Just a curtain separates each patient, our shared uncertainty. Beneath the heated blanket, my fists clench and unclench, a cold sweat spreading. Next door, a nurse is asking the routine questions. I start counting each breath. Someone says my name, unlocking the gurney. They wheel me down the hall, readied for the scope. I see my pulse on a screen. In one fluid motion, the anesthesiologist places the mask on my nose. The air is cool, smelling faintly of ... sleep? Snow? I'm losing myself. There is no countdown, just a soft slide into nothingness, where my body is not me.
Jenne Knight is a poet and writer whose work appears in or is forthcoming from Poetry Northwest, The Rumpus, and The Common, among others. More information is available at jenneknight.com.