They tell me part of my brain was gooping out of a hole in my head and onto the street when they found me. The doctor says they scooped it back in and someone smooshed the skull over it and taped it down.
Later, they picked out small bits of tobacco and grass and dirty road gravel in 14 hours of surgery.
The doctors say they didn’t get all of me and some of me fell into the street and was trampled by all those black boots with their Vibram soles. That part is no longer me at all and is gone for good, but lots of parts of me are still around and that’s a miracle.
I’m special they tell me because I didn’t leave when I was stomped to death. I stuck around somehow and breathed by their machine and waited for myself to come around again. I didn’t do this on purpose--I had no intention of dying like I had no intention of living--but the doctors and the nurses don‘t think like I do. They think I had a will to live and I don’t know what to say to that. I wasn’t there when all of this was happening to me.
They hold me up in front of a mirror to let me see myself, bald, cratered like the moon. That's when I find the despair.
"Don't fret," Doc tells me. "We'll clag some filler in there, smoodge it over, caulk aroung the edges, add some color, you'll be good as new."
"I expected better," I said. "Even from an HMO."
"HMO? Sir, this is Home Depot."
So, I guess I wasn't the first to lose the will to live there.
Opening: Scott from Oregon.....Continuation: anon