The nurse injects radioactive material into my vein. She smiles at me, and I want to feel some side effect. As if at any minute I’m going to be blessed with superpowers.
But there’s nothing. Just the slight sense of cold as gallium slides into my veins.
My first clue that superpowers were not in my future should have been when the nurse asked me if I was pregnant. I’m pretty sure the spider did not ask Peter Parker that. And I’m pretty sure that spider was just randomly radioactive—like Peter didn’t know that it was, say, gallium being shot into his veins to look for illness in his body.
At least that’s according to Jack. His comics fascination is finally getting to me. I suppose this would be something to tell him, and the thought is briefly comforting.
The nurse tosses the needle into the red box. “That’s it?” I ask. Being shot up with radioactive isotopes should be more exciting.
Her smile comes in warm and comforting. I want to tell her that’s not needed. I know the score here. “That’s it. We’ll take this IV out and you’re free to go.” She wiggles her gloved fingers, ready to tackle the tape holding the IV to my inner elbow.
My stomach starts its floor routine, because I know what all of these tests could mean.
Cancer.
Brain tumor.
Cancer.
Lung tumor.
Organ failure.
Broken spine.
Cancer.
Stop, I tell myself firmly. Body, you’ve fucked me over a lot. A. Lot. You don’t get to grow any more tumors.
That’s right. More. I have one. It’s normal, or a “benign cyst” in doctorspeak. Tumors are malignant. Cysts are benign. But they’re pretty much the same thing—things that are growing in your body that shouldn’t. It’s fine.
Ping! goes my cell phone.
Mom’s head shoots up, ever ready to be the MVP of #TeamEllie. “Want me to reply for you?” Her hand is already on the zipper of my backpack.
“No,” I say. My chest tightens and I curl the stubby fingers of my right hand in as far as they can go. Only the pinkie is able to touch my palm, rubbing the smooth skin there. There was a time, when I was younger, that Mom would have answered my texts while I was hospital-ly occupied.
Mom freezes, concern crinkling her brow. I put a stop to this sort of “help” the moment she started sharing these “cute” details of our relationship with her audience, details like my full text conversations. The audience loved to know how Mom would type out my texts to my friends—those friends, however … not so much.
“I mean, uh, it’s probably just Jack checking in on a passing period.” Lie. Total fabrication.
“Jack … haven’t heard that name in a while.”
Well, we’re not exactly in the same city anymore, and whose fault is that? I say in my head. I’m tired from the early morning and little sleep thanks to this unknown illness; the last thing I need is Mom on my case about my boyfriend.
“Knock yourself out.” I gesture to the nurse, moving my elbow so she’ll get back to taking this tube out of my arm. Gloved fingers probe the tape, looking for the loose edge. IVs—needles in general—are my least favorite torture device. Strange, given that I’ve had around forty surgeries. Doctors kept saying I’d get used to it.
That was the original doctor lie. They said I would get used to a lot of things: shots, surgery, the Milwaukee brace, physical therapy.… Hasn’t happened yet, and it’s not trending up. My “normal” is what everyone else might call abnormal.
Wrong.
Messed up.
Disabled.
Words that made up my life from day one—just don’t let Mom hear them. She shifts in her seat, eyes ostensibly on the quote she’s cross-stitching: The only disability is a bad attitude. I should make one that says Keep your attitude out of my disability. Really, her eyes are trained on the nurse, watching every move, ready to step in. Amazing how protection can feel like a noose. I take a deep breath. For all my frustrations with Mom, she’s fiercely protective. And at this point, after dealing with me since I was born, Mom probably knows enough to pass the medical boards.
The nurse sets to work untangling the layers of tape while inflicting as little pain as possible. I want to tell her it’s okay, she doesn’t have to worry. Removing the tape and pulling at tender skin—skewered with the IV—is never completely painless. Tiny zings of pain race down my arm toward my fingers. I fight to keep my face neutral, to not make her apologize any more than she already has. I don’t need anyone’s pity. I just need the tests my doctor ordered, each requiring its own set of contrasts, dyes, and drugs, to come back with a clue to why I’m sick this time. I’ve always seen doctors for VACTERLs, but this … thing is new, persistent, and completely stumping the fancy Coffman docs.
Ping.
Ping.
Each notification feels like a direct hit. I simultaneously want to run to my phone, cling to a lifeline in my normal nonhospital life, and smash the offending object under my boot to fully stop the hospital from corrupting my normal life. The nurse pauses, silently questioning if I want to go deal with my friends.
Nope. I shake my head.
With practiced care she starts to undo the layers of tape, searching for the tube beneath. I allow myself one flinch and a quick inhale. Mistake. My lungs do not like that. They crackle, and a cough sparks deep inside me. I pull away and the nurse backs up, hands raised, and I cough. A constant dry stream that racks my body and stings my lungs. Right, the reason I’m here. Not because I’m about to join a secret government agency that really wants its acronym to be SHIELD.
DARPA would even be preferable to what I have now, which is: Unknown. No conclusion. We can treat the symptoms. I’m used to medicine with clear results. You have VACTERLs. Do this surgery, you get to live. Need these functionalities? We can do X, Y, Z procedures.
But now my lungs have me missing speech competitions, time with friends, and weeks going between my bed and the couch. And the only explanation is a fancy way of saying We don’t know.
Bright lights flash at the corners of my vision, and I strain for oxygen. Just when I think this is it, my lungs cut it out and suck in a long, slow breath. I relax back in the chair, looking anywhere but at the nurse.
Ping.
Ping.
“Shouldn’t Jack be in class by now?” Mom asks, testing the edges of my lie.
Ping.
She reaches for my bag, unable to stop herself from interfering with my life. Just because she can dictate my medical care doesn’t mean she can meddle in my love life.
“Mom, it’s fine.” I try to lace Back off into every word. I should have put my phone on silent and then no one would know about those messages.
Shock ping-pongs over her face. “Sorry,” I say, trying to look contrite. “Brooke’s probably checking in to see if I can spot any potential holes in her 1AC,” I add to my lie. Well, mostly. Brooke does have debate prep and I do help her out with casework, but it’s tomorrow.
All my friends at Evanston High School want to know what’s wrong with me. Why are you at the hospital? And not just the local one? Weren’t those doctors enough? Because when I was twelve my dad got a new job and we moved to Evanston. It was the fresh start I’d desperately needed. I wasn’t Ellie the girl always missing school for surgeries, or Ellie the star of her mom’s popular, award-winning blog. For the first time I was just … Ellie. I’ve worked hard to keep it that way, hide everything as much as I can so they won’t poke and prod as much as the doctors. Their support is meant to be a balm, but their questions feel like shots and their inquiries like exploratory surgery.
Mom’s look softens, like she knows what I’m giving up. “I’m happy to answer for you. I can read the texts—”
“Brooke can wait just a few minutes.” She wants to be helpful, wants to make sure that I can still coexist with my friends even though I’m at the Virginia-Ruth Coffman Memorial Medical Center and they’re four hours north in Evanston.
I hyperextend my left arm and give it a little shake, indicating the nurse should carry on with her duties. The last piece of tape is pulled free and she presses gauze over the IV and then pulls.
I hold my breath, grateful for the distraction from my phone as every cell seems to focus on my arm. I hate this part. I swear it hurts worse than going in, which is no picnic either. She lays the used IV on the tray and presses hard on my arm, helping my blood stay in my body. Gauze is wrapped tight around my arm and she tucks the end under the layers.
“Wait at least fifteen minutes before removing,” she says, practiced words that she probably says a hundred times a day to a hundred different people. With measured precision, she collects all her accoutrements, needles, IV, and tape, and disposes of them in the red medical waste bin before chucking her gloves in after.
I stand up and Mom hands me my coat and then busies herself with wrapping up her cross-stitch pattern, leaving me to my own devices. The nurse watches with strange fascination as I struggle into my coat. Her question is written across her face: Why isn’t your mom helping?
Because I don’t need any help, I want to snap.
I stick in my left arm—the one hampered by gauze but fully functional otherwise—and pull out my phone, which takes some interesting maneuvering. The screen flashes Jack (4) at me before I can lock it away.
“Here, let me,” the nurse says. Impatience dots her words, which she tries to mask as a “good deed.”
Mom and I share a look, and she presses her laughter into a tight smile. Just like that, we’re a team again. Maybe when I was a baby it was nice for her: someone grabbing the door, another person holding the elevator. Things that are actually helpful, that you might do for any person, not just because I’m disabled and they want to look nice.
“I got it,” I say, adding a glare that translates to Back off. Mom rolls her eyes. She’s better at handling these things now, but I still have a tough edge. The nurse backs up, waiting for me to tackle my own issues.
VACTERLs left me with fewer bones than the average human. Most of those missing in action were located in my back and right arm. My back is mostly held together with leftover bones from someone else, and my right arm is what doctors and I like to call medical-grade crap. But really, everything below my right elbow is basically not good tissue, which I guess is why it looks like a cross between a claw machine and a child’s attempt at making a hand out of clay.
After setting the bag on the chair I was in, I bend and loop the strap over my shoulder and stand up. The nurse leads us back to the waiting area—freedom in sight! There have been no other cues that she may know more about my life than just what is in my medical chart.
Ping!
“Brooke must really have something to say. Or is it Jack?”
“Uh-huh.” I reach into my pocket and flip my phone to silent, ignoring Mom calling out my lie.
“Um,” the nurse says, causing both Mom and me to look up. Embarrassment crowds the corners of her smile, turning it sickeningly sweet. I want to curl into a ball because I have a feeling I know what’s coming next. “I just wanted to say, I used to read your blog, VATERs Like Water. I love all the work you do for families.”
Yup. Just let me hide among the medical waste receptacles.
Mom practically swoons; she puts a hand to her heart and wraps the other around my shoulder like we’re in this together. “Oh, thank you.”
I head for the door, escaping her grasp, done with this entire conversation.
“Eight a.m. tomorrow,” the nurse calls after us as Mom hurries to catch up with me. Does this nurse think we’re amateurs? That we need reminding of the schedule? Pfft. I turn around and smile at her, giving her a finger wave. Our medical career is longer than this nurse’s.