The first thing I noticed was the cold.
Not the kind that creeps into your bones on a winter morning, but a surgical cold. Clean. Artificial. The kind that smells faintly of disinfectant and metal and makes every sound feel louder than it should.
My wife was holding my hand.
Nicole’s fingers were cool but steady, her thumb brushing slow, reassuring circles against my knuckles as we waited under the fluorescent lights. The ceiling tiles above me blurred into pale squares as a nurse adjusted something near my shoulder.
“You’re going to be just fine,” Nicole said softly. “I’ll be right here the whole time.”
I nodded. I wanted to believe her. I did believe her. At least, that’s what I told myself in that moment.
The anesthesiologist leaned into my field of vision, her voice calm and practiced. She explained conscious sedation again, the same way she had in pre-op. Awake but relaxed. No pain. You may hear things.
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