My experience getting GIPS surgery

I arrived at the hospital an hour early. The drive—four hours of controlled precision—was smooth, efficient, almost meditative.

They brought me into the surgical unit just over an hour later. Standard checks: stats, vitals. I requested an Ativan before the IV. One wasn’t enough. I settled for two.

The IV required a couple of tries. Annoying, but not intolerable. The nurse was skilled, empathetic—almost disarming. Normally, needles would reduce me to a mess, but the Ativan dulled the edges.

The real ordeal was waiting for the surgeon. At least two cases before mine. Time wasted, but perfection takes patience.

Finally, they wheeled me to the OR. Except—I walked in myself. Something about that felt… empowering. The room was cold, clinical, perfect. They set me up on this strange, contoured bed. The surgeon took one look, assessed the situation, and decided: three holes. Efficient.

I made a few jokes with the operating team. They laughed, or at least pretended to. Then—nothing. Blackout. Next thing I know, it’s over. I’m awake, disoriented but intact, and the nurse hands me my phone. Practical. Almost poetic.

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Bonus points if you can guess the character who’s tone I asked ChatGPT to write this in!