We can fix that, they say, and it will be good. But first, we must bring on the cavalry. They will have needles and knives and powerful drugs that will make you sick, but then you will get better. You imagine broken bones, lungs full of dust and spitting grit out of your teeth, but eventually you hurt enough to say Uncle. The cavalry it must be.

The night before, you remove the jewelry you never take off – the ring symbolizing the love of your beloved, the silver and pearl given by your dear friend on your 40^th birthday, the diamond nose stud that caused the wide-eyed young man at the car wash to ask how old you were when you got it. 43, you answered, and he said, Awesome.

There is a list of things you must not bring. No money, keys, valuables. You understand you will not be answering your telephone or making calls. You must arrive pure; you are to put nothing on your skin after your Last Shower. “Nothing,” the pre-anesthesia nurse had repeated, making eye contact to ensure your mind wasn’t elsewhere. “No hair gel, moisturizer, mascara. Nothing.” You assured her that you didn’t need encouragement to let yourself go.

You choose your clothing for its ease of removal, which sounds sexy, but isn’t. Thus unencumbered, you leave the house at dawn, feeling virginal. You have to be virginal for the cavalry.

At the hospital, you go to the bathroom three times from the waiting room. Fear is nature’s great stool softener. Finally, it is your turn, and you tell a parade of people your name and birth date. Nurse Mary itemizes your personal belongings. Pants. Shirt. Socks. Shoes. Undies. No undies, you say, your compulsive honesty leaping to the fore. Oh! She giggles. Going commando! Jesus, you think. Who wears underwear under their sweatpants to the hospital for hip surgery?

You meet the OR nurse and the anesthesiologist. Your doctor pops by  in his cap and scrubs, exuding good cheer, and you realize he loves his work, which is a good thing but a surreal juxtaposition with your personal terror. Your husband tells them they must be very, very careful and they respectfully assure him that this will be the case. He kisses you with all the love in the world and watches as the IV is started and you are wheeled around the corner. There is a moment of pure happiness.

***

A kind voice is telling you to breathe, so you do. Then it tells you again, and you oblige. Then again. This goes on for awhile. A beeper keeps going off and the voice says they are cutting off the IV pain meds because you are not breathing unless prompted. Later you will understand that your body thought narcotics were so swell it simply abandoned its responsibility to keep you alive.

Your husband looks relieved as you emerge, and strokes your face through the corridors and up the elevator, where they inform you your room has a view, as if you could give a shit. You have now been without pain medication for quite awhile and are on the verge of going to pieces. Apparently they’ve seen that look before, as they immediately give you a pill. The second it hits your stomach, a twenty-foot tsunami of nausea knocks you back against the bed, cold sweat literally surging from your pores. It’s like your water broke all over your body. They dump stuff into your IV, and the room goes back into focus.

Your blood pressure and temperature are taken constantly. Stuff that looks sort of food-like is brought, which is so preposterous you would laugh if you didn’t feel like crying and throwing up. The next morning, someone sticks a needle in a vein. It's still dark, and the gigantic public-school clock that presides over the room reads 4:30. When your doctor arrives at 7, he tells you your blood count is low and you need a transfusion. It’s very rare to need a transfusion, he says, only about one person a year. But that’s the tricky thing about statistics: you never expect to be one of the small numbers, the 1%, you expect to be yucking it up with the group, partying down with the 99%, but now it’s your turn.

Receiving someone else’s blood feels personal; you wonder who they were, although of course it is not from just one person. Sitting there for six hours as the machine hums softly with each push of donated life, you well up with gratitude that people sat there and consented to have a needle stuck in them and took time out of their day. You want to send them a thank you note.

***

Back home, you see on TV that a medical supply ship has been thwarted, and you notice there were walkers on it. You want to devote your life to making sure people who need walkers get them. And blood. And medicine. And kidneys. Everything you have ever done seems frivolous in comparison.

Time flows like honey through a garden hose. A deep stillness takes hold. Your senses are heightened; you shrink from sound, light and strong smells. You know what you do and do not want to eat and drink. You know what you do and do not want to hear. You know what you do and do not want to see. This is amazing. Mainly, you want to look out the window at the trees, and so you do.