Aha, got it. Thanks, Dr. Notz. Ever thought about putting all that talent into a career as an artist? The sketch doesn’t help me at all. Though I’m still no better informed, I don’t ask any more questions. He isn’t interested in helping enlighten me.

“Surely you could cut out the cauliflower with just a little flick of the wrist?”

“It’ll be done.”

He walks out, leaving me lying in the puddle of water from the blister. I’m alone. And worried about the operation. I think of general anesthesia as something dangerous, as if every second patient never wakes up. I feel courageous for going ahead with it. The anesthesiologist comes in next.

The sandman. He pulls up a low stool and sits down with his face right in front of mine. He speaks softly and has a lot more compassion for my situation than Dr. Notz. He asks how old I am. If I were under eighteen there would have to be a legal guardian here. But I’m not. I tell him I’ve come of legal age this year. He looks incredulously into my eyes. I know. Nobody ever believes it; I look younger. I know this drill. I put on my serious you-can-trust-me face and lock eyes with him. His gaze changes. He believes me. On with the discussion.

He explains how the anesthesia works. I’ll count and then just fall asleep at some point without even noticing. He’ll sit by my head throughout the operation, monitor my breathing, and check that the anesthesia is agreeing with me. Aha. So this sitting-too-close-to-my-face thing is an occupational hazard. Most people don’t notice anyway — they’re knocked out. And he’s probably supposed to be as unobtrusive as possible and hunker down close to the patient’s head so as not to disturb the real doctors. Poor guy. The standard position while practicing his trade? Squatting.

He’s brought a contract that I’m supposed to sign. It says the operation could result in incontinence. I ask how it could affect my pissing. He grins and says this refers to anal incontinence. Never heard of it. But suddenly I realize what this means: “You mean I might lose control of my sphincter muscles and then I could just crap myself anytime and anyplace and would need a diaper and stink all the time?”

The sandman: “Yes, but that rarely happens. Sign here, please.”

I sign it. What else am I supposed to do? If that’s what it takes to have the surgery. I can’t exactly go home and operate on myself.

Oh, man. Please, dear nonexistent God, don’t let this happen. I’d be wearing a diaper at age eighteen. You’re not supposed to need those until you’re eighty. It would also mean I’d only have managed to live fourteen years of my life without diapers. And you certainly don’t look cool in them.

“Dear anesthesiologist, would it be possible for me to see what they cut away during the operation? I don’t like the idea that a part of me could end up in the trash along with aborted fetuses and appendixes without my being able to picture it. I want to hold it in my hand and examine it.”

“If that’s what you want, then sure.”

“Thanks.” He sticks a catheter into my arm and secures everything with surgical tape. This is where they’ll pump in the anesthesia later. He says that in a few minutes a nurse will come to take me to surgery. Now the anesthesiologist too leaves me lying in the puddle of moisture from my blister and walks out.

The thought of anal incontinence worries me.