I’m lying propped up in a dimly lit room, curtained off from the other occupant. Lifting heavy eyelids, I see there’s a man seated beside me.
Oh, right, it’s my husband. He’s been here the whole time they worked on me. I went under the knife around 10 a.m., so I think it’s maybe 11:30. I ask what time it is.
“Two o’clock,” Scott says.
Wait, what? I have no recollection of the recovery room. At all.
This whole experience has been bizarre.