I must have been drunk for an entire week. Or depressed. Or maybe in a state of psychosis. I don't know. What I do know is that something had to have been very, very wrong with my mental state at the time, as it's the only way I can really explain my actions. I wish I could give you more details, but I remember very little of the actual thought process now that I have regained lucidity.
At any rate, what I do remember is this...
My boyfriend of 12 years and I were sitting around laughing about stuff, and we both decided that we wanted to lose some weight. I believe there was a program on television about Star Jones or some such other celebrity who had undergone bariatric surgery and now looked fit as can be.
"If only we had that kind of money!" I lamented. "I wish this was like ear piercings or tattoos where you could just do it yourself."
That's when it dawned on me that instructions for doing just about anything, no matter how dangerous, ill-advised, reckless, or insane, live on the internets. So I searched for DIY bariatric surgery, and lo and behold, I found this kit. I realize now the error of my ways, and that perhaps this kit was not meant for the layperson to perform surgery on themselves. But Roger is a very independent man, and he was very encouraging throughout this whole process. He remains convinced to this day that doctors are no smarter than you or me, and often times are much less smarter.
We ordered the package of 3 kits, which Roger justified saying "Well, that way if we mess one of ours up, we have an extra to redo it!"
I remember the night we planned to do the surgery. We hung a mirror on the ceiling and put an old sheet down over the bed. We were each going to perform the surgery on ourselves, using the mirror as a reference and instructions we pieced together from various websites and notes taken from watching clips of surgeries on Discovery Health Channel. It seemed like such a great idea -- our minds were fogged, almost possessed by greed and vanity and lust, enchanted by the promise of perfect bodies and perfect lives that were just around the corner.
Roger went first. From the get-go, he was more confident than I was, more eager to prove that he was just as smart and adept as a hoity-toity medical school doctor. With two pillows propped under his head, he grasped the scalpel purposefully and began to make the first incision. He didn't scream out, as enough painkillers to down an elephant were coursing through his veins. The incision was perfect, even, smooth, and he drew the blade slowly, opening the flesh...
And that's when the dog jumped on the bed.
I miss you, Roger.