Under the Knife
I'm getting surgery today
Today, August 3rd, 2026, I’ll be having surgery to remove my kidney stones. The procedure has been delayed for the better part of a year, by number of different factors, but mostly out of a desire to see whether the stones would clear up by themselves; they haven’t, and so I’ll be appearing at my urologist’s office at 1:00 PM, Eastern Standard Time, and having a ureteroscopy:—this is when a tube is inserted through the urethra and ureter (the muscular tube between the kidney and bladder) and the stones removed by means of a laser or an ultrafine wire basket. I won’t, or rather won’t likely have to undergo this procedure awake; I’ll be treated under general anesthesia. A ureteroscopy is outpatient, meaning I can be discharged that same day, in a matter of hours, and will, with any luck, be reading a collection of supernatural tales from the Philippines and rewatching Heat with my wife for the rest of the day. Tomorrow, it’s back to the literature mines.
An astute reader will have already sniffed out the reason for the concrete dates and times: the mundane anxiety that comes before a mundane medical procedure. Only about three percent of patients experience complications from their ureteroscopy. This anxiety, at least in my case, is compounded somewhat by the general anesthesia, which carries its own risks, though I’m not sure whether those are factored into the rates of complication for the procedure as a whole. At any rate, induced oblivion, regardless how temporary and routine, is a weighty subject. I generally like being conscious, though its savor has been dulled by the tedious routine of being a sickly person. I plan on living for a long time more, but I can see why the elderly, faced with pill after pill, doctor visit after doctor visit, hospital stay after hospital stay, will say, “you know, I’ve lived enough.”
Facing surgery, I take a certain degree of comfort in the possibility that I might not be unconscious during general anesthesia, but rather awake and aware of my environment to some degree. This is an observed, verified phenomenon, though a phenomenon that is observed by doctors rather than their patients, since the cocktail of drugs administered by the anesthesiologist prevents the formation of new memories. You would have no way of remembering the experience, only a blank lapse of time where sensation used to be. Immobility does not equal unconsciousness; neither does a lack of memories. I’ve forgotten the last time I held coins in my hand, the circumstance of it, but their weight was real, as was the scent of oils from my skin oxidizing on contact with the metal.
I’m not particularly afraid of the worst case in this scenario:—that general anesthesia might not suppress pain at all but only the physiological signs of pain response—changes in heart rate, blood pressure, pupil dilation, et cetera. I’m not particularly afraid of this worst-case scenario because I’ve already had to endure passing kidney stones without anesthesia. There are worse pains to be had, at least in my experience, but not many, and I can take comfort in not being such a difficult patient for once. Being rendered mute and immobile is more dignified than, say, thrashing around on sub-secondhand waiting room furniture while the hospital, understandably, treats the victims of an attempted double homicide. I regret some of complaints I vented towards the end of that particular stay. Turns out if you want to be handled gently, you shouldn’t be flip with the attending nurse. Not having to remember the whole drab experience is a bonus.
At any rate, later today, in about twelve hours or so, I should be awake again and functional enough for some light reading (folktales, not Derrida), awake enough for some movies (Mann, not Fassbinder), and maybe, if I can keep food down, some leftover lentil and pasta soup. Those are mundane things, made more enjoyable by a mundane procedure, which, by the odds, should get my life back on track. It’s taken a long time. Pain always obeys limits. I’m glad I get to set mine.
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Hope the procedure went well. This feels somewhat strange to say in the situation, but the writing here is superb. Perhaps it’s a coincidence but I wonder if you had Camus’ The Stranger in mind when starting with “today.” The whole piece (the matter of factness, the acceptance of one’s circumstances) reminds me of that novel.
Wishing you a speedy recovery!