There's something to be said about the value of a mural. While you sit on a gurney, ruminating on the fact that mere minutes separate you from injections and anesthesia, beholding something beautiful makes the experience more bearable. It softens the blow. If adult hospitals looked more like playrooms and less like prisons, maybe they wouldn't be so feared.
At the beginning of summer each year I sit on the gurney, naked under a cheap linen gown. I'm there for a cardiac catheterization and biopsy that determine whether or not my heart is in rejection. The anesthesia team asks if I still want to go under with gas before something stronger is given through an IV. The answer is always yes. Propofol, the drug used for sedation, burns my veins.So, I opt for the gas that numbs my senses beforehand. I sign a consent form. The primary risk of the gas is that I could hemorrhage out of my femoral artery—where the catheter is placed—but abstaining from it altogether is far more terrifying. I lie on a table and drift from consciousness, the masked faces of doctors blocking the fluorescent lights. When I wake up I will have another scar added to my collection. But the track mark-like dots on my groin are nothing compared to the one I wear on my chest.Continue reading on Tonic
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