The Surgical Story / by Reginald Crump

June 5th, 4:30 am 2017

I lay awake as rain creates sonic patterns outside my window.

The rising sun inspires a hint of blue.

The promising dawn of sky.

My toss.

My turn.

Reminiscent of what kept me awake almost 7 months ago.

I flex, straighten and point the foot of my left leg, sending energy out of my toes as I point them toward the ceiling. Eager to show how grateful I am for every moment of strength it has given me within the past month. How the tone has once again replaced the lifelessness that crept in when I was one with my hospital bed.

Lighting strikes the morning sky.

I revert back to Christmas Day of 2017.

The morning conversations by cell phone.

The pressing of the buzzer for the nurse to return with additional doses of pain relievers. Catching the pain just moments before it reached the level of excruciating.

The quietness of the hospital hallways. Everyone home with their families.

Parents surrounded by wasted, Christmas wrapping paper on carpeted floors. Noisy toys that you'd wished you'd forgotten to buy batteries for.

Following my sonic frenzy with my cell phone’s GarageBand, I had a visit from the Dr's. I think it was 1 or 2, possibly 3pm. Each giving me the update on what was found, the prediction of my recovery and the step by step instructions/discipline that it would take once I'm released from the hospital. How Monday morning I’d have a visit from the x, y and z showing me how daily, I am to take care of my wound.

My wound.

 My wound, basically left open with the exception of a single stitch. A stitch holding the the flaps of skin, somewhat in place, just enough to keep it from being completely wide open.