There was a delay before the operation commenced, but for me time was compressed. I was losing consciousness again and apparently my heart stopped for a couple of minutes. There was a feeling of going down a tunnel while the financial arrangements were being made between the surgeon and my parents – there had to be an upfront cash payment because medical insurance obviously didn’t cover attempted suicides. Further recollections: bright theatre lights, faces of doctors and nurses, that green color worn by surgeons and their assistants and lots of scurrying around me. The doctor was waiting for the funding to crystallize and he hung around untill it happened. Then the face and voice of the doctor who put me under. Then nothingness.
I woke up puking. It was painful. My chest had not only been split open, but the whole cavity was wrenched apart (my ribs and chest plate) in order to give the surgeon room to work. Ironically it was morphine that made me throw up. I remember my parents being there when I woke up. My poor parents. They had aged in the 4 hours the surgery took. The first thing I asked them was whether I would not be sent back to that terrible rehab. My throat was sore from the pipes. It was clear it had worked: I was not going back. In fact, my parents assured me the rehab wouldn’t even have me if I insited because I was now considered a suicide risk. I had won possibly six to twelwe months of my life back. But at a huge cost to my mental wellness and the emotions (and finances) of my folks. Being a parent now myself I feel eternally guilty for what I’d but my mother and father through. What sticks with me even today is that third attempted shot when I had the gun to my head. Things could’ve been so different. It makes me shudder every time I think of that “click”that the gun made when it misfired. Did God save me?
As it transpited the bullet had punctured my lung and gone through the lower point of my heart. The surgeon couldn’t remove the bullet without risking additional damage to vital organs so he left it inside: A reminder of the lenghts I’d go to to keep my life under my own control. I still have the X-ray showing the bullet inside of me. It’s like a burden I will carry with me forever.
The nurses must’ve known what had happened but they kept asking me about it nevertheless and I kept saying I was shot during a robbery at my house. As a punishment for what I’d done the nurses didn’t remove my catheter while I was under (this is speculation but I’m pretty sure about it). Instead they yanked it out as soon as I was fully conscious, causing an excruciating pain deep within the channel connecting the tip of my penis with my bladder. The jagged edges tearing through that narrow pipe was enough to make me question the worthwhileness of my actions. It really fucking hurt!