If there were other options, they crept through the tiny holes in the windowless room. There were no choices, only an easy decision to be made; the probability of life or death. The operation theatre had an acrid smell, the stench of blood of the many others not willing to be forgotten, a large “I was here” sign diffused in the air. She prayed to God there had been many successes, then maybe some inevitable loss, the ones who left the theatre with rotten insides or new organs like forgotten scissors , breathing corpses, forgotten spatulas, half sewn incisions. These stories were not uncommon in this part of the world. Operations were a gory affair that followed endless suggestions
“Why don’t you fly to India for the operation?”
“I can’t afford it”
She swore her body was a fighter while staring at the small hands of the surgeon, neat and delicate -maybe all surgeons had brown delicate fingers-He closed his eyes to say a prayer for the third time. The anaesthetist with large eyes asked if he could insert another cannula in a soothing voice. She wondered how anyone could ever refuse those large eyes as she drifted into unconsciousness.