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O
negative
.
My
blood
type
.
I
had
no
idea
.
It
’
s
not
like
it
’
s
something
I
’
ve
ever
had
to
think
about
before
.
I
’
ve
never
been
in
the
hospital
unless
you
count
the
time
I
went
to
the
emergency
room
after
I
cut
my
ankle
on
some
broken
glass
.
I
didn
’
t
even
need
stitches
then
,
just
a
tetanus
shot
.
In
the
operating
room
,
the
doctors
are
debating
what
music
to
play
,
just
like
we
were
in
the
car
this
morning
.
One
guy
wants
jazz
.
Another
wants
rock
.
The
anesthesiologist
,
who
stands
near
my
head
,
requests
classical
.
I
root
for
her
,
and
I
feel
like
that
must
help
because
someone
pops
on
a
Wagner
CD
,
although
I
don
’
t
know
that
the
rousing
"
Ride
of
the
Valkyries
"
is
what
I
had
in
mind
.
I
’
d
hoped
for
something
a
little
lighter
.
Four
Seasons
,
perhaps
.
The
operating
room
is
small
and
crowded
,
full
of
blindingly
bright
lights
,
which
highlight
how
grubby
this
place
is
.
It
’
s
nothing
like
on
TV
,
where
operating
rooms
are
like
pristine
theaters
that
could
accommodate
an
opera
singer
,
and
an
audience
.
The
floor
,
though
buffed
shiny
,
is
dingy
with
scuff
marks
and
rust
streaks
,
which
I
take
to
be
old
bloodstains
.
Blood
.
It
is
everywhere
.
It
does
not
faze
the
doctors
one
bit
.
They
slice
and
sew
and
suction
through
a
river
of
it
,
like
they
are
washing
dishes
in
soapy
water
.
Meanwhile
,
they
pump
an
ever
-
replenishing
stock
into
my
veins
.
The
surgeon
who
wanted
to
listen
to
rock
sweats
a
lot
.
One
of
the
nurses
has
to
periodically
dab
him
with
gauze
that
she
holds
in
tongs
.
At
one
point
,
he
sweats
through
his
mask
and
has
to
replace
it
.
The
anesthesiologist
has
gentle
fingers
.
She
sits
at
my
head
,
keeping
an
eye
on
all
my
vitals
,
adjusting
the
amounts
of
the
fluids
and
gases
and
drugs
they
’
re
giving
me
.
She
must
be
doing
a
good
job
because
I
don
’
t
appear
to
feel
anything
,
even
though
they
are
yanking
at
my
body
.
It
’
s
rough
and
messy
work
,
nothing
like
that
game
Operation
we
used
to
play
as
kids
where
you
had
to
be
careful
not
touch
the
sides
as
you
removed
a
bone
,
or
the
buzzer
would
go
off
.
The
anesthesiologist
absentmindedly
strokes
my
temples
through
her
latex
gloves
.
This
is
what
Mom
used
to
do
when
I
came
down
with
the
flu
or
got
one
of
those
headaches
that
hurt
so
bad
I
used
to
imagine
cutting
open
a
vein
in
my
temple
just
to
relieve
the
pressure
.
The
Wagner
CD
has
repeated
twice
now
.
The
doctors
decide
it
’
s
time
for
a
new
genre
.
Jazz
wins
.
People
always
assume
that
because
I
am
into
classical
music
,
I
’
m
a
jazz
aficionado
.
I
’
m
not
.
Dad
is
.
He
loves
it
,
especially
the
wild
,
latter
-
day
Coltrane
stuff
.
He
says
that
jazz
is
punk
for
old
people
.
I
guess
that
explains
it
,
because
I
don
’
t
like
punk
,
either
.
The
operation
goes
on
and
on
.
I
’
m
exhausted
by
it
.
I
don
’
t
know
how
the
doctors
have
the
stamina
to
keep
up
.
They
’
re
standing
still
,
but
it
seems
harder
than
running
a
marathon
.
