What I don’t remember

The Doctor’s name. The nurse’s name.

The Doctor’s name. The nurse’s name.

The anesthesiologist’s name.

I don’t recall waking an hour later.

I don’t recall going to sleep.

I don’t recall the anal probe.

I don’t recall waking up in

the recovery room or what color

the curtains were. That’s right:

there were no windows.

I don’t recall seeing my wife

sitting beside the bed, or me

holding one finger to my lips

to indicate I required

an immediate merger with hers

in that obscure but compelling ritual

whose name I couldn’t retrieve

from my 51 years of memory.

Nor do I recall my first words to her:

“Are we still married?”

And just now,

one wife, two probes and 14 years later,

I fear I won’t be believed

or will be considered melodramatic

when I confess I simply don’t remember

what this necessary procedure is called.

— Patrick O’Leary

An earlier version of “What I don’t remember” appeared in the Spring 2011 issue of JENNY (Jennymag.org) — an online magazine of the The YSU Student Literary Arts Association — Youngstown State University.