The Day I'Ll Never Forget

I can remember my first surgery so meticulously well. It was the surgery that removed my tonsils and put tubes in my ears. I will never forget anything that happened that cold, rainy day. Even the very smallest of details about that particular day, from the color scheme of the dreary hospital to what the nurses and even the doctor were wearing, are forever embedded in my brain. It was so dark when my mom, my sister, my grandma, and I got in my mom’s tiny, bright red Pontiac Sunbird that very wet, cold winter morning at two o’clock. All I could see were the bright fluorescent lights around town and the vibrant hue of the glowing red, yellow, and green traffic lights. Even the headlights of the cars seemed dull and faded compared to the luminous traffic lights. My stomach was completely and utterly empty and the growling sounds coming from it were something fierce. My mom had stopped somewhere along the never ending grey paved road that led to the hospital and got everyone in the car but me a milk chocolate candy bar. The sweet aroma of chocolate filled her tiny red car as soon as everyone opened the wrappers. Even though I do love chocolate anyway, the sugary sweet smell was almost irresistible considering I knew I couldn’t have one myself. The fact that I was starving didn’t help matters. About the time the brilliant golden sun came out, we made it to the pale, beige hospital building where I would have my surgery. We walked in the door and all I could smell was the stale, too-clean scent of cleaning products and a mixture of everything from perfume to baby milk. The office itself had the generic color scheme of the same familiar beige as the outside walls and mauve colored chairs with wall border to match. The nurse wearing the amazingly bright multi-colored scrubs called my name. “Jodie Cooper,” she yelled from the dreaded white door that I knew would