The sun’s not even close to being up yet when Mom, Dad, and I enter the hospital. There’s something quiet and eerie about this place at such an odd hour. Doctors walk at a leisurely pace. Some in suits and ties—off for rounds, maybe. Others in full scrubs and white coats—off to the basement where the ORs lurk. It suits my mood just fine.
No one’s talked about last night. In fact, we’ve barely said two words to one another.
My stomach grumbles, deprived of food since midnight, even as it flips with unease. I sit on the edge of a chair as Mom checks us in. I should be up there, but I can’t make myself move. Disinfectant stings my nose and I take shallow breaths, trying to avoid the fumes.
“Ellie…” Mom calls me over to the desk. “They need your wrist.”
The nurse behind the counter is sweet as she double-checks my ID numbers with me. DOB. The usual. Just to be sure that I am who my parents say I am.
I find myself rattling them off automatically when all I really want to do is turn around and walk out of here. I do not want to have surgery, I don’t want to be this mistake in my parents’ lives, but still I find myself extending my left arm, letting the nurse slide on my hospital bracelet, effectively accepting my imprisonment.
They call me back—or rather up—to my room. I flinch at the sound. Dad wraps an arm around me as we ride up, but Mom keeps her distance.
I change out of my sweats, the things that keep me feeling connected to something outside of these walls. On goes the hospital gown, on go the scrub pants.
Ping!
My phone goes off. It’s still so early, so I don’t know who it could be. Mom and Dad both look at me expectantly.
I dig out my phone from where it sits hidden by my clothes and skip straight to the latest.
Medical Coach
Good luck?
Break a leg?
Caitlin didn’t tell me what the correct saying is.
Ellie
Any of the above works.
The nurse comes and we leave my room behind. I’m in a wheelchair, because from now on I won’t be allowed to go anywhere on my own. As if they think that the anticipation of surgery will make me sprint for the door.
They’re not exactly wrong.
A new set of elevators, these wide enough and long enough to fit a gurney. This early in the morning we’re alone. Down we go, to the basement. I don’t know why they choose to keep the OR in the basement. Maybe they wanted it to be a dungeon. Maybe the equipment and building materials are so heavy they need to be down there. Or perhaps since it is the anchor of this place, they want it there to weigh down the whole enterprise.
Mom creeps closer, standing next to me, not so close that she can touch me but close enough that I can smell her shampoo. The child in me wants to reach out and take her hand. We’ve been in this together, and I hate that I’m angry at her when she’s been through so much for me, but for once, I hold on to my anger and the accusations that lie under her confessions: all the things she gave up for me. The thing she started for me, to give me access to a world of my true peers, ultimately separated us. There’s probably some poetic justice in there, but it stings too much to think about.
My wheelchair stops by a bed and I climb up, curtains pulled up to give us a semblance of privacy. Just me and my parents. No one talks because we’re all still chewing over what we said last night. The last thing I want is for another fight to happen right before I’m going under the knife. My chances of making it are really high, but with surgery there is always a chance of death.
I swallow.
I’ve done this forty times, what’s one more? I’m practically ready to go pro. And yet that fear, that anticipation, sucks me down.
“Ellie,” Mom says. I snap out of my daze, realizing I’ve been completely out of it and lost in my own thoughts. Mom, Dad, and some medical professional are looking at me like I should know the answers.
“Forty-two?” I say as a joke.
Only the guy in scrubs smiles.
“IV time.”
Panic cold and hot runs through me in waves, and I lock up. I hate needles. I’ve gone so many years having as few sticks as possible. Surgery has and always will be done with a mask to knock me out. That’s when they can stick the damn thing in my arm.
I wrap my arms around myself protectively. Nope nope nope. Not happening. Dad looks confused, but it’s Mom who steps in.
“She doesn’t like needles. I know we didn’t talk with the doctor—”
The nurse seems to get it instantly. “Oh, no problem. I’ll make a note on her chart. We can insert it once she’s asleep.”
Mom and I both breathe a sigh of relief. Dad is clueless to the mini-drama that almost played out in front of him, and I love him all the more for it. He’s spared this intimate knowledge of my life—something that I should have gotten over a long time ago. Because really, who has my medical file and is still afraid of needles? The nurse moves on, leaving us once again to our own devices.
Should I say something? Break the silence that’s encased us since Mom blamed me for their divorce? I’m sure Dad knows Mom’s version of the past few days—but is he even interested in mine?
“Ellie, your mom and I,” Dad starts, because of course he does. “We want you to know—”
Mom is giving him a face that says What the fuck are you doing? This time we’re on the same page.
He wants to talk about this now? As if this might be the last chance to speak their peace.
“Dad,” I say, cutting him off. Nope, I am not having this conversation here. “Let’s just not until I get through this.”
Mom takes my right hand with both of hers like we’re a team on this. I want to pull back, because we aren’t a team and I’m not sure we ever will be again. No matter how nice it is to have backup.
But I don’t need her. I have my own team.
I pull out my phone, surprised at seeing so many messages in our group chat. My friends are awake and eager now. Lots of well-wishes. Caitlin’s sticks out with, Just make sure you moon them at least once. That makes me smile.
My team has changed—grown, certainly. I click over to Ryan’s contact information. It’s still labeled Medical Coach. I make a quick edit, just to prove Caitlin wrong, and swap out his title for his real name. It’s a small gesture and maybe stupid, but the change seems bigger. More permanent. He’s not just here to see me through this, he’s here to last.
Perhaps friendship can exist in a hospital.
Ryan
Don’t forget those of us stuck here when you’re done there.
I stare at his message, trying to shrug off the joke, but it stabs close to home. Is he trying to start the separation between hospital life and real life? This whole time it’s always been about the doctors, but he promised we could still talk.
I take a screenshot of his contacts page and send it to him and start a new message.
Ellie
Sorry, you’re stuck with me.
Another text message distracts me before I can hit send.
Jack (1)
We haven’t talked since he showed up. I just haven’t known what to say. Or how to even start explaining the hospital so he sees it like I do. Exchanged texts, sure—every now and then. My responses were bland as I tried to find the right ways to show him this world.
Two more messages pop up as I try to figure out my feelings about this latest development. First it’s like a boob punch, totally underhanded and a pain you didn’t quite know could exist. But it’s also a surprise, a friendly face showing up to your hospital room when you’re stuck there.
Is this what hope feels like?
Leaving my conversation with Ryan, I open up Jack’s.
Jack
Hey—I know you’re having surgery. And I wanted to say good luck.
I hope everything is okay.
I miss you.
Yup, that’s definitely hope. It fills my chest and brings on a cough. Mom and Dad don’t even look up, they’re so used to me being face down in my phone.
For once I text back.
Ellie
Thanks—I’ll let you know what happens.
The read message is almost instant. Followed by another smiley face from Jack.
My first thought is to text Ryan. I click over to our conversation, and there’s the photo. The switched profile, his actual name. Warmth spreads into my chest. I shouldn’t be in this conversation, not with Ryan. I should be engrossed in my conversation with Jack.
The interns come to take me down and it’s time to leave the parentals behind. Despite our arguments and the fights, I give Mom a hug. Fear overrules anger. We may not speak it, but the fear of death, of not coming out of this back to my same self, is so foundational and we both feel it. Mom wraps her arms around me and Dad just pats me on the shoulder.
I grab my phone for one last text. And on the off chance that it will work, I text:
Ellie
Going under now. See you on the other side.
Hopefully, I made the right choice and the boy gets the message.