“I’ve had enough of recovering! I can’t do this any longer! I’m going to make Shabbos!”

It’s cold. Too cold.

I blink in the harsh lighting and watch the staff bustle around me. There are more people than I’d expected, more staff than I’d ever imagined were needed in an operating theater for this ordinary, run-of-the-mill kind of surgery.

Nurses and doctors busy themselves around the narrow bed in the center of the room. For a moment, I feel like the star in some strange film, the center of attention in an overwhelming way. Then I think of my babies at home, and my breath catches. I close my eyes briefly. Hashem, let this go well, let me come home to my children, healthy and whole.

Sure, I know that statistically my chances are excellent and that this is hardly a frightening operation… but still. General anesthesia, abdominal surgery, several days in the hospital away from my family. I swallow hard.

A male nurse, fiddling with the IV that has just started dripping slowly into my vein, glances down. “Are you alright?” he asks, forehead creasing. The plump frum nurse at my other side pats my leg. “She’s nervous,” she murmurs. “Of course she is. It’s alright. You’ll be okay, sweetheart, we’re going to take care of you.”

Then a mask descends over my face. “Breathe in, nice and deep,” the nurse says kindly. Within a few moments, the ceiling starts spinning slowly, and then there is nothing.

My body is being moved and something is beeping incessantly. I try opening my eyes in groggy disorientation.

“It’s over, sweetheart, it’s done,” a voice says in my ear. I try to focus on the words and on my surroundings, but I slip back into blackness. A few minutes later — or maybe it’s longer — I wake up again to find my mother at my side.

“It’s over, Tali. You did great,” she murmurs. I manage a half smile before fading out again.