A Writing Journey

As we sit in the waiting room, the Ativan begins to take effect. 

I had placed the tiny pill under my tongue an hour before my procedure, following the instructions exactly. I am a good patient.

My partner, Mohamed, sits next to me. I was told to bring a companion to take me home because the Ativan could impair my judgement and coordination. 

“Ativan is benzodiazepine,” he reads off his phone. As I describe the feelings of calm and languor that permeate through my body, any nervousness about what I am heading into is blunted. Mohamed jokingly tells me that I am beginning to slur my words, just a little.

“You know Ativan is in the same family as Xanax,” he adds, eyes still focused on the screen. I am not sure if Mohamed is trying to keep my mind off the approaching procedure, or make me doubt whether I should have taken this addictive drug. He undergoes colonoscopies sedation-free and advised me to be fully awake also.

As thoughts of the monster in front of me come together and drift apart without my choice, I look at the clock and swirl back to the goal for surgery. As usual, I am early for my appointment with Dr. Solnik, the gynaecologist who will remove a small polyp from my uterus. Seems the size of this little one was an overachiever. It exceeded the threshold of eight millimeters. Dr. Solnik advised me to remove it to prevent a cancer risk. 

We had a slightly stressful meeting back in the fall. That’s when I met Dr. Solnik for the first time. Unpredictable bleeding and an ultrasound led me to his office for a biopsy. Two doctors had tried to insert the colposcope (a magnifying instrument) into my cervix but were unsuccessful in getting it through the narrow opening. Luckily, Dr. Solnik had another instrument, and the faith in his skill to use it, to kidnap a biopsy sample. The result: no cancer. Relief.

As I continue to wait to be called into the procedure room, Mohamed provides more comedy relief.

“If you want to use the bathroom, you won’t be able to. There are no bathrooms here. Only washrooms.” Not looped enough on my drug to ignore him, I smirk, giving Mohamed the side-eye while motioning with my hand to lower his volume.

Then he pointed to a sign on the wall, which read, “Pride is good.” There was a rainbow in the background.

“This obviously isn’t a Christian hospital,” he said, deadpan. “Pride is one of the seven deadly sins.” He knows how to walk the fine line between inappropriate humour and sarcastic wit, which makes me appreciate him even more in these tense situations.

That’s when Mohamed decides to continue a conversation we had last night, about six-word stories. He’s been along with me on this 31-day writing journey: an attentive listener as I share the beauty of this process and the meaning it has for me. Mohamed is an exceptional scholar. He teaches primary texts in classical studies and modern philosophy here in Toronto. 

He had never written a six-word story until last night.  As we talked about today’s surgery before bed, he came up with many to lighten my spirits before bed.

French fries, burgers, Pepsi.
Yummy! 
Dead.

Lost, confused.
Solution?
Back to basics.

Fast-forward 12 hours, the vagina-doctor calls me into the surgery room. The Ativan is making me numb as it courses through my blood.  Just in time.

In my mind, six-word groups trudge along and meet accidentally. 

Doctor reassures.
I believe. 
We begin.

Instrument cannot get in.
Cervix closed.

Cramping hurts. 
He reassures me.
Breathe …

I see it. 
I say, 
Good-bye!

And just like that, I hear the doctor’s words:  “A Trooper.  It’s out.  We’re done.”   

“A six-word story,” I thought, feeling a mountain of gratitude that the small slice removed from me today was not a monster at all.  It was an angel that led me into slices of my life that I had not paid enough attention to.  And more six-word stories.

Still, I’m glad to say good-bye.