Coming from long sleep, the first thing I am aware of is the beeping of machines in a constant sign of the rhythm of life.
Then, off camera, a woman’s voice is calling my name. But my name is floating in the ether, so I can’t
grasp it. I must have looked puzzled because the voice changed to French.
Parlez-vous anglais? Monsieur Foret?
The woman popped into my vision from the right. I still had the appearance of being puzzled.
DO… YOU… SPEAK …FRENCH? she added in English in typical
tourist pronunciation so that she was sure the words would make sense because
they were slowed down, each enunciated precisely, something English speaking
tourists have relied for generations to use on foreigners before the invention of Google Translator.
I found later she was Kate, a part of my post-operation recovery team that also included Emma, two students
at some point in their studies (hopefully not BTEC), in their blue scrubs, just like on Scrubs. And bi-lingual, to boot.
(That French GCSE came in handy after all, even it was talking to an American, in England with a three-tiered too French name)
I confessed to knowing English and she responded with news that I‘d just finished my operation all went well,
and what I was experiencing was the after effects of the anaesthesia.
I wondered why I couldn’t grasp my name when it was called. I nodded affirmation.
And, I completed my first interview which isn’t bad for an asphasiac. (Is that word? It is now)