I watched with a curious fascination as the wicked scalpel was drawn across the skin, blood following in its wake. Somehow both detached and yet deeply, intimately engaged. It was an oddly disturbing feeling. It was, after all, my own flesh that was being deliberately and slowly sliced with great precision.
It had been my own fault. And a mental note was made, along with a swiftly administered metaphorical kick to be more careful with oyster knives in future. Just a small slip, but that is all it takes to cut a tendon. So there I was, under local anaesthetic, watching two surgeons repair it, and feeling oddly like a puppet as they retrieved the severed ends of the tendon and twitched my fingers without my voluntary participation. And I could not understand at all why they hadn’t just put me to sleep.
This happened a long time…
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