There is one moment we can experience on earth that is as close to dying as we can get. At least, that’s the way I see it.

You let your loved ones go. They watch you turn toward the door and you hear them say “I love you” one last time. From here on out you are with strangers and you aren’t really sure you will wake up again — if you wake up again.

Everything that makes you feel like you is taken away. Your clothes. Your jewelry. Your medical ID bracelet. You are told to remove your underwear — even your socks. You get to put on a shapeless sack with arm holes.

You lean over the bathroom sink to squint into the mirror at your reflection. They shaved your head.

You don’t even look like you.

You lie down. And then you are in for the ride. Needles go into your veins. Your skin is cold. You are asked a series of questions. Drugs begin to run through you.

A team introduces themselves but you don’t know what they are saying or what you are saying, but you are being rolled into a room with one bright light.

They give you a mask for breathing.

They say, “We’re going to take very good care of you.”

And they do.

Signed, sealed, delivered, I'm alive

Note: This was written almost one year after my second brain surgery. This is a reflection on that moment.