Here's an excerpt from the essay:
"I remember the ride into the OR. It felt like I was in some kind of twisted, first person-shooter, carnival ride, swinging around corners and through double-doors.
Feeling a strange calm. Although it was a dizzying, zipping ride, I half-expected some kind of zombie-thing to jump out at me.
I remember all the same questions. “What’s your name?” “What’s your DOB?”. I remember the anesthesiologist telling me that they were going to lean me forward so they could give me the spinal. “Ok. Here’s the pinch. Ok. Now just lay back.” And that’s my last memory in the OR.
Next thing I know, the anesthesiologist was shaking shoulder, saying, “Frank…are you awake yet?” “Yeah…” “Good.” A nurse handed me my glasses. I looked around, no clue where I was. “Where am I at now?” “You’re in recovery. We just have to make sure that you’re stabilized before we get you up to your room.”
"Really? You mean it’s done?”
“All done. You’re doing good.”
I never felt a thing. Never saw or heard a thing. And now I laid there in recovery, left with an overwhelming sense of peace and comfort that I haven’t felt in decades. No shit."
Glacial Hills Review is an an annual print and digital literary journal published by Choeofpleirn Press. The journal is dedicated to nonfiction, both creative and scholarly, poetry, and art.
The print copy is now available and can be be purchased on Amazon:
The digital copy will be available after July 7, 2023 at the Choeofpleirn Press site:
A great big thanks to everyone for all of your support!
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