Trip Notes: The Bud

I went to the sauna with some friends for the first time in a while. We followed the textbook cycle—shower, sauna, cold plunge, rest chair—and kept saying things like, “Man, sauna is the best,” and “This is totally ganja,” joking and laughing together. At first, we were all in sync, going through the loop at the same timing, but gradually, our pace started to drift. Eventually, we were all doing it at our own rhythm.

Before I knew it, I was the only one sitting in the rest chair. It was a weekday, so there weren’t any other customers around. My consciousness floated softly, and all I could hear were the distant sounds of someone setting down a bucket or water flowing from a shower. I was staring at a big advertisement on the wall, but I wasn’t actually seeing anything. I was in a perfect daze.

Suddenly, my eyes dropped to my belly, and I rediscovered a short, small scar. It was from an appendectomy I had back in third grade. I had completely forgotten about it. More than twenty years had passed since the surgery. And yet, the scar had been there quietly the whole time. I gently traced it with my fingertip.

These days, appendicitis can apparently be treated with medication. But back then, surgery—cutting open the abdomen and removing it directly—was the standard. If I had been born in a slightly earlier era, or in a time or place without surgery or medicine, maybe I wouldn’t have survived. Maybe I would have died back in third grade, at eight or nine years old. Thinking that, a strange feeling sprouted toward this life that had been extended back then. A feeling that was tender, grateful, like a guardian saying, “You’ve come this far.” And gratitude—toward my mother who rushed me to the hospital in that moment, my father who came soon after, and the doctors who performed the operation. All of that bundled together, tight and whole.