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bed out from the wall.
    â€œI don’t know,” admitted Lisa, trying to see up into the nurse’s face. But Carol had turned away saying, “Sure you are,” as she pushed the bed past the white Formica desk.
    The automatic doors closed behind them as Lisa began her fateful journey down the corridor to OR #21. Neurosurgery was usually done in one of four rooms: Number 20, 21, 22, or 23. These rooms werefitted out with the special needs of brain surgery in mind. They had overhead mounted Zeiss operating microscopes, closed-circuit video systems with recording capabilities, and special OR tables. OR #21 also had a viewing gallery and was the favorite of Dr. Curt Mannerheim, Chief of Neurosurgery, and Chairman of the Department for the medical school.
    Lisa had hoped that she’d be sleeping at this point, but such was not the case. If anything, she seemed particularly aware and all her senses sharp. Even the sterile chemical smell seemed exceptionally pungent to her. There was still time, she thought. She could get out of the bed and run. She didn’t want to be operated on, especially not her head. In fact, anything but her head.
    The movement stopped. Turning her gaze, she saw the nurse disappear around a corner. Lisa had been parked like a car at the side of a busy thoroughfare. A group of people passed her, transporting another patient who was retching. His chin was being held back by one of the orderlies pushing the bed, and his head was a bandaged nightmare.
    Tears began to run down Lisa’s cheeks. The patient reminded her of her own upcoming ordeal. Her central being was going to be rudely cracked open and violated. Not just a peripheral part of her, like a foot or an arm, but her head . . . where her personality and very soul resided. Would she be the same person afterward?
    When Lisa had been eleven she’d had acute appendicitis. The operation had certainly seemed scary at the time, but nothing like what she was experiencing now. She was convinced that she was going to lose her identity if not her life. In either case, she wasfragmenting, and the pieces were there for people to pick up and examine.
    Carol Bigelow reappeared.
    â€œOkay, Lisa, we’re ready for you.”
    â€œPlease,” whispered Lisa.
    â€œCome now, Lisa,” said Carol Bigelow. “You wouldn’t want Dr. Mannerheim to see you crying.”
    Lisa didn’t want anyone to see her crying. She shook her head in response to Carol Bigelow’s question, but her emotion switched to anger. Why was this happening to her? It wasn’t fair. A year ago she’d been a normal college girl. She’d decided to major in English, hopefully to prepare for law school. She loved her literature courses and had been a superior student, at least until she’d met Jim Conway. She knew she’d let her studies go, but it had only been a month or so. Before meeting Jim she’d had sex on several occasions, but it had never been satisfying and she’d questioned why there was so much fuss about it. But with Jim it had been different. She knew immediately that with Jim, sex was the way it was supposed to be. And she hadn’t been irresponsible. She did not believe in the Pill, but she’d made the effort to be fitted with a diaphragm. She could remember very distinctly how hard it had been for her to find the courage to make that first GYN clinic visit and go back when it was necessary.
    The gurney moved into the operating room. It was completely square, about twenty-five feet on a side. The walls were constructed of gray ceramic tile up to the glass-faced gallery above. The ceiling was dominated by two large stainless steel operating room lights shaped like inverted kettle drums. In the center of the room stood the operating table. It was a narrow, ugly piece of equipment, reminding Lisa of analtar for some pagan rite. At one end of the table was a round piece of padding with a hole in the