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tahar ben jalloun
they say. This isn’t the first
time that I’ve been put under.
I fear waking up with that
unquenchable thirst that
accompanies anesthesia. A
few hours later, I wake up
calmly. I drink a few drops of
water. My lips are hard and
dry. My tongue is heavy, but
overall, I feel fine. I just want
to sleep.
When they bring me back to
the room, I discover that I
am connected to a bunch of
tubes: a catheter is pushed
into my penis and I have two
drains, one on each side of
the 7– to 8-centimeter-long
scar located in the middle of
my pubis. An IV is in the fold
of my elbow; another tube
supplies oxygen to my nose.
It’s tough to move. As soon as
I move, I pull all of the tubes
and hoses. They put a button
in my hand that I can push if
I want a dose of morphine. I
am well taken care of. Nurses
and nurse’s assistants check
on me. Two of them wash me
without moving me from my
bed and without the slightest
fake humility. I am simply a
body. I feel comfortable in the
care of their tender hands. I
desire to kiss them, to give
them a gift, to thank them.
How do these women do
their job for such bad pay? At
night, the nurses on duty stop
by and wake me up to give
me my medicine every three
hours. In the morning, their
replacements come to see if
I slept well or if I am feeling
better…
It isn’t until the next day that
I felt something was missing.
They speak generally about
“ablation” as something that
escapes, an exterior limb.
The prostate is interior. I
imagine Professor J.F.’s hands
detaching it, then removing