When I was nine

When I was nine I had my second tonsillectomy. I remembered the first one well, I had been seven. That had been a poor job. I was an outpatient, just brought in for the job, they must have given me to an intern to practice on. He was nervous, didn’t cut the thing clean off, so he pulled a bit harder instead. Something like that.

So, here I was again. Sitting in the white bed I couldn’t believe, couldn’t understand, that what was going to happen had to happen, that I had no choice, it was going to happen anyway. I could run, sure, I could see the garden outside, the French windows were open. The sun was shining. I could run out in my pajamas, and they would probably catch me eventually, or I’d get home, and my father would bring me back. But wouldn’t the running make them think twice? Before doing this to me again?

Yesterday I was still free, riding my bicycle. I thought about running away after supper, hiding in one of the orchards there, taking the breadknife with me to fight off my father if he came after me. But this morning I was still home, I was docile, I came with him, he registered me, he handed me over.

Two nurses came in and put me on a stretcher, took me to the operating room. One placed a shade with chloroform over my face. Start counting, she said. Breathe deep. I hissed through my teeth, I didn’t breathe deep. I was crying, and hissing too. Start counting! she said, shaking me. I counted out loud. ‘He isn’t going under’. ‘Just keep him down’. Then I was tired and I gave up. I breathed in, I breathed in great gulps. I wanted to sink under. Now my crying was a hindrance, I breathed as deeply as I could.

That was a Roman Catholic hospital, this second time, all the nurses were nuns. They were very nice, or at least the young ones were. Except that one became very angry, when she caught me looking as she helped an invalid boy to pee in a bottle. She straightened his legs, put the bottle between them, gently put his penis inside the neck of the bottle. She was a very pretty young nun. She looked up and looked terribly angry when she saw me staring, she quickly covered the boy. Did she think I wanted to see the boy’s private parts, or wanted to watch her handling them? Well, I did, I had, both, I was overcome with the shame, I could not meet her eyes any more.

I remembered all this when I was in the hospital for my third surgery, just this past summer. This one I had freely chosen, I did not want to run away. But my imagination brought back the felt sensation, that overwhelming, powerless wanting to escape.