My most disturbing experience in a medical setting happened when I was 21. I underwent a routine procedure under general anesthesia and, while on the table, I woke up.
It was my junior year in college, and I was living in Southern California. At that point, gastrointestinal distress had been a standard part of life. Acid reflux, heartburn, pain, indigestion; without going into too graphic detail, I’ll just say that I had been suffering with everything in the classic Pepto-Bismol jingle for years. And I had put off finding out the cause as long as possible because, truthfully, I already knew the answer: I drank too much, I smoked too many cigarettes, and I waffled between periods of fasting and bouts of binge eating. What deeply unhealthy person wants to be told that their behaviors have consequences? But I digress.
Eventually, the pain and embarrassment grew too debilitating. I didn’t stop drinking, smoking, or eating like a mad person, of course, but I finally made an appointment with a doctor with the unrealistic hope that they could prescribe a magical pill to fix my stomach woes.
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