I am lucky to have been healthy my entire life. I have never had to spend a night in a hospital, broke a bone and with the exception of the flu or the average cold once in awhile I never get sick. However, today I had to go the doctor and have a very minor procedure that oddly rattled my mental cage quite a bit.

I went to have a couple moles removed for precautionary measures. Granted, I knew I didn't have cancer, but still there is always some uneasiness when visiting a doctor. However, the doctor I was referred to was unlike any doctor I had ever seen. Even before he looked at my chart he was talking philosophy, Scientology and Kabbalah. As he poked at my the mole spoke of how L. Ron Hubbard traveled to the end of the universe where he discovered his name in an ancient book and died and was reborn. He discussed peoples need for truth, and how most people buy empty promises from motivational speakers because they are desperate for easy life answers. At first I found this interesting but as it progressed it became a bit disturbing.

When he finished looking at me he said, "We'll have a surgery room ready for you shortly." That word surgery sunk into my pores where it slid heavy to the bottom of my stomach. Surgery is not a good sounding word. It's a serious word. It's a word that stirs up existential thoughts, and the realization that one is mortal. I tried read my book while I waited, but I could not. Life seemed to suddenly vibrate. I could feel existence humming along with the fluorescent bulbs feet above my head. I felt alone. Very alone.

I was lead to the surgery room and was told to take off my shirt and sit on a table in a very cold room. Cold in temperature, colder in demeanor. The room was so bleak and sterile I almost felt as if I had become a character in a Kafka story, and in an odd way I had.

The doctor came in and once again began his philosophical ramblings as he started sawing away with a scalpel at the mole on my right shoulder. For some reason he didn't use any novocaine, so I had a slight tinge of pain as I felt my flesh being taken from my body, all along with the doctor talking about life after death, and how words are nothing more than a means to avoid communication. As he spoke I had a flashback to the last time I had a doctor mending my wounds. It was after I had been hit by a car and I was getting my hand stitched up. I remember feeling the stitches going into my hand and thinking, this is life. This is how true life feels when there is no distraction just you feeling that your body can be injured, that we will weaken, that someday wee will need help with the easiest of tasks, and then we will fade to our death.

The doctor began working on my other mole this time using novocaine, but nevertheless I could feel my cells and flesh separate from my body. I was uneasy and felt like a bug being toyed with by a twisted child. To add to the surreal moment the doctor spoke of Rush Limbaugh. The ugliness of life suddenly got uglier. He steered the conversation to Tibetan Monks and a death rituals until he said, "You are a good patient."

"That's it?" I asked as my head reeled from all the life and death talk. "That's it." He said.

The doctor finished up. I settled my insurance nonsense and headed out feeling as if my existence had been hit with a nest of wasps. Sounds didn't fill the silence rather silence smothered sound. Inanimate objects seemed to almost breath, and sunlight did not sooth or warm, but to make me aware that I am smaller and that I am receiving rays from millions of miles away. I felt lonely. I wanted to someone to hug and kiss and to affirm there are pleasantries in life like, love, friends and wine. What I got was a long quiet ride on the 101 where my visit just rolled around my head like cement in a mixer.