Yet the words won’t leave my mouth. My tongue is heavy with the sedative.
I don’t want this to be the end for me.
I don’t want to lose my leg.
I don’t want to... die.
I want to run. To escape. To bolt as far away as possible.
I will my feet to move and my legs to carry me out of here.
Nothing.
My body has betrayed me.
Or perhaps it knows what’s best.
How can losing a bone, or, God forbid, a limb, be best?
What is the lesson in all of this?
Why me? Why me, God? Why not Chloe Bradenton?
No, I shouldn’t think that. Why anyone?
I want to run. I want to escape. I want to disappear to a deserted island where no one can threaten me with surgery, chemo, amputation, cancer. The salt air will heal me.
In my mind, I’m fighting the hospital staff tooth and nail. I’m flailing about, screaming for my freedom and insisting that the diagnosis is incorrect. It really is just a calcium deposit exactly as Dr. Colley first said. I’m shaking, I’m screaming... but only in my head.
In reality, a small groan escapes my parched lips.
Before I can even wrap my muddled brain around this procedure any further, a masked man with amazing crystal blue eyes leans toward me. Even though I can’t see his mouth, I sense that he’s smiling at me. Then, I see the darker eyes of Dr. Dykema, so confident and assured in himself.
“Good morning, Hayley. We’ve got a long day ahead of us,” the doctor says. “You just go to sleep, and I’ll take care of everything.”
I think I nod at him. I’m not sure.
The blue-eyed doctor tells me, “I’m going to put you to sleep now, Hayley. Just relax.”
Easy for him to say. He’s not the one strapped to an operating table.
He continues in a comforting voice. He almost sounds like Dad, which makes me take a deep breath and release the tension in my muscles. Dad is near. Mom is near. Cliff and Lily are with them. And Gretchen came home. They’re all waiting for me.
Dr. Blue Eyes continues. “I want you to count slowly from a hundred to one. Can you do that for me?”
Another nod. I think so.
The overhead light reflects brightly on the tip of the silvery needle he holds up. The syringe is full of a clear liquid that is headed into the tube on my hand.
“Hayley, you’re going to feel a slight burn, but it’s nothing to be worried about. Start counting.”
“Ahhhh-hundruuuud... ninnney-nine . . .”
“Good girl.”
Searing heat moves into my hand and up my arm. It’s as if the liquid has on a new pair of cleats and is running through my body as fast as it can... going where?
“Ninnney-ayyyyyyte . . .”
My ears ring from a phone call I cannot answer.
Buzzing. Darkness coming.
The magic elixir closes the curtains around my eyes. I am helpless to stop it.
God, please take care of me.
The blackness encompasses me.
Chapter Nineteen
Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.
—Buddhist Proverb
Ugh.
Where am I?
Owwwwwwwwww . . .
There are no words to describe the excruciating pain ripping through my body. Okay, so excruciating may be good enough. I try to wrap my brain around which particular adjectives my English teachers would want me to use here: agonizing, unbearable, terrible, awful, severe, sharp, painful, and just down right hurting.
Oh right. I’m in the recovery room.
I have no idea what time it is.
Or what day it is.
The oxygen mask is, again, tight on my face. My face is wet again. Tears, no doubt—tears I don’t realize I’ve even shed.
I go to lift my hand; it feels as if it weighs fifty pounds. My fingers brush against the annoying oxygen mask, sweeping it off my face and away to the side. A nearby nurse places it back over my mouth and nose. I go through this dance with her a few times before she tucks my arms back under the covers and scolds me.
“This helps you wake up.”
Wake up. From a dreamless sleep.
It seems as if only moments ago I was being told to count down from one hundred, and now I’m here.
I try to move. Anything. Nothing reacts to my brain waves.
Am I paralyzed?
No, I lifted my hand before.
I attempt to send a message from my mind to my legs. However, there’s a heaviness weighing me down.
A man appears next to me pushing a bulky machine. I can’t exactly describe it except it’s gray and ominous looking. He moves my covers aside and they block my view of what he’s doing to me. Whatever it is, it sends roaring pain through all of my extremities.
“Ouch!” I cry out. A lead apron is draped over me.
The nurse is at my side. “It’s okay, sweetie. He’s just taking some new films.”
“Oh... okay . . .”
It’s anything but okay. Tears cascade out of my eyes, dripping down into my hair.
Hummmm . . . click.
Hummmm . . . click.
Hummmm . . . click.
So many X-rays. It must be good, though, if he’s taking pictures. My leg has to still be there, right?
He slides the machine away, removes the apron, and covers me back up. I think I pass out from the pain.
When my eyes lift again, I don’t know how long it’s been. I’m in a perpetual fog. A density that surrounds my senses from smell to sound to sight. To my left, the moans and groans of another patient fill the air. I wonder what this person is in for. Is he okay? Will he survive? I’ve survived to arrive at this point.
Of course, I’m breathing and alive, but am I whole?
My stomach plummets like a falling elevator. I remember the waiver my parents had to sign, and I begin to tremble uncontrollably. Slowly I slide my hand down the left side of my body, inch by torturous inch. A groan escapes from my windpipe as I try to lift myself. There’s a mound of blankets over me, warming me, yes, but weighing me down and keeping me from shuffling about.
My hand only reaches to my kneecap... which is still there. My thoughts scatter, and I can barely keep them organized from the metronoming of my heartbeat.
Okay... I’ve got to get a message down to my left foot.
Move.
Move!
I’m telling the toes to wiggle, but are they doing it? Are they even still there?
Terror fills my lungs. My heart hammers away in my chest to the point where I feel as if the next beat could be the last. I breathe in the antiseptic aroma of the room through my nostrils, overtaking the freshness of the hissing oxygen.
Sheer panic takes over. Flashed images of living life in a wheelchair or hobbling around on a prosthetic leg amp up my dread. I can’t cheer if there’s nothing to cheer about.
My chest heaves up and down and my groans increase. I know I’m freaking out; yet I can’t calm myself. I take the oxygen mask and chuck it across the room.
“Help me! Please... I want my leg back! Please . . .”
The nurse rushes to my side with the abandoned mask in her hand. “Shhh... there, there now. You’re just fine. Just fine.”
Through my uncontrollable sobs, I manage to get out, “My leg. I can’t reach down far enough. Is my leg there? Please... please tell me . . .”
The kind nurse smooths my hair away from my face and dabs my tears with the back of her hand. “Shhh... you’re just fine, Hayley. Your leg is still there. You came through the surgery just fine. Dr. Dykema removed the tumor and your fibula. Now just calm down and breathe.”
Your leg is still there.
Her words flit through my head.
I still have my leg.
I’m going to be okay.
Exhaustion and relief coat me in yet another blanket of warmth, and I relax into the bed, secure in the fact that I’ll be a
ble to cheer after all.
Thank you, God. Thank you for saving my leg.
***
“There’s my girl,” Dad says to me, who knows how much later.
I lift heavy lids to find my dad standing over me. I’m back in my hospital room where everyone is watching me and waiting. I try to form words, but my throat is arid. Instead, a long sigh releases from my chest.
Dad waves his hand in front of his face. “Phew! I’m going to pass out from all that gas on your breath.”
I try to laugh with him. Everything hurts too much. Even my eyelashes feel sore.
“Hey, baby,” Mom says from the other side of my bed. I crane my neck to meet her gaze. Her hand moves to mine and our fingers entwine instinctively.
My mouth opens. Nothing. I lick my lips and swallow hard at the dry clot. “Wh-wh-what time is it?” I finally eke out.
“It’s almost five thirty,” Dad reports.
“Seriously?”
“Your surgery was six hours and then you were in the recovery room for about an hour,” Dad continues.
“Dr. Dykema came out to see us,” Mom tells me. “He said he got the entire tumor out; however, he had to remove your fibula and part of your periosteal nerve.”
She’s speaking Swahili to me right now, although I did get the part about the tumor being gone.
“You’re gonna be okay, kiddo,” Cliff says from the end of my bed. Lily stands wrapped against him, smiling at me. I lift the corners of my mouth in recognition.
Someone’s missing, though. Or was that just a sedative-induced dream? “Where’s Gretchen?”
“I’m here, Hay.” Mom adjusts to make room for my big sister. Gretchen takes the hand Mom’s been holding and she squeezes tightly. “I’m here, Hay. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Thanks,” I say quietly.
Looking about, my entire family has aged while I’ve been under the knife. I feel like shit causing them such worry. Crinkles from loss of sleep surround Mom’s eyes. Dad’s beard has a day or two’s growth. Cliff and Lily seem as if they haven’t eaten a good meal all day. And Gretchen. She looks like the beautiful big sis I’ve always known, although it’s been about three years since I’ve actually seen her in person.
“You came.”
“As soon as Mom called to tell me what was going on. Had I known, I would have been here sooner.” I’m not too groggy that I miss the exchange between my mother and sister that shows my sister’s utter annoyance at being kept out of the family informational loop.
“Did you see my uniform?” I ask dreamily.
“Yeah! Mom said you’re a varsity cheerleader. You’ll be jumping and tumbling in no time,” my sister says with such confidence in her eyes.
Yes. My leg was saved.
However, I’m minus a bone.
And part of my nerve.
My leg has been saved.
Thank you, Lord.
The question remains, what in the world is next for me?
Chapter Twenty
My help cometh from the Lord which made heaven and earth.
He will not suffer thy foot to be moved: he that keepeth thee will not slumber.
—Psalms 121: 2–3
I sleep through the night and wake up the next morning to find Gretchen, not Mom, sleeping on the cot next to me.
“Good morning, sunshine,” she says with a yawn when our eyes meet.
I stretch awake and feel less like I’ve been run over by a Mack truck. I still can’t move my leg since it’s all wrapped up in gauze and Ace bandages to keep it protected. It seems to be twice its natural size and feels like it’s made of cement every time I try to lift it. I’m not complaining, though, because it’s still there. Two tubes peek through the gauze where fluid is draining from my surgical area. I can’t look at it as the thought of something still stuck in my leg like that skeeves me out. Thank heavens I’ve been asleep when the nurses have come in to empty them. The only thing I can see on my left side is my big toe poking out of the bandage. It just stares at me, unmoving, like it’s not even mine.
Gretchen’s eyes follow mine, and she moves to grab her purse. She pulls out a bottle of vibrant pink nail polish and moves to the foot of my bed. Slowly, she spreads the shiny paint onto my big toe, bringing it to life.
After it dries, I giggle when she takes a Sharpie and draws a smiley face into the pink.
“There,” she says. “That’s a whole lot better.”
Rochelle sweeps into the room with a tray in her hand. “Now, I bet y’all someone in this room is powerful hungry.”
“That would be me,” I say in a hoarse voice.
“Oh no, sugar,” she tells me. “You can’t eat just yet. It’s too soon. We had a tray ordered already, so I thought your momma or sister would like it.”
I slump. “Oh. Sure.”
The nurse sets the tray on my rolling table. Then she presses a few buttons on the bed to raise me up into a sitting position. Each squeak and hum of the bed makes my body ache at the motion.
“We need to get you up walking the hallway soon,” my nurse tells me.
“I’ll help her,” Gretchen says.
Rochelle nods.
Gretchen sets about uncovering the plates. “Do you mind?”
“Go ahead,” I say, wishing I couldn’t smell the food. It’s just too soon after my surgery for me to eat. There are scrambled eggs, grits, and apple juice. She salts and peppers the eggs slightly and stirs butter into the grits. Taking the spoon, she dips it first into the eggs and then into the grits and holds it up to her mouth to blow.
“You still like all of your breakfast food mixed together?” she asks.
I smile. “You remembered.”
“I remember,” she starts, “that we did that family breakfast at the church one Easter morning, and Cliff fussed at you for mixing your eggs, grits, and bacon all together.”
“Yeah, it embarrassed him somehow.” A bubble of laughter rises from me. “I told him it all gets mixed anyway.”
Gretchen loads another spoonful. “Exactly.”
I study my sister’s face while she eats in silence. I remember the small mole on the side of her nose. It’s covered with makeup. Her dark eyes are lined, and mascara touches her long lashes—lashes I always envied. Her brows are perfectly plucked, just like mine, since she’s the one who taught me how to pluck them when I was ten years old. There’s a tiny white scar at her hairline where she cut herself on a diving board when she was my age. She’s twenty-seven now. Ten years older than I am. Worlds apart.
I finally break the silence. “Why have you been away so long, Gretch?”
She fingers the plastic wrap over the apple juice. “Oh... you know . . .”
“Actually, I don’t. I haven’t seen you since I was fourteen.”
“I know.”
“You stopped answering e-mails.”
“I know.”
“And you don’t call me anymore.”
“I know!” she says, tossing down my spoon. “I’m sorry, Hay. It’s not you.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s family stuff, you know?” Her chin drops, and she studies the juice where it rests on the table. “Stuff I did when I was young and stupid and influenced by the wrong friends.”
“That was a long time ago,” I say. “What happened to bygones being bygones?”
Her eyes lift. “It’s not that simple, sweetie.”
“Well, it should be. I think y’all are all being stubborn asses.”
“Hayley!”
I watch Gretchen take the fork from the tray and scoop up more eggs into her mouth. I hope her appearance here at the hospital isn’t merely temporary. I want my sister back in my life. I need her—and the rest of my family—to help me get through the next phase of whatever this cancer has done to me.
“Where’s Mom?” I ask.
“She went to Cliff’s to get some sleep and to be with Dad. They texted that they’ll be here in an hour. They’re giv
ing us some time together.” She opens the bagel and takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “I’m sure it’s been hell for Mom sleeping on that cot while you’ve been in the hospital.”
“She hasn’t left my side,” I note.
“Because that’s the kind of mother she is.”
“I know.”
“She feels it’s her fault,” Gretchen says.
“I know . . .”
“That she should have protected you better.”
“So you two are talking?” I ask.
“While you were in surgery. We... talked for a little bit, mostly about you.”
Something in Gretchen’s eyes tells me she regrets the distance between her and our parents and how whatever dirty laundry is there has put a wedge in our own relationship. The words don’t need to be spoken.
Gretchen moves the half-eaten breakfast away and pours me ice water in a plastic cup with a straw to help me keep hydrated. She then comes back to sit on the edge of my bed.
“Why don’t I wash and style your hair for you. I bet you feel gross, huh?”
I tug my hand through my greasy tresses. “Yeah, a little.”
“I’ll fix you up,” she says with a wink. “Let me go get a wheelchair and we’ll get you in the bathroom.”
My sister moves to the door and I feel her absence immediately.
“Gretch?”
“Yeah?”
“How long will you stay?”
Her eyes touch mine. “I’m not leaving until you’re out of here.”
***
Later that afternoon, the nurses bring in water bottles that I have to blow air into, making the water go from one bottle to the next. It’s supposed to help clear the anesthesia from my lungs so I won’t get pneumonia. It’s pretty funky and a little hard to do, but it has to be done. The last thing I need after all this time in the hospital is to get some other stupid illness that slows me down even further.
I’m working on the bottles for the third time with Dad supervising when Dr. Dykema and his team enter my room.
“There she is,” he says in a cheerful way, quite different than his usual holier-than-thou attitude. “Have you been up walking around yet, Hayley?”
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