First, there’s the calm, the patient waits,
Though nerves may tremble, hesitate.
Then comes the touch, a gentle prick,
Yet pain and fear no longer stick.
As lidocaine, like liquid glass,
Begins to numb, begins to pass—
So too does bupivacaine’s flow,
Easing depth where signals go.
Meanwhile, procaine, swift and brief,
Moves like a balm, bestowing relief.
Consequently, senses start to fade,
And tension wanes, quietly allayed.
Now, nerves fall silent, dimmed in light,
For signals drift, then lose their might.
Similarly, thoughts remain untouched,
As only the body’s sense is clutched.
Then, surgeons move with care precise,
While consciousness remains as ice.
Indeed, it’s skill, the hands that guide,
But likewise, calm where numbness hides.
Soon, minutes pass, or hours more,
Yet comfort still guards every pore.
When it wanes, so gently slow,
Pain returns, soft as winter’s snow.
Finally, the task complete,
The body stirs, regains its beat.
In the end, the ache subdued,
For local pain was once removed.
