Removing the mask

I am in a taxi being taken to a private hospital in a leafy suburb on the outskirts of Buenos Aires. The trip, as BA taxi rides invariably are, is a wild slalom through busy streets and intersections where everyone has, seemingly, equal rights of way. All the while the driver’s arms wave emphatically as though constantly daubing the scene ahead with colour.

Amanda, the owner of the company performing my procedure, is beside me, making small talk. She is also a writer and is outlining the synopsis of her next novel. I try to feign interest, but my mind is a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Excitement. Doubt. The impending surgery doesn’t scare me – I’ll be sleeping through most of it. I know I’m being flippant, but that’s how I’ve always approached my life. Or tried to. It’s how I got here. No point changing now.

My thoughts are a tumult. One