Too Bad for Darla

I could hear Darth Vader faintly next to me. What the hell? Am I on the Death Star? I slowly came to and realized that it was me breathing into an oxygen mask. I didn't open my eyes, I just laid there and listened. Two interns were near my feet talking to each other. They were talking about someone named Darla and saying what a bitch she'd been lately. I thought it was hilarious since they didn't know I was awake. I hoped for more juicy gossip on that bitch Darla, but then a bad thing happened. I started getting more awake and taking in more oxygen. That's not the bad thing...no, throwing up the few contents of my stomach whilst wearing an oxygen mask was the bad thing. The two interns stopped their conversation, took the mask off and rolled my head to the side. Dry-heaving when your guts have just been opened, messed with, stirred around and then sewed shut is a painful experience, even under the pleasant haze of pain killers. They wheeled me into a recovery room and said that my family would be coming to see me shortly. My neighbor on the other side of the curtain was a large woman, whose lungs did not seem to be impacted at all by whatever surgery she had just come out of. She moaned like a dying wildebeest and wouldn't stop. I am a very stoic person, not much given to bouts of hysteria or great shows of emotion so I was a little annoyed at this. My husband came back to see me, a mix of concern, relief and terror on his face. I think the terror was due to the wildebeest next door. I couldn't talk much and I was still pretty rummy.