A number of rounds my brain runs in nihilistic thought patterns and I am always in search of real solutions.
But the thirst for my answers is always quenched by this one man from work who has the kind of face that stops you in your tracks.
Of course my face is a dead give-away despite speaking boldly, standing tall and giving a stun face.
I never touch my hair, no flush or fidget at any point.
I know the face has more capillary loops per unit area and generally more vessels per unit volume than the rest of the body skin, but come on now!
No matter what everyone would hint, I was not blushing.
I picked it out as a painless disease that was not affecting my brain but my social boat.
While taking an evening stride to clear my mind, hair fluttered in the air, I was carelessly blindfolded, felt a quick injection and floated away by hands that felt like worn leather.
Next thing I know, I found myself laid on a small sized bed with pale blue sheets, and at the side of the bed was ME? with dark blue scrubs and a floral head scarf?
What’s going on?
Around the illuminated room, there were different instruments with one or two people.
The ME, with a surgical mask, had surgical gloves put on.
I was positioned supine with both arms outstretched on arm boards.
Small incisions were made about the diameter of a straw between my ribs.
Pain was invisible.
A thoracoscope was inserted through one incision and I could see my insides through a monitor in the operating room.
Should I be seeing this?
Don’t I need anesthetic or something?
The lung on the side being operated, was collapsed.
My body was breathing with only one lung.
It’s like having laser eyes or reading minds.
The nerve that controls the blood vessels in one side of my face, was located and cut through the other incision.
The thoracoscope was then removed and the skin incisions replaced with small red rubber catheters.
The process was repeated on the other side of my body.
Last words before I zoned out, “Endoscopic Thoracic Sympathectomy was a success“.
When my eyes twinkled and glazed around, I was in my room.
My brain suddenly froze, and I quickly checked below my armpits.
I hit my head slightly on my bookshelf and I was still in my room.
Did I get a surgical dream and get away with it?
But don’t we dream of things we are aware about?
How did I know all that?
I was late for work and hurried my way.
Miraculously, for the first time I finished a conversation with Mr. Dreamy and a colleague couldn’t help but ask, ‘What happened to you last night? No blush? How comes?’
I smiled my way through the hall hyped by the idea that I could have survived an imaginary surgery that saved me from my real social painless disease.
No more deep blushes!
My defense: ‘I am not shy, I just have poor eye contact’.
Featured Image Credit to: Christian Holzinger