And we had sex. Lascivious sex. In the shower when no one was around. Grant was keeping his promise; our life together really was transforming into what I’d dreamed it could be, into what he said it would be—happy.
When we got back from Jamaica, anyone who didn’t know before, knew now—Grant and I were an item. A hot item surrounded in scandalous speculation without a drop of proof. My parents were thrilled, his parents were thrilled, and Dylan seemed to have come around full circle to supporting us; although I think he was still crossing his fingers. I finally told Lissy why I’d been so distant and she immediately forgave me, but as I did with everyone else, I withheld any information pre-dating my divorce.
As far as I knew, no one knew we had an affair. Anything they thought they knew was only speculation.
I was more confident than ever that what Grant and I had was not going away. He’d dropped hints, told me we should be finished having all our babies by the time I was thirty-five , asked me if I wanted a small or large wedding, sized up my finger next to his own. He was feeling me out, and I was impatiently thrilled.
A proposal seemed imminent. It was all I could think about. Grant took marriage seriously, so if he proposed, I’d know with definite certainty that this life, our life was for real. I’d finally be at ease knowing my heart wouldn’t be broken tomorrow.
It hadn’t even been a year since I was divorced, but I was ready to be married again, to Grant. No amount of time could have made me more or less certain, he simply was the one. So why should we wait? But all those hints he’d whispered, all of our midnight talks about forever, apparently for him, didn’t come with the same urgency to tie the knot that I felt. The months dragged on for me and still, there was no proposal in sight.
He’d had plenty of opportunities, after Jamaica we hopped a flight to Arizona where I met the rest of his family and spent a romantic Valentine’s Day. He swept me away from place to place, from the desert to the mountains. He had the next trip planned before the first one had even begun. And at each new place, I was more and more anxious for him to propose. Everywhere we went seemed a perfect landscape to seal the deal, but at every departure my left hand was still a little too light.
It was almost June fifth, the day Dani would turn ten and the day I would go in for surgery. Since Grant hadn’t proposed on one of our whirlwind winter adventures, I became pre-occupied with speculating when and where it might happen. Was he waiting for the summer so he could sky write it? Was he planning a trip I didn’t know about? But we didn’t have any big trips planned because of my surgery. Would he propose the night before I would risk death? Or in the morning just before I went into the operating room?
That’s what I would have done—proclaim my love the moment before my soulmate gets wheeled into the operating room. So he’d know just how much I needed him in my life, and that he needed to fight to stay alive.
Yes, I decided.
That’s the moment he’s been waiting for.
***
We have the same desire, 2
live 4 the other person, being
selfless. It’s been working so
far. :) Love being in love with
u, babe.
Chapter 43
“DIS·SOCI·A·TION: THE SPLITTING OFF OF A GROUP OF MENTAL PROCESSES FROM THE MAIN BODY OF CONSCIOUSNESS, AS IN AMNESIA OR CERTAIN FORMS OF HYSTERIA”
—DICTIONARY.COM
Dr. G thought Grant was my husband and referred to him that way at our visits. We looked at each other and smiled, neither of us corrected him.
The wall in front of us was lit up and covered in x-rays. Dr. G explained the gravity of my condition, I numbed the bad news by making jokes. Jokes about what looked like shrapnel lodged in my abdominal cavity. I thought it was some sort of mistake on the x-ray, something stuck to the board behind me when they took the picture. It wasn’t. But there it was, the size of a paper clip, shiny and glaring at us from inside my body. No one knew what it was or how it got there—we just knew it was there.
“I guess my dream about being abducted by aliens was true,” I said. “I knew they cut me open and put in a tracking device. Doc, since you’re going in there,” I said with a straight face, “could you remove it so they stop following me?”
The out of place object seemed to be tucked under my left rib cage but it had obviously migrated from somewhere else. There was a trail of scar tissue leading up to it. Dr. G was surprised I didn’t know what it was and said he couldn’t remove it. But he did say that it looked like a surgical clip. You know, like a medical device left behind from a previous surgery.
After my persistent complaints, a personal investigation of my medical records and a formal hospital investigation, turns out, that’s exactly what it was. Some sort of surgical clip, “although the exact type and original location couldn’t be determined.” They said. But I had more questions: shouldn’t it be in my medical records if something was left in there? Wouldn’t it have a serial number or something? Will it puncture a lung? What if it migrates to my brain?
The answers I got were vague and always ended in the same sentence. “At the time of your surgery, it was standard practice to leave those things in.”
I had my spleen taken out in the 90’s not in 1802. I dropped the issue, too mentally exhausted to fight Goliath. Dr. G. wasn’t concerned with my surgical clip so neither was I. I just wanted to know what would give me the best possible outcome for this surgery.
To which he replied, “It’s not good, and it won’t be easy…but I think the best course of action is…” He spoke quickly as he inspected the gallery of images on the wall. There were cross-sections of my vertebrate, magnified vestiges of what once were intervertebral disks. He zoomed the MRI images in and out as he analyzed my innards.
One of his thick thighs bounced with energy as he spoke. I heard…Blah, blah, blah…bone graft, blah, blah…pedicle screws, blah…hardware. Emotional trauma had a way of causing me to dissociate and if severe enough, float out of my body. This was not quite an out-of-body experience but an odd muting of my hearing and tactile senses. As Dr. G laid out the reality of my injury, I turned into a cosmonaut.
“Is that my best option?” I asked.
He said yes.
“Then do it.”
***
Naked and perched on the edge of a slippery white tub in a stale smelling apartment, I sat shivering. I was two hundred miles from home and shaking with fear. I cradled my breasts in my hands and rocked myself. I was beyond petrified.
“You ready, babe?” Grant asked sweetly.
But no words formed on my lips. My mind had left, escaped from the trauma of the present moment, molted its shell and left only a skin suit behind.
I leaned forward and hugged my knees, sorrow seeped from my eyes and water drizzled down my naked body as Grant lathered my back. Rusty colored suds from the betadine soap flowed in to the tub as he cleansed my skin.
“I’m sorry, honey,” he said realizing my strife, “I just want to be thorough.” He kissed my wet head. “I love you. Don’t worry, okay. You’ll be fine; I’ll take care of you—always. Is there anything I can do for you?”
Propose?
Of course I didn’t say that out loud, I wanted to. I wanted to know that if I woke up tomorrow and never walked again. If I emerged from the operating room wheelchair bound, the victim of a rare statistic from an accidental nick in my spinal cord, would he still stay with me? In my heart I knew the answer but in real time I wasn’t convinced. A deep ache holed up inside me, a permanent glug in my throat, an inexplicable lonesomeness. I didn’t want to be single, I wanted to be married. To him. Before I went in for surgery.
That night I laid underneath him, hiding. Maybe it’s not too late to back out of this insane agreement. I contemplated faking illness and re-considering surgery. I couldn’t sleep. I needed him to make love to me, and he did. He held me like it was the last time, or the first time, or every time—he was consistent in his promise
to live each day to the fullest, not taking our time together for granted. That night our bodies undulated, gripping one another tightly with undertones of tension and loss.
At five am we drove to the hospital, I was the first surgery of the day. I’d heard that being first in line was the best place to be since later in the day doctors get tired, procedures get rushed, spinal cords get nicked. I contemplated that maybe the opposite was true, what if my doc is hung-over from the night before, stayed up late with his mistress having sex and gray goose in some fancy hotel room?
I tried getting a whiff of Dr. G’s breath when he sat down beside me—I didn’t smell any booze or see any lingering passion in his eyes, my concerns quickly dissipated. He was unusually alert, knees still bouncing and overly enthusiastic about operating at six am. He was a true marvel-driven and intelligent beyond normal human capacity.
“You ready?” He asked, and what was I supposed to say?
Yes I’m ready, just be careful when you stuff my guts back in—I’d like to be able to take a shit again someday. Oh, and please make sure everything that goes in comes back out, you know…surgical clips, sponges, junior mints. And try not to paralyze me okay? I like my life, and could you do me a favor and tell my boyfriend to propose already?
“Just don’t leave anything behind,” I joked. His face lit up with laughter and he patted my shoulder with a reassuring hand.
“I won’t leave anything behind that’s not supposed to be.” His smile was comforting and in that moment I trusted him. Then I counted the number of bodies that would be seeing me passed out and naked:
(1) Dr. A, who would be cutting me open in the front.
(2) Dr. B. who would be assisting with the second incision in the back.
(3-5) A team of hazmat suits came in, Doctors C, D and E. They marched through the heavy cream curtain and formed a circle around me. Each were assigned to monitor a set of bodily functions while Doctors B and G gutted me and stuffed their pudgy fingers into my abdomen and back.
(6) Dr. F gave me a sedative so I would sign the consent forms.
(7) Then Dr. G explained the procedure one last time—drill…screws…graft…blah…blah…blah…flip…repeat, repeat, repeat.
Grant held my hand until he wasn’t allowed any further. He kissed me goodbye and told me he loved me without a tear in his eye or a black velvet box in his pocket. There was no proclamation of his greatest desire to marry me or reassurance that he would stay with me if my legs came out attached where my arms were supposed to be.
The last thing I remember thinking was, I wonder which one is doing the catheter and will see my Brazilian waxed pooter.
***
June 5th
C.J. has been in surgery for five hours now. She looked good this morning when they took her away, I am sure she will be just fine. The nurse came out several times and said she’s doing great. My sweet honey, I would have taken the pain for her if I could have.
I ran in to my cousin John, a cardiologist here. I told him about her surgery, he said she’s in good hands—the best. No more injections and sickening procedures in that fucking low back place. Ugh, I can’t imagine what she went through in there.
Well, back to waiting, she should be getting done soon. I can’t wait to see my honey! I would die if I lost her now. I’ll keep you posted…
-Grant
It’s been seven hours since C.J. went in for multi-level, anterior-posterior spinal fusion. It’s taking longer than they expected, but they said she is still doing fine. I wonder what they found in there? Maybe another alien implant? Hehehe…
I am getting anxious and want to see my honey and take her home. I can’t wait for this all to be over. It’s been a long day waiting and wondering.
-Grant
Dr G. was just here and informed me that C.J.’s doing great. She’s in recovery now. It seems they encountered a few unexpected problems and had to do a procedure that took a few extra hours. Dr. G. said she had an 85% collapse in her spine and they had a hard time getting their instruments in-between her vertebrae. He said she had arthritis everywhere, like we suspected, which they shaved off, my poor sweetheart:( They obliterated those facet joints that seemed to be causing her so much pain (it’s amazing what modern medicine can do!)
She is strong and I know she will recover as fully as she can and I will do whatever it takes to help her!
Well…at least she’ll be an inch taller when she wakes up! Going to catch a glimpse of my honey now, I’m exhausted, stand by…
-Grant
Chapter 44
“I’M SORRY ABOUT WHAT I SAIDWHEN I WAS HUNGRY.”
—UNKNOWN
Day One: Vegetarian Ice Chips
“I feel great! It doesn’t even hurt. I can’t believe it doesn’t hurt,” my words came out in a slurry, the product of a seven hour Propofol cocktail.
“I have no pain!” I proclaimed, certain it was a miracle and eager to report my surprisingly comfortable status to anyone who might be listening.
Then a nurse with toothpick arms opened her beak and pecked away my optimism. “Dr. G injected pain killers directly into the site,” she said sadistically as she looked at her watch. “They’ll wear off in about…four hours. Then you’ll have pain.”
To my gratefulness and dismay over the next few hours Toothpick-Arms never left my side. She was occupied by bleeps and swooshes, monitors and bags of dripping liquids. She tolerated my inebriated babble.
When the four hours came and went, she seemed just a little too happy she was right. If I remember correctly, she even sneered a diabolical “told you so,” after my first scream. I don’t remember leaving the recovery room, I only remember waking up in a private room on a cold canvas tarp with tubes flowing in and out of every orifice. I was paralyzed, again.
Not permanently, thank God, if there is a God. But moving even the tiniest muscle in my pinkie finger or wiggling my toes induced a ferocious pain. A sneeze, cough or an itch was unthinkable. And being moved became a ruthless act of senseless violence that teetered on inhumane treatment.
Just being awake was cruel. Like I’d been the victim of a violent crime, every inch of my body was wounded as I lay beyond helpless. Aside from breathing, the nursing staff had control of my every bodily function.
How foolish I was to think I’d want Grant, my mom, my dad, and Dylan by my side. Oh the folly in my reasoning, after blinking my eyes open from the coma of anesthesia, all I wanted was to writhe in agony alone. Taking a large enough breath to utter a single word sent waves of violent pain from my back outward to my extremities.
Each hour a team of assigned nurses barged into my room like hirelings and tortured me with their procedures. I tried to make them stop but they were contracted robots and could not be reasoned with. They stood towering over me as I begged and screamed and pleaded for them not to touch me.
“No, no! Don’t fucking touch me. I’m sorry…just please don’t move me, it’s too soon, it’s too soon!”
The hired trio of scrubs each had a post. One shimmed a pillow between my knees, one held the tarp on the right and one on the left. They pulled me and the tarp to one side of the bed, squeezed me inside like I was the meat in a taco, then flipped me over. Each flip was felonious. They had hardened hands and empty almond shaped voids where eyes should have been, they ignored my wails.
“I’m deaf in my left ear so I won’t be able to hear you if you flip me over. Please, please don’t touch me,” I screamed.
It wasn’t true of course and they seemed to laugh at my pitiful little lie. A foaming disdain oozed from my mouth when anyone came into the room to help me. I’d become possessed like the girl in the exorcist and spoke in vulgar tongues to protect myself. But it wasn’t really me, doing those things, it was hungry, drugged me.
For years I’d practiced meditation, taught myself to eliminate distractions and develop laser-like focus when necessary. Out of sheer amusement, I’d also practiced how not to scratch an itch. What I foun
d from this silly endeavor was that no amount of willing an itch to go away would work. The itch would inevitably become a major distraction then multiply itself until my entire body itched uncontrollably and I had to scratch everywhere.
I didn’t know it until that day, but morphine made me itch. Not the kind of itch that feels like a loose hair dangling across your shoulder. This itch made me want to scratch out my eyeballs and tear off my skin. I didn’t beg for pain killers, I didn’t beg for Vicodin, I begged for Benadryl, but I could only have it every four hours and it only worked for one hour. I could get a dose of morphine on demand but had to wait four hours for more Benadryl.
“Not yet, you have another three hours,” They said.
It wasn’t like I was asking for Ketamine, I just wanted that little pink harmless pill!
“Grant, please go get me a box of Benadryl, please.”
“Honey, I can’t. I wish I could, but I can’t.”
“It won’t hurt me. It’s harmless. Please, I can’t take it!”
I pleaded with him as I painfully maneuvered my arm to scratch my neck, chest, chin, scalp, knee, hip, shoulder, ankle, other arm, neck, chest Ugh! All movements that caused searing pain throughout my insides. I groaned out loud, frustrated by my inability to even pound my fists into the bed. I was a wounded whale, beached on a tarp, going insane from the itch.
Day Two- Vegetarian Ice Chips
“Good morning, baby. How you doing?” Grant said so sweetly, but not even his voice or his presence made it better.
I was defeated and had stopped fighting the staff for Benadryl and the right to refuse the flip—now I was just begging them to put me into a coma.
Affairytale : A Memoir Page 25