Detour from Normal Read Online Free PDF

Santos, the anesthesiology technician. She pulled the curtains closed and left.
    There wasn't much to look at or do at that point. I tried not to think about what was about to happen. If things went well, I'd have a cut and be done. If not, I'd have a colostomy bag and hopefully be able to come back in a few weeks and have another surgery to reattach my intestines. If things went poorly, I'd be stuck with the external plastic bag permanently and have to dump it and wash out the remaining excrement several times a day for the rest of my life. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, depending on how you looked at it, a family member already had a colostomy bag, so even if I didn't have any experience with it, there was someone in the family who did. I told myself it would be better than the alternative, but I crossed my fingers that I wouldn't need one.
    I closed my eyes and tried to think pleasant thoughts: my kids, my dogs, even my kids' pet rats. I thought of all the wonderful memories we had and hoped that that was what everyone would remember if I didn't make it. But then I mentally scratched that last thought. Of course I was going to make it. After a half hour or so of revisiting my life memories and trying to convince myself that I wasn't having a "life flashing before my eyes" moment, the anesthesiology tech arrived. She introduced herself as Mary and explained what she would be doing. I knew what to expect, or so I thought. I'd been under anesthesia a few years beforefor a minor hernia surgery, and the anesthesiologist had me count back from one hundred. I made it to about ninety-seven. That's what I was prepared for, so when Mary gave me the shot that was just supposed to make me a little woozy, I thought I still had some counting to do. I thought I'd get to remember a little more. But that was it. I watched her start to inject the drugs into my IV, and I was gone.
    According to Beth, a six-member surgical team worked on me for four grueling and tense hours before I was wheeled out of surgery into recovery.

Chapter 3

    TWILIGHT
    "And what can I do for you today, my son?" someone asked. I knew that voice, but it wasn't my surgeon. I looked over to see a man in a colorful Madiba shirt and black slacks with his back to me. He was washing his hands for surgery. After they were clean and dry, he turned to me, his fingers facing up at chest level. A nurse pulled a white latex glove onto each hand, letting loose a puff of powder as each glove hit home. A surgical mask covered his face, but I recognized those calm, wrinkled, wise eyes: Dr. Nelson Mandela. Well, he was actually Morgan Freeman, but to me he was Dr. Nelson Mandela.
    "Ah, I see," he said as he noticed my naked belly. My intestines were so racked with infection that my belly had swollen to the point of looking nine months pregnant. It was shaven as clean as a baby's behind, and a glaze of Betadine coated it and dripped down my shivering sides onto the cold stainless steel table on which I lay. He walked toward me, eyeing the stainless steel cart that was set up next to me. On it was a rolled white cloth. He approached and within plain sight unrolled the cloth. There was an unmistakable clanking of steel against steel as it opened to reveal several knives.
    There was a butcher's knife with deep, asymmetrical gouges on the sides and a rough, uneven cutting edge where it had evidently hacked into bone. There was a bread knife on which all the teeth were roundedfrom years of sawing through flesh. There was a thin boning knife that had been sharpened so many times, all that remained was the sharpest sliver of a knife I'd ever seen. Lastly, there was a carving knife.
    Dr. Mandela picked up each knife and examined it carefully until finally he picked up the carving knife. Its blade glimmered like a mirror. Unlike the other knives, its edge was razor-sharp. It was both a spectacular and frightening instrument. Turning it over, he admired it and said, "Ah, this should be