I'm so sorry that I can't offer you a less dangerous solution
I'm so sorry that I can't offer you a less dangerous solution. That's all he said. How could I ever take a professional seriously again? People don't say things like that. But I sat in utter disbelief. This was suppose to be good news. I had done my research. Dr. Robert Hershkowitz was the utmost man in his field. Neuro-biological brain stuff. I can't remember his exact title, but it sounded so smart, yet this brilliant man, who has no people skills, was telling me that he was about to slice off a piece of my brain and it was all going to be OK, he'd done several of procedures similar to this and I would be in good hands. Good hands he says. Good hands? I certainly hope so. A laser was going to do the big cut, through the bone, my skull. As he sat looking at me, telling me about the procedure, all I could think of was what the laser would look like. Would it be like in the movies? A red light beaming through the sterile air of the operating room. A high pitched squeal as it cut a precise line on my newly shaved head. Would it smell? I've heard that burning flesh is gross, but does bone smell like burnt wood. Like a campfire? And when I woke up would it still smell? I like the smell of campfire. When we go camping, I always place my chair in from of the campfire so as the wind blows throughout the night, the smoke would waft around me and settle into my clothes.
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