—lying on her back in a new bed, her hands restrained so tightly it hurt.

"Ma'am," said the anesthesiologist, the lights of the operating room blinding her, "I'm going to be putting a rubber mask over your face in just a second. It may smell bad at first but then you'll be drifting into dreamland."

Oh, really? While his voice was quite soothing, only now did it dawn on her what was wrong. Dammit! Why had it taken so long for her to recognize the mistake? This operation was not supposed to be happening.

On that point she was clear. Harassed by friends and family, she'd decided to call it quits. Hadn't she phoned her doctor only yesterday and cancelled surgery? Hadn't she sobbed the entire day until her husband had suggested a visit to her sister who lived in Lake Tahoe just . . . a two hour plane flight north of Santa Barbara!

The smell of noxious gas, her body going limp, her vision shutting down—it felt like she was being poisoned.

It was almost a relief to be back inside the plane. She tapped the pilot on the shoulder to indicate her full support. He was talking on the radio but twisted his head around briefly.

It was her father! He looked like a corpse, the blood drained from his face. "No, Daddy, don't worry," she screamed over the cabin noise. "It's all in my imagination. This plane stuff is just an illusion. They're actually putting me out for a breast surgery."

Once again inside the operating room, her perspective had changed. She was looking down at the operating table from somewhere just above, detached from the body lying face up on the table, as if watching somebody else on a television screen.

The lady's chest was flayed open, sliced just beneath each breast and down to the muscles above her ribs. The surgeon was using his hand to dissect a pocket to receive an impant.

A pool of blood emerged, and the surgeon seemed surprised. He pulled up on the breast flap and the blood began spurting. Despite vigorous suction, he couldn't seem to keep up with it. The anesthesiolgist called out something and the surgeon stopped suddenly, focused his gaze on the cardiac monitor, and then put down the suction cannula and stepped back. The bleeding had stopped, but so had the woman's pulse.

She watched in amazement from afar as yet another doctor rushed in and begin administering CPR. The woman's body bounced up and down with each chest compression.

The anesthesiologist yelled for everyone to stand back, positioned two paddles on either side of the woman's heart, and delivered a shock of electricity. Though far removed from the operating table, she felt . . . her body stiffen!

Back inside the freezing plane, she tapped again on her father's shoulder. "We're on our way to Tahoe, Daddy. Right?" She wondered if her chest felt so tender from breathing such frigid air. "For Christssake," the man said, "can't you tell I'm busy." It was the pilot speaking to her now, his flight jacket pulled up against the cold. Her father had disappeared.

Below, the land looked more like Death Valley. "Please! Tell me we're flying from Santa Barbara to Lake—"

"Well, of course, we are, you bitch. Dammit! I warned your pushy husband not to give you those stupid tranquilizers just before take-off. But people like him think you know everything. Look, would you please try to leave me alone? The airport is still two miles away."

The shaking grew more violent as the internal ribbed structure of the wing grew plainly visible. The plane began to roll and lose altitude.

"But we are going to make it, right?" she asked. "Hell if I know," he said. She thought back to the offer she'd refused. "What about the others? Did they make it?"

"You mean the crazy sky divers? Only the guy had on a real chute, not that he'd know a rip cord from a shroud line. The other one was just a fancy floatation lifevest. Not that it really made any difference 'cause that chute hadn't been serviced in years . . .

. . . I cautioned the jerk not to bail, but he acted like he was trapped inside a flying casket."

Stop it!, she thought to herself—enough of this morbid flight of fancy. Determined, she leaned back in her seat, squeezed her eyes shut, and willed herself back into the operating room.

When she opened up again, she was still inside the vibrating plane that now felt like it was almost bouncing. Why couldn't she make herself wake up from this scary dream? Unless . . . dammit! Was she already wide awake?

The reality of the here and now versus a dreamscape of surreal horrors—which one was which? But then perhaps the very question was all wrong. Perhaps the operating room and airplane were both parts of a single terrible nightmare. Or maybe there was no dream at all, only scenes from a bigger fantastical delirium, both imaginary and real at the very same—

An explosive noise and then the brightest of blinding lights.

"Honey," a man says, "stop moaning and wake up."

It's the voice of my husband! I open my eyes to yet an entirely new reality, a room that's pitch black. Everything seems so blurry.

"Hon, we overslept," he says leaning over me. The shades are still pulled, but I can feel the satin sheets against my skin.

Thank God, I say to myself, feeling so relieved. "Where am I?" "Hon, cool it with the silly questions. If we don't get moving, you're going be late." "For what?" I tell him, "my cardiac arrest or a trip on the space shuttle?" "Sweetie, this is no time for talking like that. I'm just glad we packed up your stuff last night. I'll be out of the shower in five minutes."

I reach out to touch his face but feel nothing. "Come back," I try to say to him, but he's already gone. I need to talk with him about my dreams or premonitions or whatever they were, or are, or aren't.

Although already I sense that that's never going to happen. I'm losing track of details, my memories retreating quickly into the distance. I wonder: Was I even talking to my husband?

Lying perfectly still, I feel twisted and paralyzed, maybe even buried. I'm too frightened to extend my arms and legs, too afraid to lift my head,

too terrified to discover where I may or may not be.