Hello.

My name is Jody LeRoadie and I'll be your substitute therapist while your regular therapist is away. Are you comfortable? Would you like a glass of water? Powdered is all I have, I'm afraid. And it's milk-flavoured. Help yourself. Over there by the Iron Maiden. And make sure you're comfortable. Because what I'm about to tell you may be extremely disquieting. And I'm not responsible for anyone's lost or stolen sense of security. Although it wouldn't be the first time. This one woman a few years back, a friend of my sister's, I inadvertently reduced to blubbery sobbing tears with a few honest, well-meaning words about her weight. Now this woman was not what you might call slender. More what you might call hefty. And my sister had told me this woman battled body-image issues, so all I was trying to do was tell this woman she was entitled to feel okay about her weight so long as she took responsibility for it. Or something like that. Anyway, she locked herself in her bedroom and overdosed on T3's. Just kidding. She shot herself in the head. Again just kidding. But I'm being serious when I say she's not spoken to me since. A little well-placed truth can disquiet entire administrations. So please, make sure you're comfortable.

I work in an operating room. I'm used to the sight of blood. I'll open the door to the theatre while surgery is going on, to pass a message to the anesthesiologist, say, that her horse out at the stables just cracked someone's skull, and the orthopaedic surgeon will be wrenching away at some poor old woman's degenerative hip, dramatic arcs of blood splattering the protective plastic shield surrounding the operating table, the raw red story of a high-performance individual's facility for sublimated aggression. I know one female orthopod, and she's not exactly big — much less hefty — but can she ever rip those bones apart at the joint. And then the crimson carnage at the post-op scrub out, all that expensive haemoglobin and DNA spiraling down the drain. Over the surgery sink a posted placard reads, Blood. It's on us all to give.

Sometimes I wonder if people really have any idea of what goes on when they're anaesthetised. I got to thinking about this a few weeks back, in the moments leading up to my surgery, my anaesthetic. A couple days earlier I'd gotten mad and slammed a knife into a cutting board. My pinky finger slid down the blade, letting immediate blood and severing my flexor tendon. I knew right away, my finger went numb and slack. Couldn't move it. Tried, as blood squirted from the wound, which wasn't very deep but well-placed. And two days later, in those final pre-anaesthetic moments, I begged the surgical team to go easy on me.

I'm part of the system! I cried. My father works here! He's your colleague!

But my pleas were like fodder for their sinister enthusiasm. I knew what was going to happen. These people around me would change, these nurses and doctors, into the very monsters you wouldn't want around your supine, anaesthetised body. The kinds of monsters who are very interested in your flesh and blood. Heavy blue blast of Propofol an anchor to my consciousness, dragging me down into a dark buzzing oblivion. The last thing I recall is the nurse standing over me, grinning, her teeth growing longer and sharper. And then—

I'll open the door to the theatre while surgery is going on, to pass a message to the scrub nurse, say, that her house is on fire. But she's not listening. I'm used to the sight of blood, but I still can't get used to seeing the sharks and vampires circling the patient on the table, every so often darting in and slicing a major artery and shrieking with primal delight as blood jets, or simply tearing off bloody flesh cutlets and defending them against greedy aggressors. Long forked tongues licking blood off the floor, the walls, the equipment, the patient, each other. Anesthesiologist with Orphan Annie eyes doing ketamine in the corner. Doctors from all over the hospital lining up at the theatre door, nosing me out of the way, sharks smelling blood and baring rows of greedy, serrated teeth. If only the Health Minister could see this.

— And then I wake up in the Recovery Room, a slow, blurry wakeup in high definition. The darks extra dark, the brights extra bright. The drugs still outweighing me, but just barely. A vampire nurse looming bedside, grinning with normal teeth and proffering a popsicle. A consolation prize? Her hands and face and scrubs polished and blood-free. My hand all bandaged up like a lollipop, my arm the stick. By the time the bandages come off, the bite marks will have healed.

Time's up. See you next week.