January 10, 2013

A hurricane far worse than Sandy struck the eastern seaboard. The darkened town seemed lifeless. When light returned, we all wondered how many others survived. We felt the whole world had experienced this hurricane. All we could do was wait for news from other towns, other states. We lived in a world suspended between what had been normal the day before, and the wrecked landscape that now stared at us.

I'm living in a large, one-story structure that has an open floor plan. Lots of folks are milling about. I don't recognize any of them, but I seem to know them nonetheless. Another man and I need to have an operation (I get the feeling we were injured during the hurricane). We're told we need to inject ourselves with a sedative. I roll up my right sleeve and search my arm for a good vein. Lots of blue veins stand out on my arm. I'm reluctant, though, to stick myself with a needle. The other man feels the same. We wipe our forearms with cotton balls saturated in alcohol and then wander from room to room, asking folks who pass  us to inject us with this sedative. The first few who pass ignore us. A man wearing a white lab coat agrees. He jabs my arm next to a large vein. He then tells me to hold still and he inserts the needle above the left side of my mouth. He asks me to turn my head, I do and I cringe as he jabs the syringe into my neck.

He's finished and I feel the sedative working. I grow increasingly more relaxed and sleepy.

I awaken from having the operation (no idea what part of me was operated on) and need to urinate. I enter a large bathroom filled with urinals and stalls. All the urinals and toilets have yellow sticky notes on them saying, "Do not use." I understand that they're not working due to the hurricane.

I find a dental chair with a toilet built into it. The chair is for disabled people and allows them to urinate or defecate without having to get up during dental procedures. This is where I urinate.