The DaVinci Syndrome

The robot's name was DaVinci, I saw DaVinci while I was lying in bed waiting for surgery, waiting to put my heart into the metal hands of the white creatures. It made me realize how much Dr. Frankenstein and the monster had switched sides.

Someone took my bed to DaVinci's room, I didn't see who because I had tears in my eyes. Inside, two nurses put four unnecessary ones in my veins and said, "Just focus on breathing, then we'll do the rest."

I think I breathed.

10 hours later I woke up in paradise: a bright room full of women, I didn't really see them, but I heard and felt their presence, noticed their movements: they were dancing to the music.

Celebrate life.

My first memory with my improved or repaired heart was the pleasure of vomiting, the warm liquid running down my cheeks and chest, flowing like a conscious, heated stream.

These are my remains that I threw up.

The first three days I lived in David Lynch's world. I could see bacteria moving in blankets and walls, I saw myself in a forest as a figure carved in wood, another time I was a Buddhist monk befriending a snake, I couldn't distinguish between dream and reality.

On the fourth day, I urinated consciously for the first time, realizing that I had been brought in and out like a subway station on the yellow line between death and life.

I took a taxi home. No more hits.

The day after my blood pressure dropped precipitously, I returned to the hospital where I waited ten hours until a doctor examined my heart with instruments and said, "You're high." , and adds: “Get out of bed slowly and eat salt.”

It was spiritual in a way, except for the salt.

Now, other days have passed, I stopped counting, I changed. Another is what I am. I died there with DaVinci. Another doctor told my wife – in a sort of Freudian slip that was later denied, sealed and buried somewhere in DaVinci's consciousness – that something was wrong. Apparently DaVinci didn't do the job correctly the first time, the white monster had to come back.

I guess I was worth saving.

Did I learn anything? Sure, the me I brought out was smarter than me, but it's not there anymore. Maybe that's why my wife left me, or maybe DaVinci is to blame. I'm in love with a robot called DaVinci.

Falling in love with the robot that saved your life isn't like Stockholm syndrome, it's called DaVinci syndrome. There is a world of difference. False love is made of plastic, genuine love is made of mental steel.