Free Reinventing Emma by Emma Gee

scalpel,” Prof Morgan might say, holding out his empty right rubber-gloved hand.
    â€œNo I won’t,” his wife would reply stubbornly.
    â€œPlease Darling, Emma’s bleeding,” he’d say, his eyes pleading.
    â€œWhat do I get if I do?” she’d say in a teasing tone.
    â€œCome on, Honey,” he’d say more seriously. He’d had enough.
    I just hoped my head wouldn’t cop the blame for an unironed shirt or a late meeting.
    â€œWell, have a good sleep and we’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, clicking the folder onto the end of my white bed and walking towards the door. “I’ve prescribed some relaxants for you before the operation, just to calm those nerves.”
    â€œAny for us?” Mum called behind him, trying to joke but I knew she was serious.
    He left. I felt as though my head would explode. The AVM and the unanswered questions were smashing around in my skull like dodgem cars.

    Later the radiographer wheeled me into his glass-boxed room overlooking the CT white tube that I’d been in earlier when they snapped images of my brain. He showed me the 3D images on his desktop screen. Instead of planning the incisions they’d make by marking lines directly onto my face, they would refer to the bony landmarks on the images of my skull.
    â€œIsn’t technology great.” He spun the image around by rotating the mouse enthusiastically.
    â€œYeah.” I tried to sound equally excited, but knew too well that the clay-rotating image was my head. What if they entered into the wrong patient file? Clay could be remoulded but my head could not.
    â€œYou better get some sleep, Dear. You have a big day tomorrow,” the nurse said from my doorway.
    It was late … the night before my operation. I didn’t want Bec to go. We were watching Anne of Green Gables and it hadn’t finished. Anne was still stressing about her red hair. I thought about tomorrow’s scheduled semi crew cut. I wasn’t tired.
    Before Bec left that night I quickly wrote on a scrap of paper, “In the case of death, I, Emma Elizabeth Gee, will donate all my organs.” Bec witnessed it. It was the last thing I wrote before the sleeping tablet finally took effect.

    â€œWakey wakey, Emma.” A chirpy nurse entered, holding some folded blue and white garments under her right arm and a towel in the other hand. “How did you sleep?” She pulled my curtains open.
    I sat upright, but before I could answer she told me to dress in the folded items on the end of my bed. “When you’re ready, get into this, Dear, and take out any earrings. Just leave your things there and I’ll put them in your room for when you wake up.”
    She left, shutting the door loudly behind her. I had 60 minutes until my family arrived. Sitting up slowly I stared at the items of clothing the nurse had left on the end of my bed, my right hand resting apprehensively on top of them. Blue plastic, pull-up knickers; a blue shower cap and a white sheet-like gown. Usually for big life events like your wedding or birthday you dress up. Instead I get to wear these, and have my head shaved.
    I decided to dress, get it over and done with. I wrapped the shapeless one-size-fits-all gown around and clasped and scrunched it closed behind me with both hands till I could feel no breeze. I looked in the mirror. Hardly flattering. Here we go! I took my pasty body cocooned in this white tent back to my bed and wrote to kill time.
    5.59am …
    Dear Diary, Today is the day. It’s finally here. I’m sitting in bed as ready as I can be. My back is cold, the stale hospital air is touching my bare skin where the gown parts. I’m terrified, but positive … I just want to get this over with. The AVM is primed and ticking, ready to explode. I’m thankful it hasn’t blown yet. No longer do I have to anxiously wait for it to erupt. In a few hours it will be gone and