The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

by Sylvia Plath

Later – 10 am – now I’m really prepared for the slaughter – robed loosely in a pink & maroon striped surgical gown, a gauze turban & a strip of adhesive shuts off the sight of my wedding ring. The little nurse was snippy when I asked how long the operation took. Oblivion approaches. Now I’m close enough, I open my arms. I asked to have my flowered curtains left drawn – the privilege of a condemned prisoner – I don’t want the curious gossipy well-meaning ladies peering for signs of fear, stupor or whatever. Evidently a lady went out on a trolley a few minutes back “Was she asleep?” “She looked asleep, she just lay there.” Now they’ve given me the first injection – which will “dry my mouth, make me feel drunk & so I don’t care what happens.” A handsome lady anesthetist came in & told me about the details of that – my arm is swollen – right upper – a bee sting, red & hard to the touch. I feel a bubbly drowsiness take my heart & so shall only write in here after it’s over – a letter from Ted reached me – my dear dear love.