing frantically towards the window. The plane's wing had developed a breach in its outer skin that looked like shedding feathers.
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She glanced around the cabin. The man in front of her was sitting noticeably straighter but the pilot remained focused on his instruments. Perhaps a small rent like this was really no big deal.
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"Here ya go, hon," came a lady's calm voice followed quickly by warmth and softness of a blanket. "Comfy?"
She opened her eyes. "Thanks," she told her nurse, straining to hide her latest fear.
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It was only her subconscious speaking, and she understood its message. Electing to undergo plastic surgery meant exposing one's self to elective risk. Even a routine operation could sometimes turn out badly.
That's why she'd researched the procedure carefully and checked out every angle.
That's why she'd shopped for a surgeon with nerves of steel.
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But then her eyes closed again on their own and—
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The passengers were now acting agitated, while only the pilot remained calm. She sensed a bond of camaraderie with him, and her confidence surged.
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A third of the wing's fabric was loose and flapping and looked ready to rip off.
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She removed her iPod's headphones, and the roar inside the cabin hurt her ears. The pilot and the male passenger exchanged words, after which the man groped beneath his seat and pulled out a pack marked 'parachute'. He reached back yet again and found a smaller pack, but after that one came up empty.
"Only two?" she heard him yell. The pilot ignored him, his concentration devoted fully to his wounded eagle.
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For Christssake, she thought, what is wrong with these doubting Thomases? Sure, she too had felt apprehensive last night. She too had worried about the possibility of the unexpected.
But she was not yet so sedated that she couldn't appreciate the message coming to her from deeper down: Stay cool, your doctor is a pro, you're going to look terrific.
She sensed the touch of a comforting hand.
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"Quit bouncing around like you're having a seizure." The nurse gripped her shoulder and rooted her back to earth. "Good news, hon, it's finally your turn. Slip off your gown and climb onto the gurney. Let's wheel you into the holding area and get you prepped for anesthesia."
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The gurney reminded her of the funeral stand used to transport her father's casket, and th urge hit her to scream out, "No—let's forget it." Instead, she took a deep breath and tried to stand. The room began to spin, and her feet felt stuck in mud. |
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"Careful, honey, you're stoned and soaring." The nurse helped her wiggle onto the gurney and then covered her with a blanket. "Guess you're pretty sensitive to downers. But ya know what? Once you're fully under, the bad dreams go away. Wake up and you won't recall a thing. It's easy."
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The gurney began its joyride, the walls around her swirling. She entered the holding area just outside the operating room. Two patients were lying motionless in their beds, one with a sheet sheets over the head . . .
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. . . the other wrapped in layers of tape and gauze.
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One bed was empty, sitting alone in a dark corner.
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The nurse lifted her arm. "A little prick while I start your IV." The needle penetrating skin seemed like more than she could handle.
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Back in the plane, the man in front of her turned around at last. She held her breath, almost sure that she would recognize him. Dreams were like that, movies from the unconscious, and bit players were not hired to play major roles.
That she didn't recognize him spooked her even more.
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Shouldn't this man be a person of relevance? Someone like her husband taking one last opportunity to scold her for wasting money? Or her determined brother who'd tried to frighten her out of surgery with stories of bad results, warning that she could end up looking fake or deformed, battering her so relentlessly that she could grow clammy just thinking about the operation.
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But no, the passenger in front of her was just a worried stranger who then did the unthinkable and offered the ladies the only two escape chutes, a display of chivalry that seemed almost theatrical.
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No, thanks, she smiled back to the only person who'd been nice to her in weeks. Aerophobia notwithstanding, she was sticking with her trusted pilot.
The other lady grabbed the packed parachute and quickly locked its straps around her shoulders.
The plane began to vibrate and rattle, and she worried she might get sick. The pilot flicked a switch, and the passenger-side door popped ajar.
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"God bless you," the lady yelled to her as she scrambled half way over the seat. She and the man pushed against the door, and it cracked open an inch. The man glanced back with a look that asked, "Are you sure you really know what you're doing?"
The hiss of air was loud. She nodded back confidently.
The man shoved hard, the door gave way, and her two fellow passengers were sucked free of the plane.
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(continued on page two)
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