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Tess Catalano "Take Back the Night" and other academic essays, 1982

Catalano #11 Page 2

first cut. 
   Once they had decided to go ahead with the operation she became sort of a medical celebrity. Everyone from Chief Surgeon to lowly intern wanted a chance to hear her heart beat. They wanted to hear first hand the before and possible after of a "classic open heart history". They waited outside her room like hopeful suitors at the stage door, each clutching their stethoscopes like opening night roses. Some of the more conscientious warmed the cold metal on their lab coat lapels. 
   The night before she checked into the hospital we lay talking. My head resting on her breast, the familiar struggle of her heartbeat warming me. I remembered a time when in a fit of anger I told her that I wanted to die. I had reached for her and she held me to her breast. It was her failing heart that saved me. It sounded like tired, war-torn troops, marching through mud and slush. Reminding me that her life was more fragile than my own, it was my weary cavalry. Together we survived. 
   The ritual of the operation began at dawn. It was as if the odd rhythms of her heart beating had called together oddly matched rituals. Shaved and smooth like a baby, she was swaddled in sterile white sheets. Her attendants, dressed in faded and festive greens positioned themselves around her like pallbearers. With the clear plastic tubes from her IV quivering in time, they wheeled her away. In six hours the operation would be over and life could begin again. 

[handwritten]
Yes, it's clear that this assignment drew upon deep feeling, yet feeling that, as a writer, you were able to channel into a remarkable set of apt and moving images. The variety of sub metaphors do work together, there's a clear and steady focus. a well-crafted economy. In many ways this is your best piece of work so far.

Saving...

first cut. Once they had decided to go ahead with the operation she became sort of a medical celebrity. Everyone from Chief Surgeon to lowly intern wanted a chance to hear her heart beat. They wanted to hear first hand the before and possible after of a "classic open heart history". They waited outside her room like hopeful suitors at the stage door, each clutching their stethoscopes like opening night roses. Some of the more conscientious warmed the cold metal on their lab coat lapels. The night before she checked into the hospital we lay talking. My head resting on her breast, the familiar struggle of her heartbeat warming me. I remembered a time when in a fit of anger I told her that I wanted to die. I had reached for her and she held me to her breast. It was her failing heart that saved me. It sounded like tired, war-torn troops, marching through mud and slush. Reminding me that her life was more fragile than my own, it was my weary cavalry. Together we survived. The ritual of the operation began at dawn. It was as if the odd rhythms of her heart beating had called together oddly matched rituals. Shaved and smooth like a baby, she was swaddled in sterile white sheets. Her attendants, dressed in faded and festive greens positioned themselves around her like pallbearers. With the clear plastic tubes from her IV quivering in time, they wheeled her away. In six hours the operation would be over and life could begin again. [handwritten] Yes, it's clear that this assignment drew upon deep feeling, yet feeling that, as a writer, you were able to channel into a remarkable set of apt and moving images. The variety of sub metaphors do work together, there's a clear and steady focus. a well-crafted economy. In many ways this is your best piece of work so far.