Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
The world is full of monsters with friendly faces and angels full of scars. – Unknown
My surgeon, Mr Hanlon, is a miracle worker.
I call him The Professor in my head. He is a vampire, short and thin with big, bushy grey eyebrows, and although his hair is short, it’s wiry and sticks out at the sides.
He looks like a mad professor. Quick to smile, he comes across as being quite strict, but he doesn’t fool me—the man is a saint.
Most medicine nowadays is magical; medical equipment is a combination of magic and technology.
Things that look like simple medical scanners are chock-full of magic.
Magic is another useful tool in a doctor’s arsenal.
If someone breaks an arm, the bone will still have to be reset before the doctor applies a healing potion.
Nobody wants to have to re-break bones when someone has used a potion too soon.
Magic accelerates healing; it knits everything together and replaces tissue that is missing.
Over the years, they have developed lucrative medical magic to cure most diseases and infections.
Wounds that used to take weeks if not months to heal can now regenerate in minutes, lifesaving in combat or emergencies.
Healing potions work on beings of every race, even if they have ornate powers of their own. Healing potions work on everybody…except me.
Mr Hanlon says he has never met a person like me before: someone immune to magic, a magical void. Even he doesn’t understand my freaky powers.
It thrills him, the challenge I present…well, after he got over his initial shock of me breaking a few of his expensive machines. Magic combined with technology can be temperamental, so add in my immunity and the hospital’s fancy tech tended to implode.
The Professor was ecstatic to have performed my magic-free surgery, to dust off his training and theory.
I can imagine in my surgery he had the ardent glow of a child left alone in Toys R Us with a credit card, and the words buy whatever you want fading in his ears.
The opportunity to get his hands in and actually play around with my organs was a rare treat.
The weirdo.
He tells me at every opportunity that I’m his best work.
Of course, some people need alternative health care—mainly the rare, mostly purebred humans who are adamantly against the practice of magic, and people who can’t afford treatment, as healing potions can be expensive.
When it comes down to it, it’s really only humans, witches, and young shifters who need regular intervention by doctors. The other races have their own innate gifts for everyday healing.
I’m not too proud to say that I’m jealous—I wish I could magically heal.
I have been in the hospital now for over two months.
For a small stab wound the damage was extensive, the knife shredded my appendix and some of my small intestine.
I’ve had two major operations and a battle with sepsis.
Frustratingly, no matter how many bags of antibiotics they pump into me, I still seem to get small, nasty infections.
At one point, I dubbed myself Pus Girl as a joke.
It was so gross, how much pus my body could produce. Litres of the stuff, gag.
But I’m alive.
To save my life, I have…I have an ileostomy, a stoma. Which is an artificial hole in my abdomen wall, where part of my small intestine has been pulled through, and it collects my faeces in a bag.
My Professor is confident, given enough time and adequate healing on my part, he should be able to put everything back.
The stoma sits on the lower right-hand side of my tummy. It’s bright red, and it looks like a small rose. It’s alien-like. The texture is like touching the inside of my cheek.
Yes, it is surreal.
Something that should be on the inside of my body is now on the outside.
I name the stoma Bert. I purposely treat Bert like a wayward life-saving pet. I won’t go into details, but having a stoma can be messy. So having the mentality that it’s Bert’s fault when things inevitably go wrong has helped tremendously.
Bert is the naughty one, it isn’t me. It’s not me.
Everything still feels unreal. It is like I’m permanently trapped in a bad dream.
Why did this happen to me?
I guess naming Bert allows me to get over the shock of my new normal. Ha, “my new normal.” God, I hate that phrase. I don’t want this new bloody normal. I liked me just the way I was.
It’s a challenge to fight the grief over the changes to my body.
I guess I’ve lost myself a little. I’ve learned to be stronger in keeping optimistic about my illness, but I’ve lost some of my fire.
I no longer feel as confident. I have a deep-seated need to not be near people.
Instead of being that bubbly talk-the-ear-off-a-person, I’ve turned into somebody awkward.
I’m supposed to be a brave and independent woman.
I rub the scars on my wrists, left over from the chains.
It’s one of the many strange habits and quirks I’ve developed.
My scars randomly ache with the memory of the cold metal on my skin.
I rub them to reassure myself that the shackles are no longer there.
Some days, it’s like it has reduced me to a lesser person. I’m frightened all the time, and I hate myself for feeling this way.
I’ve always been a positive person, so I force myself to hold on to that positivity—clinging desperately to it with my fingers and toes. Any time bitterness tries to creep in, I forcibly push the destructive thoughts away.
So many scars. Inside and out.
I have to see them as life-saving. If I don’t…well. In my waking moments, I don’t allow myself much contemplation. I’m not so fortunate when I sleep.
The nightmares…they plague me. I have to remain brave and mentally keep moving forward. If I stop to think…if I dwell on the bad…I will undoubtedly drown in my sadness and fear.
I’ve quickly learned that true bravery can be just the act of getting out of bed in the morning while fighting your mind, body, and those destructive inner fears.
Eating is difficult. Food has become my enemy. If I eat the wrong thing, I either throw up or I get a horrendous stomach ache, and Bert goes nuts. It’s demeaning. Gosh, I’m moaning. I must stay positive.
Mr Hanlon is doing his rounds. He stands before me and pokes at the tablet in his hands.
Having been so poorly, I found it almost impossible to string a semblance of my thoughts together.
Now that my head has cleared from the drug-fuelled haze and I’m feeling more like myself, I take the opportunity to ask him some important questions.
“No, you won’t be riding your horses for quite some time,” the Professor answers.
He looks at me as if I’m completely nuts.
I’m sitting cross-legged in an attempt to stretch the tight muscles in my legs and back without using my poor abs.
I wiggle in response to his stern look. “I’m hoping that you will naturally heal so I can do a reversal operation and put everything back in its rightful place.
” The professor taps the tablet. “The tachycardia and your weight loss are concerns. I have to warn you, Emma, that organs don’t like to be played with.
I’m sure there will be many challenges ahead of you with your digestive system.
The food you can eat—but that is a discussion for another time.
I have no doubt you will handle it with your customary grace and courage.
Let’s get you home first. If your next set of test results are clear, you can go home.
Ideally, once you leave the hospital, I strongly suggest no horse riding and also that you avoid lifting anything heavy. ”
“Heavy?” I ask for clarification. Heavy to me is a couple of bags of horse feed, perhaps a 25kg bale of shavings.
“Objects no heavier than say…a small kettle of water,” Mr Hanlon replies with a helpful smile. My heart dips, and I rub my face and temple with frustration.
Oh bloody hell.
I force myself to nod. “Thank you, Mr Hanlon.” I give him an overly bright smile. I nod again and cast my eyes upward in the vain hope that it will help me not to cry.
How am I going to look after the horses?
If I still have my horses, that is. I have not seen Arlo since I woke up. At the time, he purposely didn’t explain what my “drop in status in his household” meant. I swallow my nerves and the constant nagging worry.
“Everything good or bad happens for a reason,” I mumble.
I am grateful I’m alive. I’m grateful I’m alive. I’m grateful I’m alive.
Oh, but it hurts. I rub my chest with my knuckles.
I want to care for my horses. How can I care for them when everything to do with horses is heavy?
It is perhaps a silly thing in the big scheme of things.
But Bob, my hairy cob, has been the centre of my world for over ten years.
I can’t imagine not spending time with him, caring for him.
These past long weeks of not knowing if Bob and Pudding are safe has been horrendous.
Heck, I struggle even to sit up without flapping around like a fish.
Because of my surgeries, my abdominal wall has been cut to pieces and all my muscles have wasted away.
I know for a fact that for safety reasons, I cannot do a thing with Pudding—he is such a shithead.
But I’m not me without my horses. I rub the pain in my chest again.
Mr Hanlon gives me a gentle pat on my shoulder and leaves the room.
Be positive. Be brave. I’m hopefully going home…if I have a home.
Arrah. Quit it, Emma.
I think of the potato quote: “The same boiling water that softens the potato hardens the egg. It’s about what you’re made of, not the circumstances.”
Ha, “what I’m made of.” I roll my eyes.
I’m like Frankenstein’s monster.
John’s monster.