Surgical Sounds

All gloved and gowned as latex snaps in place
blue clad nurses rustle about in paper sterility.

Preparing tables, amid the dull metallic ringing,
as they drop instruments onto the sterile feilds.

Gulging normal saline flows into bowls from height
to ensure, no contact between the bottle and bowl.

Lights flare brighter as, the gigantic overheads
are wrestled into thier positons with grunts of effort.

Murmurring voices converse, discussing what's needed,
to ensure all will be in place, ready when reached for.

The tones change as the patient is wheeled in, nervous
biting her lips wetly, as the nurse anestistist greets her.

She scoots as asked, sandpapering her skin across paper,
jumping at the slightest of touch with a tiny catch of breath.

Puffs and whiffs of gases, back up the muffled, masked voice,
counting in a whisper backwards from ten, but never passing four.

The surgeon enters, aided to tie the flapping gown, his hands still,
until receiving the nod, assured that she sleeps, no longer aware.

His hand reaches and a blade is quickly slapped into this palm.
The first incision, cuts into the silent room, signaling voices.

Random conversation passes time, the clock on the wall ticking
into any silent moments, as what she has dreaded passes and ends.

She is wheeled, on wheel squeaking, out and into her recovery
still sleeping, but oxygen's low hiss calls her from her slumber.

Awareness returns, and calls for a needles groan of anticipated relief.
Nausea retches, there is something for that too, and tension relaxes.

Reasurring voices keep calling, urging sounds, calling her to wake up
but it was the sound of the spoon against ice that made her really try.

Ice clicking against dry teeth welcoming moisture of any kind at all.
The first swallow, noisily forced past dry, swollen tissues and trauma.

Feeling silly she reached out for the purple, grape popsicle offered.
Hoarsly giggling, as the nurse winkes, agreeing she was rather old...

To be having a tonsilectomy.