I dreamed I was still in the OR, but the patient was me

I was standing at the foot of the table, watching my own body under the lights—still, pale, a mess of tubes and wires. The surgeon’s hands were mine, but I didn’t feel them. I just watched, like I’d been given a front-row seat to a memory I never lived. And then, for a second, I thought I heard my younger self whisper from the anesthesia mask: 'You’re not supposed to be here.' I woke up with tears on my cheeks, not from fear, but from something softer—like relief that I’d finally stopped pretending I wasn’t afraid of forgetting.