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It started with a hand on my shoulder. It was one part being surprised and one part at the suddenness of the touch that made me jump a little before spinning to face her. As her face and soft smile came into the focus of my vision, I had a moment of doubt. I've been amassing those moments as of late, stacking them neatly into piles. I'm even anal retentive in my own head, organizing the doubts by when they occurred, what sparked them, or just for no reason at all. One of the piles represented the doubts that would become regrets very shortly, that would fester with guilt and pain and fear and angst once I unlocked my car door and climbed in. I stacked another metaphorical box on that metaphorical stack as I greeted the doctor.

I had been here before for an examination. I had signed every piece of paperwork they put in front of me, made every relevant decision, and taken every preparatory drug they'd prescribed. The doctor showed me to the operating room, a place I hadn't seen before. I flashed her a smile as she excused herself for her preparation, leaving me in the sterile room with no company save the buzzing of the florescent lighting. I stared at it for what seemed like eternity, keeping time with its occasional but regular flickering by tapping a foot absently. The stacks were growing higher.

Over the past few days, the changes were constant. My mood flickered like the bulb above me. Click, self-loathing. Click, tenuous pride. Click, anger. Click, a wish that it could all be over. I did wish it could all be over, I still do, but life is never that simple. Life never lets you get away unscathed, no matter which paths you take. It's the brambles or the bothersome insects, unless you'd like to go for the sheer drop. I had considered them all, even that one.

The anesthesiologist was one of the kindest men I've met, despite the difficult job he had applying the local anesthetic. I had wanted so badly to be put under general, but the staff said the inherent risks involved weren't worth it. I would keep my eyes focused like a laser on that buzzing light, and I imagined myself a stone. An unfeeling stone, a stone with no need for anesthesia or doubt or regret or hurt. I concentrated harder and continued to repeat in my mind this desire, squeezing my eyes closed and letting a tear slip slowly down my left cheek, tracing its path down the smooth, rocky edge, collecting dust on its way to the earth. I was a stone. I had to be a stone, now.

I opened my eyes, and I knew it was done. The doctor that had startled me earlier put her hand on my shoulder once again. On her aged features was the expression my mother had given me when I was eight and our pet cat was struck by a car. But she didn't say anything for a moment, and when that moment ended, all she did was inform me that the procedure was done. I appreciated her frankness and brevity.

They kept me in one of the clinic rooms for about an hour and a half after the procedure. This time the object I focused on was the blank television screen. I thought about the ways the light bounced off of the convex screen. I thought about how I felt six hours ago, how I'd feel six hours from now. For now, I couldn't stop the tears from sliding down my face, tracing the pre-carved paths of their predecessors.

I thought about those neat piles of doubt. By the time I arrived at home, my mind felt as if it had been ransacked, all those neat piles torn down carelessly, thoughts scattered and littered on the floors, everything out of order. For the first time today, I didn't care about the rationality of my neatness; I just wanted to torch it all, no matter the collateral damage. My apartment was empty, as I had left it. Of course, he was still gone. The only evidence that he had ever existed was the painting he'd made hanging crookedly on the wall. I'd normally level it out, make everything outwardly perfect before I moved on. Today I didn't.

Miraculously I found my bed by wading through the fog of regret that existed only in my perceptions. I fell on it. My eyes focused on the spinning fan above the bed, not bothering to follow its arcing, circular path. My mind was quiet now, and I was a stone.