I sat in my wheelchair wearing two hospital gowns – one open to the back and one open to the front like a makeshift robe. Underneath, there were giant, disposable, hospital-provided granny panties and and an ink scribble on my belly, pointing to the location of my tumor.
A nurse gave me a cap to cover my hair. Then, it was time to go. We pushed through the big stainless steel-covered door leading to a hallway full of operating rooms. The door gave me a strange flashback: my heart raced exactly as it did when I rode through a rickety traveling carnival haunted house as a teenager. Continue reading