As she left, her father looked at her, and Meg just shook her head.
She could tell that he was trying to decide whether he should pursue it, but then he sat down in the chair by the bed.
“Want to watch SportsCenter?” he asked.
Christ, did she ever.
* * *
FROM MIDNIGHT ON, she had to begin her presurgical fasting—and by twelve forty-five, she was so desperately thirsty that she started to panic. Her father was dozing in the bedside chair, but her mother, who was back behind the desk, doing paperwork and glancing up every so often to check on her, saw that something was wrong and came right over.
“What is it?” she whispered. “Are you okay?”
Meg was too deep into the panic to do anything more than shoot a look at the empty water glass on her table.
“Oh.” Her mother reached for a pitcher to fill it. “I’m sorry. I should have noticed that myself.”
She couldn’t seem to get her breath—or speak, so Meg shook her head, vehemently, and motioned towards the clock.
“Oh,” her mother said, again, and actually looked a little panicked herself.
“I can’t make it through a whole night,” Meg said. “I know I can’t.”
Her mother stood, frozen, holding the pitcher, and seeing her look so indecisive and helpless made everything seem that much more terrifying.
She didn’t want to cry—except that she had already started. “I can’t, Mom,” she said. “I really can’t. Please don’t make me.”
Her mother stared at her, her own eyes filling with tears.
“I have to be able to have water,” Meg said. “I have to.”
Her father woke up, and stared at them staring at each other. Then he lurched to his feet, still half-asleep, banging into the side of the bed forcefully enough to jar her leg terribly—and she groaned, and then started crying even harder.
“Oh, God, Meg, I’m sorry,” he said, and leaned down to kiss her forehead. “I didn’t mean to do that. I’m so sorry.”
Her mother just stood there, gripping the handle of the pitcher.
“Kate,” her father said. “Take a deep breath. Okay?”
Her mother looked blank, and then nodded, sucking in her breath.
“It’s okay, Meg,” her father said, and brushed some of her hair back with his hand. “It was only another nightmare. Your mother and I are right here with you.”
“It’s not that,” her mother said. “It’s after midnight, and she’s thirsty.”
Now, he got it, and he nodded, very calmly, his hand still stroking her hair.
“Okay,” he said. “It’s okay.” He walked over to the other side of the bed, and took the pitcher from her mother. “You’re both okay,” he said, quietly. He poured out about a third of a cup of water, put a straw in the glass, and then moved it over next to her mouth. “Here you go. Just take a few sips.”
Didn’t he know how dangerous that was? Was he trying to hurt her? “I can’t, Dad,” she said, recoiling away from it. “I have surgery.”
“It’s fine,” he said. “They can always move it up a few hours. We can even wait a day, if you need an extra day. There’s no pressure here. Everything’s going to be fine.”
She was still scared, but that made sense, so she let herself have a sip, and then another, and then finished what was left as fast as she could.
“Good,” her father said, his voice extremely gentle. He set the empty glass down on the table. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Your mother will wait here and hold your hand, and I’ll go find Bob, and we’ll figure out a way to make this as easy as possible for you. Okay?” He looked at her mother, who still didn’t quite seem steady yet. “Okay?”
Her mother nodded, avoiding their eyes, a self-conscious blush moving into her cheeks.
“You’re tired, Kate,” he said. “That’s all. The three of us have had a long day, and—you’re allowed to get tired sometimes.”
Her mother’s color deepened, but she nodded again.
“Okay.” He gave Meg’s hand a squeeze, and then kissed her mother’s cheek. “I’ll be right back.”
As her father left the room, she and her mother stayed where they were, without speaking. Then, her mother picked up her hand, and tried to smile at her.
“Your father’s right,” she said. “We’ll just—we’ll fix this. Don’t worry.”
Meg was still scared—all the more so, because her mother had seemed so scared, too—and she hung on to her hand, able to feel that both of them were trembling. Had she ever seen her mother panic, about anything? Ever? Jesus.
But, she needed to stop crying, because her father was going to be bringing Dr. Brooks, and probably some other medical people, in, and it would be humiliating for them to see her having hysterics about something that would seem so minor to anyone normal.
Only, the more she thought about it, the more difficult it was to stop. Oh, hell.
Her mother seemed to be coming back to herself, finally, because she spilled some water onto a thick wad of Kleenex, reached down to sponge off her face, and then smoothed her hair away from her forehead, the same way her father had.
“Could I have some more water?” Meg asked, ashamed to hear how frightened her voice sounded. “Before they get here?”
Before they told her she couldn’t. That it might be fatal.
Her mother filled the glass halfway and handed it to her, Meg gulping it down. Her throat still felt funny, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask for a refill, so she shook her head when her mother raised the pitcher inquiringly.
“I—I don’t want them to see me crying,” she said.
Her mother smiled weakly. “I’d disagree with you, but I don’t particularly want them to see me at the moment, either.”
Meg nodded, and they looked at each other, her mother gripping her hand almost as tightly as she was gripping back. And they were both still shaking, too.
“So,” her mother said. “How’s your spring break so far?”
Well, it sure as hell wasn’t comparable to wandering blithely around England. But Meg managed a small laugh. Very small.
Her mother started to say something else, but then the door opened, and she turned her back, whisking the wad of Kleenex across her own eyes before dropping it into a wastebasket.
Dr. Brooks and her father came in, along with a female Navy nurse. Dr. Brooks examined both of them with one penetrating glance, and then focused on her mother.
“Madam President, would you mind sitting down for a couple of minutes, while I take a look at Meg?” he asked.
Her mother nodded, and found a chair, her posture very erect, her face expressionless.
Now, Dr. Brooks smiled at her. “You know, Meg, if you’d feel better about it, we can certainly reschedule the surgery. In fact—”
Meg shook her head, because if it got postponed, people would wonder why, and if the real story ever leaked, she would feel— “No, I’m fine,” she said, although she had to wipe her sleeve across her eyes. “I was, um, just thirsty, for a minute.”
“Well, we don’t have to decide right now,” he said, checking her pulse, and then her blood pressure. “How’s the pain tonight?”
Awful. She shrugged, not looking at any of them. “I’m okay.”
“Even so, I think I’d like to give you something, to help make it easier for you to get some sleep,” he said.
Meg glanced at her father, who nodded, so she nodded, too.
“I think it’s a good idea,” Dr. Brooks said, handing her a tiny plastic cup with two pills in it, and pouring her some more water. “And while we’re at it, I’m going to have Lieutenant Benoit here start an IV for you, okay?”
Meg nodded, uneasily, and swallowed the pills with as little water as possible.
While the nurse began to set up the IV, Dr. Brooks motioned for her mother to push up her sleeve, and took her blood pressure, too. After listening through his stethoscope, he didn’t say anything, but
he left the cuff hanging loose on her arm instead of removing it, so he must not have liked whatever he had heard, and was planning to recheck it in a few minutes.
The IV needle hurt going in, but she didn’t even let herself blink, let alone wince. Lieutenant Benoit got it on the first try, and then taped the tube down, so that it would be difficult to dislodge. Once the IV was safely in her arm, Dr. Brooks thanked the nurse, who nodded at all of them and left the room.
“I apologize for not ordering the IV earlier,” Dr. Brooks said. “Normally, we do it as a matter of course, but I know how uncomfortable they can be, and—well, as I said, my mistake, Meg.”
He was trying to send her a message, but she couldn’t figure out what it was.
“The good thing about an IV,” Dr. Brooks went on, very conversational, “is that while you’re connected to it, you know you’re staying fully hydrated, and if you have any doubts, you can always look right up there, and make sure that it’s dripping properly.”
Instinctively, she looked up at the bag, and saw that it was, indeed, dripping. Message received. “I’m sorry to be so much trouble, sir.” She’d had other operations, without ever flipping out about having to fast overnight, so this didn’t make sense. “I don’t know why it’s so scary this time.”
Dr. Brooks patted her arm. “You’re healthier, Meg. I was prescribing much higher dosages of painkillers for you back then, so you were generally pretty groggy the night before. I didn’t, this time around, and so, you had a chance to think about it.”
Or maybe she’d just been braver before the other operations.
“You’ve been walking around on that leg—much to my dismay, I must add—” he winked at her— “for the past week, so there’s really no pressing need to do the arthroscopy tomorrow.”
A lifeline she really wanted to grab. “But, everyone would wonder why,” she said.
He pulled a small penlight out of his jacket pocket. “Open your mouth for a second,” he said, and then peered inside. “Well, now, it’s possible you have a touch of strep, and if that were the case, I would be inclined to send you home, and have you come back in a few days.”
She would still look like a jerk—and feel like a coward, so she shook her head.
“As long as you know the option is there.” He tucked the flashlight away, and went over to take her mother’s blood pressure again. He frowned, and then deflated the cuff. “Madam President, I strongly suggest that you go across the hall, and try to get a few hours of rest.”
Her mother looked annoyed. “I’m perfectly fine, Bob. And I’d rather stay in here with my daughter, so—”
“Madam President, let me reiterate,” he said, quite firm. “It is my strong medical recommendation that you kiss Meg good-night, and let me walk out with you.”
On very rare occasions, her mother was capable of having “I’m the god-damn President, and there’s no one on the planet who can tell me to do anything I don’t want to do” moments, and Meg could tell from her expression—and the jutting jaw—that she was considering going that way.
Except that her father was giving her an extremely hard look.
“Very well,” her mother said, after a few seconds. She came over to the bed, and bent to give Meg a hug, careful to avoid both her splint and the IV. “Will you be okay if your father and I take turns keeping you company?” she whispered.
Meg nodded.
“I’m really sorry,” her mother said, even more softly. “Just know that we’ll do whatever you need us to do.”
Meg nodded again, and her mother straightened up.
“I’ll see you all in a little while, then,” she said, and left the room with Dr. Brooks, looking—well—tired. Wrecked, even.
Her father pulled the chair her mother had vacated closer to the bed, and then sat down, picking up her hand. He raised his eyebrows, as though asking whether she wanted to talk, and Meg shook her head. Then, he motioned towards the lamp, and she nodded. He nodded back, turned it off, and they sat there, in the dark, without speaking.
Her mother was right; she was having an absolutely lousy spring break.
36
HER FATHER HELD her hand until she fell asleep, which only took about half an hour. The pills Dr. Brooks had given her must have been pretty strong, because she didn’t wake up until almost seven-thirty. Her father was still sitting by the bed, looking really tired, and when Dr. Brooks came in to see how she was, the First Gentleman went off to take a shower and change his clothes. And slug down about four cups of coffee, probably.
“How did you sleep?” Dr. Brooks asked.
Meg didn’t look at him, ashamed all over again about having reacted so badly to the prospect of a few hours without water. “Fine, thank you. The, um, the pills helped.”
“That’s why we have them, Meg,” he said.
It was still embarrassing to have needed them. “Is my mother okay?” she asked.
“Of course,” he said. “She’s in a meeting in the conference room right now, but I’m sure she’ll be in shortly.”
Odds were, her mother was feeling even more mortified than she was this morning.
Which was pretty god-damned mortified.
“So,” Dr. Brooks said. “Do you want us to proceed with the operation, or—”
She nodded.
“Okay, then. I think that’s the better plan,” he said. “Do you have any questions?”
In fact, she did, but she needed to be quick about it, before either of her parents showed up. “Um, I wanted to ask you about amputation,” she said.
He looked very unhappy. “Oh, honey, is that what you’ve been worrying about? This is just a routine arthroscopic procedure, and they’re going to evaluate your hand, too. But, that’s it, I promise.”
“Actually,” Meg swallowed, “I wanted to request one.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Meg. I don’t think I understand what you mean.”
“Look, we both know it isn’t working out,” she said, gesturing towards her leg. “And I thought—well—”
He looked so upset that she was hesitant to broach it any further.
“If you all went ahead and did it, we’d know where we were, and I could just, I don’t know, start living my life again,” she said.
“Do you want us to take your hand, too, while we’re at it?” he asked.
She hadn’t thought about that, but it wasn’t necessarily a terrible idea. She frowned. “Well, maybe not on the same day. But, yeah, okay. If you think that would be good.”
He sat down, heavily, and it occurred to her that that chair had been getting one hell of a workout during the past twelve hours or so.
“I don’t know what the high-tech options are, but they could at least probably rig me up some sort of pincer appliance, right?” she said.
He stared at her.
Maybe she should have done some research on the Internet about the various types of prostheses before bringing any of this up. “Well, I mean, if I weren’t a good candidate for that, either, they could just make me something, I don’t know, cosmetic.” Which would be a lot better than, say, a hook. She looked at him uncertainly. “Do you think it’s a bad idea?”
He nodded.
The door opened, and when Dr. Brooks saw that it was her mother, he stood up—as, of course, everyone always did.
“Good morning,” her mother said, but then slowed her pace, reading the mood in the room. “I’m sorry, am I interrupting you?”
Yes, but would Dr. Brooks be willing to say so? She definitely didn’t want her mother to get involved with any of this, although he probably did. “Would it be okay if we had a few more minutes, Mom?” Meg asked. “We’re kind of—I’d rather.”
Her mother was caught off-guard by that, and she gave them both an anxious look, but then nodded, and left.
“Picture, if you will,” Dr. Brooks said, “the conversation during which I told your parents that you’d made a unilateral decision to undergo an amputation�
�or even two amputations, and that I’d agreed to go along with it.”
Ouch. It would be all kinds of ugly. Meg frowned. “It wouldn’t bode well for your staying in this job.”
“It wouldn’t bode well for me remaining in this profession,” he said. “And rightly so.”
Great. As usual, the fact that she was an adult, and should be able to make decisions about her own life, was being ignored. She shouldn’t even have bothered asking.
Dr. Brooks sighed, put his head in his hands briefly, then straightened back up. “I know you had a very bad night, Meg. Is that where this is coming from?”
“It’s the soldiers,” she said.
He looked confused. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. How so?”
“When we were making visits yesterday, there were some amputees,” she said. “And a few of them were telling my mother stuff like that they were going to be learning how to ski again, and go running, and everything. One of them had already competed in a 5K, since he lost his leg.”
He nodded.
“And because I still have my stupid leg, the best I can do is try to make it in and out of my dorm without tearing anything,” she said.
He nodded again. Nodded several times, in fact.
What kind of fucked-up world did she live in, that she felt sorry for herself because she wasn’t an amputee? “If you’d taken it off last summer, when everyone thought it might be getting, you know, necrotic, I would have been able to ski this winter,” she said. “I’d probably be playing tennis a little, too.” Maybe not very well, but playing.
Dr. Brooks sighed, looking older than usual. Elderly, even. “Yes, I see your point. In some ways, you might have been better off, but we just can’t. It’s a viable limb, and as long as there’s a chance you’re going to regain some function—well, it just isn’t a realistic possibility.”
She nodded, feeling—as always—tears come into her eyes.
“It’s healthy to cry about it, Meg,” he said, his voice very kind. “You’ve had some terrible things happen to you, and we don’t have any easy solutions. I wish we did.”
That made two of them.
He handed her some Kleenex, and she pressed it against her face. “I’m not going to lie to you,” he said. “No matter how hard we try, I’m afraid we can’t bring you back to the person you were. But, we’re going to get you on skis again.”
Long May She Reign Page 47