| Subject: The Present Moment - Repost (5/16) |
Author:
mary48184
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Date Posted: 06:15:20 04/18/08 Fri
Chapter 5
Tuesday
November 20, 2001
1723 ZULU (1223 local)
National Naval Medical Center
Bethesda, Maryland
The first thing that hits me is the smell of antiseptic, a pungent acrid odor that is so common to medical facilities. Slowly my other senses begin to awaken. The shroud of darkness still surrounding my mind, sounds gradually begin to waft through the dampening fog, echoing to my ears from far off in the distance. A sensation of comforting warmth envelops my left hand, the pressure providing reassurance in this otherwise lonely state of being. But coming full circle, what finally wakes me up is that ever-present awful smell of antibacterial cleaning solution, the taste of which infiltrates my mouth and coats my tongue. It’s a vivid reminder of why I usually tend to avoid hospitals.
Attempting to open my eyes, I automatically wince as the brightness of the fluorescent bulbs overhead send shards of pain through my head. That would be the fifth sense: sight.
With a groan I start to lift my unencumbered right hand up to my temples, but even the slightest movement causes a sharp pinching sensation on the back of my hand. My eyes flying open despite the blinding light, I look down and see the telltale tape and tubing of an IV needle.
“Whoa, easy there,” a familiar voice cautions from off to the other side.
It’s Harm. For a moment I’m a little shocky, uncertain of where I am, but within heartbeats my memory follows on the heels of awareness. Bethesda. Laparoscopy. General anesthetic. Harm.
When I open my mouth to say ‘hi,’ however, it comes out more of a croak than a recognizable greeting. The roof of my mouth feels like a cross between crazy glue and the inside of an old shoe...
“Hold on. Let me get you some water,” Harm says, the warm mantle encompassing my fingers suddenly giving way to a cold, harsh breeze. Even as he’s reaching for the pitcher at my bedside, it takes another second for me to realize that he’d been holding my hand while I’d been emerging from the anesthesia, and that at least 37 minutes have passed since I started regaining consciousness. The thought of him waiting at my side after surgery causes a flood of affection within my chest that nearly engulfs me, and I find myself fighting off sudden tears. God, I hate feeling this vulnerable.
Especially when I’m wearing nothing but my birthday suit and an open-backed hospital gown.
Ignoring that thought and the flush of heat in my cheeks that accompanies it, I take advantage of Harm’s distraction to pull the blue cotton blanket a little higher around me.
“Here,” he tells me as he turns back with a small white plastic cup and sets it on the nightstand. “Do you need a straw?”
I shake my head. I’m a Marine, and Marines don’t use plastic bendy straws if they can help it. Plastic bendy straws, along with cherry gelatin, are yet more reminders of why I hate being in the hospital. It’s a leftover phobia from having my tonsils out when I was five. Thankfully, he puts the offensive thin red-and-white-striped cylinder back down.
My abdomen screams in protest as I struggle to sit up, but with Harm’s help I’m able to prop myself upright on the arm that isn’t currently speared with the nurses’ instrument of torture. I gratefully accept the small plastic tumbler and lift it to my lips. The first sip tastes heavenly.
“Thanks,” I finally murmur, and take a healthy swallow. Right now I’m so thirsty I could practically drink Lake Erie.
“How do you feel?”
Meeting his gaze over the rim of my cup, I give a half-hearted shrug. “Like I’ve been pumped full of air and had my insides jumbled around. What did the doctor say?” My voice sounds like I’ve been eating gravel and quite truthfully I feel like shit, but I’m not in the mood for small talk. I want to know what she found.
“Only that everything went as planned. She didn’t elaborate.”
As if on cue, there’s a hurried rap on the door behind him, followed by the turning of the knob a half-second later. The heavy wooden door swings open noiselessly to reveal a petite brunette, who marches into the room with the brisk efficiency of a career military officer.
Lieutenant Maria Nawiasky, M.D. – pronounced “na-VEE-ah-skee” – had been my regular gynecologist until mid-2003, when her civilian husband had taken a position in southern California and she’d requested a transfer to be closer to him. After she’d left Bethesda, I’d stopped using Bethesda’s OB/GYN practice and instead had my routine physicals done through my GP’s office, which is where I had gone in 2004 when I’d had my first… or was it my last? oh hell… laparoscopy. But my relationship with Dr Chen had never been the same as the friendly rapport that I’d once had with Dr Nawiasky.
Making one last notation on her clipboard as she stops near the foot of the bed, Dr Nawiasky looks up at me and smiles warmly.
“I see you’ve returned to the land of the living,” she grins, folding the clipboard down in front of her. “How are you feeling? Any nausea or discomfort?”
That’s an understatement. I pass the cup back to Harm and gingerly lower myself onto my back. “Crampy, a little sore. And definitely bloated,” I admit with a grimace as my head hits the pillow. Saying that I’m a ‘little’ sore is more putting on a brave face than being truthful, because in actuality my stomach hurts like hell.
Wait, did I just admit to feeling crampy and bloated in front of Harm? Great. Just great. Now I’m conscious of everything below the waist AND of the fact that I’m not wearing any underwear. I blush again.
“I’d be surprised if you weren’t,” she continues, thankfully oblivious to my sudden embarrassment. “It should wear off in a day or two, but in the meantime you’ll probably be most comfortable wearing loose fitting clothes. Are you experiencing any nausea or dizziness?”
Hmn… “No nausea, but the dizziness thing rings a bell,” I admit.
“The nurse can bring you something soft to eat,” she says, making a quick notation on her clipboard. “I’ll make sure to let her know.”
Oh wonderful, I think. Quintessential hospital cuisine: mystery meat, mushy green beans and tasteless mashed potatoes.
Then my mind turns to more important matters, a flutter of renewed anxiety lodging in my chest.
“What did you find? Was there much damage?” I ask momentarily.
As though he can sense my inner turmoil, Harm silently reaches out and once again takes my hand in his. It’s comforting, the tactile contact from another person, from him, especially as Dr Chen’s words from so long ago echo in my head:
I wish I had better news.
The memory of the other doctor’s grim prognosis nearly drowns out Dr Nawiasky’s voice, but some of what she’s saying filters through.
“I beg your pardon?” Pulling myself back into the moment, I frown up at her. My ears feel clogged. “Could you repeat that, please?”
“There were a few lesions, primarily around the fallopian tubes and uterus. I was able to remove most everything without complication. It was a good thing you came in when you did. Had it gone undetected, the endometrial tissue could have seriously compromised your ability to one day have children.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Wrestling with incredulity, my heart suddenly pounding hard against my ribcage, my fingers unconsciously clenching around Harm’s supportive hand, I struggle to keep myself steady.
“You mean I…” My voice breaks, but I keep going. “I… you mean I might be able to get pregnant?”
Dr Nawiasky must be able to see how much I’m troubled, because she looks down at me with a sympathetic eye. “Your chances have been lessened somewhat, certainly, but not so much that you wouldn’t be able to conceive or sustain a pregnancy to term.”
My mind grabs on to the worst-case scenario. I can’t help it; I don’t want to be disappointed again. I can’t be disappointed again.
“Lessened by how much?” I demand, fearing the truth but at the same time needing to know for sure. “How much?”
“I can’t say exactly—”
With my last shred of control, I grip Harm’s fingers as I interrupt, “What chance do I have, realistically? Five percent? Ten percent? I’m not looking for specifics. Just a ballpark estimate.”
Please, God. Please don’t let it be less than five percent.
I’m an attorney. I know that even the best doctors have to worry about passing along erroneous information that their patients might delusionally take as gospel, otherwise their malpractice insurance premiums would go through the roof. Dr Nawiasky tilts her head in acknowledgement, choosing her words carefully.
“Probably closer to eighty-five,” she finally tells me. “Given the mildness of your case and the fact that none of the organs appeared to be compromised, I’d say you have roughly an eighty to eighty-five percent chance.”
Eighty to eighty-five percent. Eighty to eighty-five percent.
Suddenly light-headed, kind of dizzy, I dimly realize that it’s a good thing I’m already lying down. Eighty to eighty-five percent. The words loop through my mind, repeating themselves over and over as my consciousness tries to digest the implications of the doctor’s words. My next question is barely a whisper…
“You mean… I’m not infertile?”
The shock on my face – my total disbelief – must be clear, because she shakes her head and smiles broadly. “Not even close.”
The world blurs. I can’t breathe. A gigantic tidal wave of instantaneous relief breaks over me, washing through my body as the impact of those three words hits home. Unable to stop the tears, my mind goes numb and I close my eyes and begin to cry from the sensation of sheer liberation. With four little syllables she has lifted a tremendous weight from my shoulders.
Long minutes pass as my emotions pour forth. At length I find myself calming down, sobs turning to sniffles and the floodgates of tears growing sticky on my cheeks as they dry. The room around me is quiet…
But my hand is warm.
Even with my eyes closed I know that Harm is still sitting at my bedside, stroking his fingers soothingly across the skin of my palm to both calm me and let me know that he’s here. Will continue to be here, for as long as it takes.
“I’m almost afraid to ask what I look like right about now,” I murmur sleepily. My nose is swollen from crying, forcing me to breathe though my mouth. This definitely cannot be one of my more attractive moments.
His tone is light and teasing as he gives a soft chuckle and moves to cup my hand in between his palms. “Probably better not to ask.”
“Okay.”
“A nurse should be coming by shortly with some food,” he tells me. “The doctor wants to do a final exam after you’re done eating and have used the bathroom, but she did say that you should be able to go home afterwards. Did you bring anything comfortable to wear?”
I nod slowly, thinking of the men’s sweatsuit sitting folded in my bag. The elastic-waisted pants are among the most comfortable clothes I own. Come to think of it, they used to be Harm’s… and got appropriated somewhere along the way.
All this crying on top of the effects of the anesthetic has worn me out. Lying here quietly, I can’t help but dwell on the events that have just transpired. The enormity of the gift I have been given is mind-boggling. And Harm hasn’t left my side, even though my face is puffy from bawling. I can’t see myself, of course, but whenever I start to cry my eyes and lips swell up, and my nose turns bright red. It’s not a pretty sight.
“Thanks for staying with me.” Opening my eyes a crack, I glance over at him through a haze of wet eyelashes and give a wan smile.
“Hey,” he smiles back and gives my hand a squeeze. “What are friends for?”
The unexpected words cut through my burgeoning hope like a knife.
“Friends, huh?” A trace of dull sarcasm creeps into my voice as I close my eyes once again, a fresh welling of tears burning behind my eyelids. The dance is beginning all over again. Just friends. I should have known he wasn’t ready to move forward. To Harm I’ll always be ‘good old Mac,’ constant and never-changing, faithful friend to the end but never anything more. What was it I’d once said to him? Your interest always fades whenever I might be in a position to return it—
“Not ‘just’ friends, Mac,” his voice interrupts my self-indulgent mental outburst. A second later I feel the pads of his fingers gently turning my head to face him, his words quiet in the stark hollow of the hospital room. “Look at me.”
Forcing my eyes back open, I meet his gaze with a questioning look. He has actually tilted his head so that we’re parallel to one another, me reclining back against the pillow and him leaning forward, expression intense. The blue-green hazel of his irises is as light as I’ve ever seen it throughout all the years we’ve known each other. My heart begins to beat faster; it’s like looking into the depths of the sea…
“Mac,” he begins, softly running his thumb along the fleshy ball of my palm. “You are one of the most special people in my life. You are a brilliant lawyer and a damned fine officer, but more than that… you are an incredible woman. Time and again you have been there for me. I know we haven’t always been on the same page, but I keep hoping that maybe one of these days we’ll get it right. I don’t want to push things. You’re too important for me to lose.”
Before I can react, however, there is yet another brisk knock on the door to my room and the door swings open. Caught off guard, Harm straightens suddenly, turning his head towards the door.
Swallowing hard, I give his fingers a lengthy squeeze as a nurse wheels a tray into the room and steers it around my bed. For the first time I realize that I’ve been assigned to a semi-private room. There’s another bed not three feet away, but fortunately it’s currently unoccupied. Thank heaven for small favors.
“Hope you’re hungry!” the plump, older nurse announces cheerily. With practiced efficiency she maneuvers the tray so that it sits over my lap. Then, pushing the hand-button to adjust my bed so that I’m sitting upright, she whips off the stainless steel cover from the plate in front of me. “Bon appetit!”
Despite the steam rising up from the plate, I can’t smell a thing. That’s one of the reasons why I hate crying – what’s the point in being hungry all the time if you can’t taste your food? Looking down warily, I’m not surprised to see three drab sections: one brown, one green, and one white with a great big brown spot in the middle.
“What is it?” Harm asks, peering over at the tray. Out of the corner of my eye I can see his nose wrinkling.
“Salisbury steak, string beans and mashed potatoes. Yum!” the woman winks with an exaggerated smile. Her warm friendliness and timeworn, fleshy cheeks remind me a little of a grandmotherly old-fashioned nurse, except that instead of a white uniform and starched hat she’s wearing a bright pair of scrubs covered in what appear to be Care Bears. It’s hard to tell if her enthusiasm is real or an act to keep herself and her patients from going bonkers. “Now be a good girl and eat up! I want to see that plate clean when I come back.”
As she pulls back, I catch a glimpse of her nametag: she’s a pediatrics nursing aide. Guess that explains the cartoon-laden scrubs and the sunshiney attitude. And the fact that she’s hovering over me like I’m three.
“I think we’ve got it from here,” Harm reassures her, flashing an equally bright-although-not-quite-genuine grin. “We’ll ring the call button when she’s finished.”
I’d swear she looks disappointed. “Oh, all right then. But let me know if you need anything else,” she tells us and bustles out of the room.
When the door closes behind her, Harm and I glance at each other and burst out in laughter. It hurts, but feels good at the same time.
“What was that about?” he grins. Unlike the smile he’d given the nurse, this one’s real, and it’s all for me.
I chuckle and briefly explain about the nametag. “She’s probably helping out over at this end of the ward. I bet she’d been looking forward to some adult conversation.”
“Oh well,” he shrugs, still smiling. “You heard the woman – she wants you to clean your plate.”
My gaze falling downward, the first thing I realize is that the meal in front of me is almost exactly what I’d envisioned hospital food to be: bland, mushy and tasteless. The second thing I realize is that eating is going to be more of a challenge than I’d thought. There’s a tube flowing by needle into the back of my right hand – my dominant hand, I might add – and moving it even an inch makes it pinch something fierce.
“Might be a little difficult, under the circumstances,” I tell him wryly, reluctantly pulling my left hand from his grasp and reaching for the fork. I’ve got it halfway to the plate when he takes it from my grasp.
“Here, let me do that.”
Almost immediately, he picks up the accompanying knife and begins cutting the soft steak into manageable bite-sized pieces. It’s kind of cute, actually, seeing Harm doing something so domesticated and giving.
“Open wide,” he says, his expression turning impish as he spears a piece of steak on the end of the fork. “Doctor’s orders.”
He’s too quick for me, though. As soon as I open my mouth to retort, he’s right there, depositing the tasteless processed meat directly onto my tongue. Glaring at him silently, I close my lips and begin to chew, but my mind quickly flies back to our earlier conversation. He doesn’t want to push things, I muse absently. Under normal circumstances I’d probably agree with him, but these are far from normal circumstances. How on earth could I possibly explain that in two years my chances for having a child of my own are literally going to go down the tubes? And that I’m not just being paranoid – I KNOW for a fact that it’s going to happen and nothing I can do will stop it?
“How is it?” Those baby blues twinkle as he moves to pick up a second forkful, this time piling on a few beans and some potatoes along with the beef.
Eyeing him thoughtfully, I consider the possibilities. Hmn… I could initiate the I-appreciate-your-concern-for-not-pushing-too-fast-but-time-is-of-the-essence conversation today, but realistically, I have to recover from surgery before we can begin moving forward. So in the meantime I might as well enjoy having him wait on me hand and foot…
“You know, it could use a little salt,” I smile saucily, a split second before he feeds me yet another bite.
tbc
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