| |
I’ve been floating in and out of consciousness for hours.
All I can figure out is that I’m in a bed of some type. Realizing there’s something cool covering one of my eyes, I open the other one. A shiny bedrail to my right jets out of white sheets where most of my body is snugly tucked. My left foot sticks out and is elevated, held hostage by some sort of apparatus hooked up to the ceiling. My left hand is wrapped and resting across my chest. Both my hand and foot are protected by thick padding.
I vaguely recall a hospital employee telling me they were doing x-rays and to be as still as possible. I remember something about my hand and foot being in immense pain and then minutes later the agony dissipated. I assume I’ve been well-medicated based on the stupor I’m in.
“Sarah, Sarah Colton, can you hear me? Are you awake?”
I acknowledge the question with a whimper.
“Good. How are you feeling?”
“Okay.” I try to speak clearly, but the words come out jumbled.
I hear a machine in the background shushing and beeping. There’s an intravenous line going into the back of my good hand.
“My name’s Carol, your attending nurse. We had to give you Morphine to relax you for x-rays, and, for now, the worst is over. The doctor will be in shortly.”
An overweight woman with no smile, who I’m guessing to be in her late forties, approaches the side of my bed. Her voice is monotone as she places her warm, plump hand on my good arm.
“You were extremely dehydrated, which is probably why you passed out. We have you on saline through an IV to help.”
For some weird reason, she starts to cry, right in front of me. I don’t know what to say, especially when she wipes her tears away and immediately apologizes for her breakdown.
“I’m sorry, I know I’m not being professional, but I can’t believe it; I just can’t believe they’re missing. It makes no sense. None at all.”
Bewildered, I try to be compassionate, which is not one of my strong points. I don’t know what to say.
“Sarah, it’s Zoey.” My friend breaks the solemn mood from somewhere in the room as she comes closer to me. “I heard you woke up—here I leave the room for a minute and miss the action. Well, passing out is one way to get a room. And you did it on the floor in the can while I was trying to hold you up! I’ll have to remember that one—ah, such drama. How are you feeling? I’ve been here keeping watch all night. And I let your parents know what’s going on. All’s good. You’re going to be okay; I know it.”
The nurse composes herself and adds, “Yes, your dear friend has been an angel. With the shortages of RNs, LPNs, and staff right now, having her in the room was helpful throughout the night. Few would go to the lengths this one would. She’s a keeper.”
“There’s nothing else to do. My job has pretty much shut down since the world fell apart, so this works out well,” Zoey replies. “I’ve been sitting here watching the news most of the night. You wouldn’t believe all the stuff that’s happened out there. I turned it off and tried to get some shut-eye a couple of hours ago. No such luck.”
She’s holding a lidded container, no doubt a cup of strong coffee.
“Thanks.” I struggle to get the word out. I feel like I am regaining my strength, but I’m hoping the drugs stop making me so loopy.
“Morning, ladies!” Dressed in a white lab coat, sky-blue polo shirt, and dark blue jeans, a good-looking doctor enters the room. “Sarah, I don’t know if you remember me; I’m Dr. Syrak. About a year ago, I stood in for your primary care physician and treated you for the flu. My, you know how to get our attention. Also, I heard you fell down a staircase and passed out.”
He pauses, then turns around to face my friend. “And Zoey, great to see you again!” He gives her a too-long handshake. “We must catch up after I go over Sarah’s chart with her, okay?”
“Definitely, Amir. Oh, sorry, I mean, Doctor Syrak,” Zoey teases.
They both seem pleased to have met again.
He returns to my bedside and lightly touches my good arm. “So, Sarah, do you want me to go over things with Zoey here in the room or alone? Either way, I need your approval.”
I went through so much with my dear friend yesterday; I insist that she stay.
The doctor silently agrees and sits down on a rolling stool, wheeling himself over to a computer screen. He logs in and makes a few notes, most likely on my chart.
He multitasks by talking and typing in broken segments.
“We took several images.” He types for a moment, stops, and looks up at me. “And it looks like you have broken your wrist in two places.” Another pause and more typing. “Which can probably be fixed with metal inserts.” He types some more. “I’ve contacted our on-call orthopedic surgeon, requesting to get your operation scheduled for later this afternoon or evening. Your foot is a mess.” Typing. “Three small broken bones, so the surgeon will address that at the same time. I’m confident you'll be able to walk again, over time. You’ve bruised a couple of ribs.” More typing. “Perhaps when you hit the stairwell’s walls or spindles. And your face, well, luckily you didn’t break your jaw,” he adds, “but your eye will most likely swell more, and it’ll be colorful looking.” More typing. “But there’s no noticeable damage to your vision. We have a cold compress on the area to lessen the puffiness.” He finally stops typing. “I’ve currently got you on Morphine to keep you comfortable before we do the surgery.”
He gets up, takes a long breath, and moves closer to my bed to inspect my bodily damage.
“Also, I’m not sure you’re aware, but a quick qualitative blood test showed that your hCG indicated you were pregnant, but based on the amount of recent blood loss—” He stops talking and looks kindly into my eyes, “I’m sorry to say, but you may have miscarried or aborted in the last twenty-four hours.”
When he says the words, the memory comes crashing back. Yes, I used that stupid at-home pregnancy stick and found out I was going to have a baby—a baby I didn’t want. Dennis’s baby. And then something happened where I was in pain and must have miscarried. The experience is starting to come back. Yes, it makes more sense now.
“Since we can verify you lost a bit of blood vaginally while in the restroom, we want to make sure you have no unusual internal bleeding. There may be complications due to your low red blood count, which is called anemia, or an infection in the uterus or some retained placental tissue. Because your hemoglobin dropped under seven, we went ahead and gave you a unit of packed red blood cells.”
Zoey audibly gasps from across as the doctor continues. “The plan is to get you into surgery ASAP, and then monitor your bleeding to make sure you didn’t have a partial miscarriage, as that’s something else to consider.”
He adds, “Although the hospital is dealing with some issues right now, I recommend you spend another day or two here after your procedure to make sure you do not pass out again and lose more blood.”
After returning to the computer keyboard to type something, he resumes his medical advice. “Although it looks like you had a rough day yesterday and got banged up, I would say your chances of fully recuperating look promising.”
Meanwhile, Nurse Carol takes my blood pressure and pulse, adjusts the saline drip, and checks the monitor, repeating numbers to the doctor to enter on my electronic chart.
Dr. Syrak asks, “Do you have any questions or concerns that I should know about?”
I only shrug since I have nothing to say, except that I’m elated I’m not paralyzed for life. Instead, I’m more thankful that I didn’t get seriously hurt. Guess I’m in better shape than I thought.
“Okay. So, I’ll let your nurse know when the doctor can get that surgery scheduled, hopefully today.”
He gives me a reassuring smile, then speaks to my friend, “Oh, and, um, Zoey, would you care to meet me out in the hall for a sec?”
My dear friend winks at me and walks out of the room behind the handsome doc.
In less than a minute, she returns, beaming. “Oh, I must look like a train wreck, but that was impressive. Amir and I are going to give it another try. Right off the bat, he apologized for not touching base with me. He said his mom passed away, so he had to stay longer in Israel and only returned to the States two weeks ago. He’s playing catch-up at work so doesn’t have much time off—especially after what happened recently—but he wants to meet for dinner in the cafeteria tonight! Strange date, but whatever, this is going to be interesting.” She’s bubbling with excitement.
“Great,” I reply, “I’m happy for you, Zoey.” My voice is gaining strength now that I’m talking in complete, coherent sentences.
“Ok, but let’s talk about you. What can I get you? What do you need?”
“Did you get ahold of Amy?”
Zoey wags her head. “No, when I talked to your mom this morning, she said she left a voice message with her, so I used your phone and tried—I, also, got no answer. Do you want me to keep trying?”
“No, let’s wait. I’m still confused. I remember you stopping by my condo and me falling down the stairs. Oh, and the baby thing. But that’s about it.”
“Right, we drank. We talked. We drank. That’s why you fell down the stairs. Too much alcohol. And those silly socks are the culprit! Blame them, dear!”
I look down at my raised leg, but it’s all wrapped up.
“Yeah, those crazy socks! I bet they had to individually cut off each knitted toe. They were beyond silly!” She spouts as she shakes her head.
“What else happened? Tell me!”
“Do you remember much about people missing—those who were ‘taken’ as I call them?”
“I’m unsure,” I reply.
“There was a super strange, hopefully once-in-a-lifetime occurrence, where there was this crazy sound, and then people instantly evaporated—left, gone, disappeared. It was bizarre!”
“Really?” I question the ramifications of people no longer here.
“Denny, your Denny was one of them! You found him missing in his office upstairs—left his clothes and all. You rescued his wedding ring under a chair. That happened before I stopped by. Surely you remember that, don’t you?”
“Maybe.” I toy with the idea; the memory of finding his contact lens and tooth filling flitters through my brain.
Zoey asks, “Do you remember your parents having to go through not one but two earthquakes in Oregon? Does that ring a bell?”
“Sorta. Yeah, it might be coming back to me a little.”
There seems to be too much to process. With my good hand, I rub my working eye, wondering if it’s a good thing for the memories to come back fully and completely. I question if maybe I’d be better off not recalling them.
“Oh, there were car, boat, train, and plane accidents everywhere—poof, just like that, people gone.” She snaps her fingers. “Last night every news channel mentioned it could be an airborne virus of some sort, or even aliens taking them away! Yeah, aliens!” She lets out a huge, dramatic sigh.
“Now don’t freak out, but the news is reporting that all children, like elementary school age and younger, are missing—gone—as are most of the disabled and a higher percentage of the elderly. And your sister Silvia and her husband Tom in Florida? Well, their little ones can’t be found. They disappeared in their cribs. It’s surreal.”
“Oh, that’s horrible.” My mind clicks. Jack and Jasmine are so young; they were adopted less than a year ago. Silvia and Tom must be undone.
Another thought absorbs my brain: I had just learned I was pregnant; I didn’t want to tell Denny about it as we’d been in a fight, and he had stormed upstairs into his office. After considering all my options, I decided to have an abortion.
I was washing a dirty lasagna pan and saw two little girls on the swings outside our kitchen window. I reached down to get a scrub brush in the cupboard and heard an odd tri-sound, one that I’d never heard before. When I looked back out the window, the girls were nowhere to be found. I went to tell Denny, but I got a sharp pain and went into the downstairs bathroom, where I assumed I miscarried based on how much blood there was.
Yes, it’s starting to come back!
Zoey centers me back to my current life, stuck in a medical bed. “Yes, horrible, but we’re here, safe and sound in a hospital, somehow having survived it all. They say these people were taken, but as I mentioned to you the other night, I think we should consider the other side of the coin: We are the ones who were untaken.”
“Oh,” is my only reaction because I don’t know what to think.
“Yes, and that’s why everyone is walking around crying, wild teenagers are acting like Rambo mercenaries, and hospitals and everywhere else are short-staffed.”
She explains in detail some of the tragedies that happened around the world, apparently in every city and town, and at the same time. The disappearances affected every human being in some way, whether they were missing or having to deal with the missing.
And my Denny’s missing, too. My dear husband who had been acting strangely the last few days.
All the people disappearing explain the heartbroken nurse, the frazzled lady at the desk, Adam’s dad being gone, Zoey’s over-talking, and Jeremy acting weird. They’re all processing the loss of their loved ones.
Oh my. I don’t like this, no, not one bit. I resent this disruption in life, in my life.
My phone, which is sitting on a nearby retractable table, rings, and Zoey jumps up to answer it.
“Hello. Oh, perfect timing, Bruce! Sarah’s awake and speaking! Hold on a sec.”
“Daddy? Mom?” I squeak out, mainly out of raw emotions from the last day and a half.
“Oh, Cupcake,” my dad quietly answers. “Yes, we’re here. We’re so glad Zoey has kept us in the loop and that you’re awake. Have you seen the doctor yet? Any prognosis?”
“I’m okay. Trying to get surgery today.” It’s a strain to say so many words.
“Well, listen. As you know, we were planning to fly down next week, but the way things are going, even at the airports, we decided we’ll drive down instead. If we leave by tonight, we should be there in about two days. You know Mom can’t sit in a car too long, so we’ll have to stay at a hotel tomorrow night in Sacramento. By then, your surgery should be over, and you should be home, so we can help take care of you. How does that sound, dear?”
“Great. I like it. I love you both.” A tear escapes my good eye; I wipe it away.
“Perfect. So don’t you worry—we’ll keep in touch with Zoey on our ETA.”
Static fills the phone. A pause occurs.
“Sarah, it’s Mom. How’s the pain?”
“I’m fair; I’m on Morphine. Pain’s there, but not intense.”
“Good. Stay on top of it, and don’t let it get out of control. And get some rest before the surgery.”
I exhale and say, “Okay, Mom.”
We three say our goodbyes.
I hand Zoey back the phone, but, before she has a chance to put it down, it rings again. This time, it’s my sister Silvia calling from Florida. I wave Zoey off from handing me back the phone since I’ve been talking too much and fighting exhaustion. After my sister says the hurricane passed them but did quite a bit of damage to Disney World, she is given an updated version of my status, including that our parents will be driving down.
When the back-and-forth conversation ends, Zoey returns the phone to its spot while I reflect on how pleased I am that I heard from my sister. I’m glad my parents will be here in a few days; it’ll be comforting to have them take care of me.
As Zoey again asks if I need anything, Jeremy walks in with a bouquet of white daises with baby’s breath in one arm and a legal-sized manilla envelope in the other.
It’s nice to see cheer among the gloom and doom.
“Afternoon, Gorgeous! These should brighten your day.” He approaches my bed in high spirits and sets the glass vase on the table, right next to my phone. “How did you sleep? Great to see you got a room. Are you in much pain?”
Not knowing how much he knows, I thank him for the flowers, commenting that they’re beautiful. In short, concise sentences, I briefly tell him I need surgery on my wrist and foot, and that I’ll live another day.
“Well, actually, the flowers are from Carl. I stopped by the office earlier, and our boss insisted he buy you something special when I told him about what happened. He went on and on about how the flowers are his wife’s favorites. Mentioned he had the same arrangement duplicated for her when he ordered yours.”
“So sweet,” Zoey chirps in, not to be ignored. “How’s the paper handling all the news, Jeremy?”
“It’s crazy at Valley News. We can’t keep up with it. I heard that even the Source, our mainframe that dumps data all day long from around the world, is having issues. Had to have a tech clear its cache at one point. It’s a mess. But Sarah, I—well, Carl and I have something amazing to show you.”
He grasps the manilla envelope and unclasps the shiny tab at its opening, slowly pulling out three identical sheets of glossy eight-by-ten-inch cardstock.
“You did it, Sarah! You did it, again! Congratulations!” He has a genuine look of joy on his face. “Your pic went viral—it’s been picked up by syndicate, and everyone in the universe can see it. You are, once again, the talk of the town. No, talk of the world!”
He dramatically places the three identical photographs on my lap: it’s a boy’s hand, looking like it wants to wave, taken from under the seat of an airplane.
Zoey says, “No way! You told me about this the other day.” She grabs one of the copies and reviews it. “It’s from the plane crash in the field behind our complex. Remember, Sarah? You and some muscle-builder guy rescued the only survivor, a fifteen-year-old kid who had manners. Oh, that’s so cool!”
I did it! My memory is as clear as ever: I was standing in front of a torn fuselage with my cherished Nikon camera taking the photo of the boy—his name was James—and we got him out of the plane to safety. Later, he came to my townhouse to clean up and wait for his mom to get him. Said he met some guy named Eddie on the plane, who I want to do a follow-up story about. Yes, I remember. James was such a nice kid.
The photo is perfect. I proudly scrutinize every part of it. I couldn’t have done it any differently or better.
Jeremy picks up the third copy and praises me for its angle, lighting, and composition.
I did it. Again!
The other time I had a photo get picked up by syndicate was a few years ago when the governor’s son was shot in a convenience store, and I happened to be at the end of the chip aisle with my camera bag. When I clicked the button at the perfect moment of the bullet flying into the boy’s head, the tell-all picture gave the police all the verification they needed to arrest the two jerks. And I survived the ordeal after weeks of therapy.
I used that same therapy to get me through the plane crash and deal with the death that surrounded me. I can get through this physical accident—I can heal and take back control of myself after the surgery. I know I can! I can overcome this, too.
“This is phenomenal,” Jeremy says with admiration. “Your last pic was good but tragic because the gov’s son died. This one’s also devastating, but it shows hope and reassurance that someone not only lived through a horrific plane crash but also that he survived the worst day in history.”
He pats my shoulder and gives me a stiff hug as if he’s afraid to hurt my body.
Regardless of everything that’s happened, I’m now crying over something as simple as a photograph. But the tears are mainly from accomplishing a lifelong goal of making a difference as a journalist. This is me; I acknowledge as I shake the paper. This is me, whose mantra is, “I’m in control. Sarah Colton, you’re in control.”
And without any of us speaking, Zoey and Jeremy have glassy eyes, too.
“Great job,” Zoey finally says. “Wait until your parents hear about this. It’ll make their day.”
Carol reenters the room, asking, “Sarah, do you recall when you last ate? The surgeon wants to know.” She fluffs up my pillow and notes the saline IV bag is almost empty.
“Um, I don’t know.” I give Zoey a quizzical look.
Jeremy interrupts, “Well, you never got to drink your smoothie that I bought from the cafeteria. Apparently, you were out cold on a bathroom floor.”
Zoey says, “I doubt you had anything to eat in the last two nights. We did have those chocolates with our wine before I left your house. You must’ve had that lasagna for dinner with Denny.”
I nod in agreement, and the nurse assents that it’s been around thirty-six hours since I last ate or drank anything. No wonder I feel so weak and tired, then add to the mix the pain meds.
Zoey scratches her head. “Oh, wait. I did give her a shot glass or two of water with Motrin when we found her yesterday morning. Was that okay to do?”
“Yes, that’s good, Zoey. You did fine,” Carol says. “That means we can get her surgery scheduled right away. Let me check with the doctors and get back to you.” As she exits the room, the three of us shrug, not wanting to discuss what’s coming next.
We go back to talking about the photo, and Jeremy tells us how delighted Carl was when he saw it went viral. With all that has been going on, it was something positive and refreshing to see.
Minutes later, my nurse returns with a hurried tone in her voice. “All right, it looks like Sarah has an appointment with Dr. Tsai for surgery, so we have about an hour to get her ready.” She excuses herself as she physically nudges Zoey away from one side of my bed to change out the saline bag and update my chart. “That means the visitors need to go.”
“This is good, Sar,” says Zoey as she gathers her purse. “You just have to get through today, and things will start getting better.”
She turns to Jeremy. “I have a favor to ask. Since our dear patient will be out of it for several hours, and I’ve no way to get home, is there a chance you could drop me off at my house? I know it’s a little out of your way, but would you mind?”
“Sure thing, Zoey. I have to drop off Adam’s wheelchair, so now is a good time to do it.”
“Thanks, that really helps.” She looks at me and explains, “Now I can go home, take a shower, and clean up so I can come back for dinner with Dr. Syrak, and then I’ll be here for you when you wake up from surgery. I’ll bring you some more comfortable clothes and your toothbrush. If it’s okay with you, I’ll spend the night again. Does that make sense?”
Of course, I’m sure she had the plan in her head once her date with the doctor was made. That is how Zoey and I think; we try to always stay ahead of the game, and we succeed most of the time.
My friends say their goodbyes, with Jeremy lingering seconds longer like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t.
When the two leave, Carol explains the need to get ready to be wheeled down to pre-op for surgery.
In a quick call to my parents, I inform them about the upcoming procedure. They tell me their car is almost packed, so they’ll start driving down. I ask them again to call Amy and update my sister.
After all the excitement of being awake for a few hours, my eyes—well, mainly one eye—get heavy. As I try to readjust in the bed, my uncomfortable body twinges—especially my left side, which took most of the trauma.
I desperately want to go to sleep and have all this disappear when I wake up.
Right when I drift off, Dr. Tsai arrives what seems like minutes later, introduces herself, and we review my x-rays.
We discuss how my wrist has a distal radius fracture with two breaks, so I will need a plate inserted; the bones will be held in place with screws. My foot has several fractures, so it might need plates, pins, and screws. Afterward, the wrist will be braced, but the foot will have to be in a total foot cast.
My surgeon goes over my online chart, checking for allergies to medicines and other bone issues. Either she’s friendly and easygoing or I’m beyond thinking to argue with whatever she dictates.
The second she leaves, a tall man enters the room and states he’s my anesthesiologist. He also reviews ad nauseam my medical chart, asking again about drugs I am allergic to and if I’ve had any food or drink recently. I try ardently to answer all the questions, but I’m exhausted and spent.
While he asks his barrage of questions, Carol returns and has me take a pill, which the doctor explains is a cephalosporin—an antibiotic—as if, at this point in my life, I care what goes into my body.
Let this be over soon!
As I try to stop dozing off, he finally concludes, “Okay, Sarah, I think it’s best to administer general anesthesia for you, mainly based on your current injuries and condition. This way you won’t remember any of the surgery, and hopefully, you’ll have less pain throughout the procedures and while recovering. Is that acceptable?”
I let out a snort and move my head up and down. I’m so done with this gig.
“Great. We’ll see you soon.” He finishes his charting as I wish for peace and quiet.
Later, I sense I’m in an elevator and two people are hovering over me. Then I notice the lights in the ceiling as someone asks my name. Dr. Tsai appears, as do more staff. I hear talking, but I don’t bother to try to understand what’s said. The rhythmic beeping of a nearby monitor is soothing and comforting. The other doctor, the tall anesthesiologist whose name I can’t recall, greets me and explains something. My good hand with the IV is secured somehow and what feels like a cool liquid enters my veins.
All my discomfort vanishes. I am at peace at last. At least for now.
***
“Sarah? Sarah Colton?”
“You’re in post-op. You did well, and your surgeries are over. How are you feeling?”
I’m groggy. I’m tired.
“Sarah?”
“Sarah?” questions a second voice.
Ah, I love being in this blissful sleep. Relaxed. Comfortable. I want to roll over but somehow can’t. I want them to stop asking me questions.
“Time to wake up, sweetie,” the first voice speaks again.
I know I need to pay attention, but I’m so relaxed at this second.
Yet out of the fog, I remember I have to wake up. I must move on. I have to be in the real world, not a world of non-existence.
“I have a little juice for you to sip. Doesn’t that sound good?” The other woman coaxes me.
A cold drink sounds marvelous. I separate my lips, and a straw is inserted. I suck, and the liquid travels to the back of my throat. It’s like diving into a cool pool on a hot day. Wonderful.
“That’s good.” She keeps talking, maybe to someone else nearby. “Yes, she’s awake, doctor. She should be more coherent soon. And yes, the patient in Bed 8 needs to be checked, please. His BP has dropped again.”
There’s an interesting chasm between being conscious and unconscious. In one, you’re somewhat in control—you can leave or sometimes change the situation. But when you’re not conscious, you have no liberty to change anything, no control. Most of the time, you’re only an observer of what’s around you, whether in a dream state or not. Yet you can’t control it or yourself. While being conscious frustrates and challenges you, the other is accepting without understanding. Right this minute, I don’t know which one I prefer.
As the past two days tease my brain, I acknowledge that I can’t be stuck in unconsciousness, but must welcome reality heartily so I can somewhat control it, and control is how I thrive.
After separating confusion from reasoning, my intellect wins, and I return to the real world.
***
Finally, back in my room, I fall soundly asleep for what seems like a few hours. A new nurse enters, rouses me, and provides a lukewarm smoothie, roughly telling me to drink it for my nourishment. With my good hand, I sip the chalky substance, which reminds me of the Ensure drinks they advertise on TV. It doesn’t taste great, but it tastes good enough to satisfy my grumbling stomach.
I look down at the left side of my body. My foot is, once again, strapped to the hanging strap, but now it’s in a hard cast, covering my entire foot and lower leg. My arm and hand are wrapped in tight padding, held above my heart with another strap. My left eye is uncovered.
After finishing my required dosage of healthy-living, packed-with-nutritional-supplements shake and discarding it on my bed table, I use my good hand to touch my bad eye. Gently patting the swollen lid, I coax it to open. It does. As the slit widens, I can blearily see the room and my overly protected body. I’m so thankful that I’m not blind. It’s also nice to be alone.
An hour later, Zoey enters, and you can tell she’s frustrated by her clipped actions, by the way she enters the room with intent. “Didn’t I tell you this would happen? I’m so glad we moved all that money the other night—do you remember? Of course, with the world falling apart, everyone and their mother are on a run for their money but can’t touch it.”
My friend is dressed to the nines with a cobalt blue short skirt, scooped-neck black sleeveless shell, and black sandals with simple silver jewelry accessories. Her hair is pulled back, and her makeup looks great.
She carries another bouquet for me; this time they’re white tulips, as she knows they’re my favorite. She quickly puts them next to Carl’s on the side table and continues her monologue.
“Yeah, it’s an I-told-you-so moment, and your awesome friend Zoey pegged it. We did the right thing, but get this—I go to get gas and stop at the florist and food store, and sure enough, no one accepts cash. Everything must be credit or debit now. Period. So how are the six percent of American adults who have no bank account going to survive? Will they walk into Walmart with their employment check and walk out with a Walmart debit card? And to make matters worse, I may be high up at the bank and think I am in the know, but, well, all banks across the globe are shut down, as I told you they would be while they refigure and reset things. Yet everyone at my moderately high level is told not to go to work.”
Zoey continues, “Something’s off. We’re told ‘we’re not needed,’ yet all the banks continue making money, forcing everyone to use their credit cards while they charge exorbitant interest rates, even during a worldwide crisis. Drives me crazy how everything’s always about money. And it’s only going to get worse before it gets better!”
She stops her tirade, peers at me, and finally asks how things went in surgery. I can tell she’s distracted, as she makes some smart comment about my uncovered black eye looking like beautiful hues of purple with a tinge of blue that nicely matches her outfit.
In an oversized tote, she shows me she brought one of my favorite sleeping shirts (light pink with tiny black and white llamas printed on them), a pair of loose black drawstring sweatpants that’ll need to be chopped up to fit over my foot, clean underwear, and a few toiletries. She sets the bag on a side chair.
Realizing my tiredness, my friend doesn’t stay long—she says she must meet Amir downstairs in five minutes, but she’ll be back in a couple of hours, hopefully, to find me sound asleep and catching up on my needed Zs.
Later, the tall anesthesiologist and my nurse approach my bed. The RN checks my vitals on the machine—while the physician wheels the stool over and says, “Dr. Tall. Remember me?”
I almost laugh aloud when he says his name. Go figure. I’m surprised I couldn’t remember it. It’s rather fitting. “Yes. Thanks, Doc.”
“The meds are wearing off nicely, and you did well during the surgery, although your blood pressure fluctuated a bit, so we had to give you some Ephedrine. Dr. Tsai took you off Morphine and switched you to Vicodin for the pain. It’ll work better, but don’t depend on it.”
“Okay.” The last thing I want to be is a drug addict hooked on prescription meds.
“Code Blue Room 408,” is announced over the hospital intercom. The nurse looks at the doctor, and he nods. She sighs and leaves the room as quickly as she came.
“But I do have a question for you,” he quietly says.
“Yes?” I wonder what he’s concerned about now.
“When I was at the head of the operating table, I noticed you have some sort of implant inserted behind your right ear. I couldn’t find anything in your medical chart about it. Is it a new type of hearing aid or what?”
I blink. I remember. I have a surgical implant—a device that a company inserted a few weeks ago. It was a start-up company that Denny got involved in through his work as a consumer electronics representative. Since I keep telling my husband we need the extra money, I talked him into having it implanted in me as I find its concept a bit interesting. The small unit is in its beginning stages; it allows someone to read my mind. See what I see. Hear what I hear. They’re paying me good money to be their guinea pig, and I feel it gives me a sense of control. It was turned on the other day, I think.
I start to reply, “Yes, I . . .”
Sarah—Sarah Colton. Do not answer the question.
I’m confused. What was that? Who was that? What’s going on?
I stare at the doctor; he stares back, looking like he’s waiting for my answer.
Sarah, we’ll explain later. Say it’s an implant. Say only that.
Beyond stunned at the male voice echoing inside my head—a voice only I can hear based on the nonchalant look on my doctor’s face—the only words I speak are “Yes, an implant.”
Dr. Tall shrugs it off and takes his leave.
I—I’ve no clue what to think, and truthfully, I don’t want to deal with whatever it is. That was strange, very strange. But right now, the only goal I have is to sleep. Right. Now.