Chapter 21
M y heart thumped in my chest for the entire hour-and-a-half drive to Lakeland. But once we approached the shiny, menacing hospital building, it was at a full-on gallop like a racehorse.
I had to admit, the inside was pretty. With its huge skylights, cavernous ceilings, and variety of artwork and potted plants, it almost felt like a hotel. At least, it did if I could ignore the weary-eyed patients slumped on benches with IV bandages strapped around their elbows.
Despite being almost twenty-seven years old, I hovered close to my mother for comfort. I realized that much like getting on a rollercoaster for the first time, it was the fact that I’d never had surgery before that made me so scared. Because the worst type of fear was the fear of the unknown.
Check-in was quick, and the holdup in the waiting room was brief. Only one person was allowed in the pre-operative area, so my mother came with me while my father stayed in the waiting room. The first thing the nurses had me do was change out of my comfy clothes and into a scratchy hospital gown that felt like it was made from paper towels. Once that was complete, they had me climb into a hospital bed, which felt much like climbing into a jail cell.
I knew what came next. Just like at the ER, they had to give me an IV.
But this time, having the tube inserted was no big deal. Maybe it was because I’d just had one two weeks earlier. Or maybe my fear of impending anesthesia overshadowed my fear of needles.
My anxiety was somewhat alleviated when my anesthesiologist popped in to say hello. He was a thin, balding, cheery middle-aged man. Almost too cheery for being in a hospital. In fact, I noticed most of the staff were that way - chatting and joking with each other while they worked. To them, it was just another day at the office.
The anesthesiologist explained the basics of how the anesthesia worked, but he also heavily emphasized that it would put me right to sleep and I wouldn’t feel a thing. I wondered if he noticed the fear and anxiety written all over my face, because he gave the back of my hospital bed a reassuring pat and said he’d done thousands of procedures without any issues.
After he left, there was more waiting, which I hated. I’d brought my Kindle for situations like this, but as I attempted to engross myself in my latest fantasy novel, my anxiety made the words seem to melt off the page. It took a tremendous amount of willpower and eyestrain to keep my attention on the novel and not on my surgery. Even with a book to distract me, my hammering heartbeat never slowed.
“Alright, you ready?” The plastic scratching sound of curtains opening made my gaze shoot up from my Kindle .
My breaths sped up, nearly matching my racing heartbeat.
Oh no.
It’s time.
The nurse had a warm, friendly voice, but the fact that she and the two other nurses behind her had their faces shielded by surgical masks made me even more antsy.
“I love you.” My mom reached out and squeezed my hand. I could tell she was anxious too, even if she was desperately trying to hide it. “It’ll all go by in a flash. They’ll put you right to sleep.”
There was a soft lurch in my hospital bed as one of the nurses stepped behind it, and then it began to move forward.
“We’re going to give you some medication to help you relax before the anesthesia.” The female nurse explained to me as she fiddled with my IV. The bed was now out of my curtained-off waiting area, and we were headed down a long hallway.
“I just need you to count to five.” The nurse continued as she hooked a large syringe up to my IV. “Can you do that for me?”
I struggled to swallow. I couldn’t tell if it was my anxiety or the medication, but the hallway was starting to spin.
“Okay.” I forced my words out. “One… two… three…”
Four… five…
Okay, I’m ready.
Wait…
Where am I?
Devin was right about the anesthesia. One second, I was being wheeled down the hallway toward the surgery suite, and the next, I was lying bleary-eyed in the recovery room.
My head was spinning like a top, and I could barely open my eyes, but I felt no pain. I assumed it was because they’d heavily drugged me. As my clumsy hand brushed across my abdomen, I could feel the ragged bumps of the stitches.
It was over.
The surgery was done.
“Devin?” My voice was barely a whisper. There was no reply other than the various hums and beeps of hospital machinery.
“Devin?” I croaked, struggling to raise my voice loud enough to be heard. “Dev?”
Through my hazy vision, I noticed a light-skinned male hand next to my bed and instinctively grabbed it.
“Devin…” I whimpered. I missed him. I needed him.
I tried to rub my fingers over his knuckles like I always did, but the hand slipped away almost as soon as I grabbed it.
With my frustration growing and my rationality severely muddled by the anesthesia, I grabbed the hand again.
It pulled away, this time slower, and gave my own hand a gentle pat before returning to the keyboard it was typing on.
Keyboard?
I blinked a few times, and my vision began to stabilize. I was an idiot. Devin wasn’t there. The hand belonged to a male nurse sitting next to my hospital bed. He was typing away at a computer with a stack of paperwork in his other hand. He chuckled when he noticed me gawking at him.
As embarrassed as I was, I assumed he was used to drugged-up patients being irrational. I’d seen videos of people coming out of surgery say and do worse things than hold a stranger’s hand .
But being as drug-addled as I was, that didn’t stop me from shouting Devin’s name loudly across the recovery room. My cries were sharp and hoarse, and the nurse hid another chuckle behind his hand and told me my family would be allowed in soon.
A few minutes later, another nurse came in to check up on me. She had a cheery, motherly demeanor and was completely unfazed by my erratic speech and wobbling body. She said I needed to use the bathroom so she was sure that I could pee properly, and I clung to her shoulder as she helped me out of bed and led me down the hall.
Once I was alone in the restroom, I realized how much my vagina ached. The pain traveled further up my abdomen into what I assumed was my uterus. That was when I remembered that in addition to the laparoscopy, the surgeon had inserted a camera into my vagina to take a look around and collect a pap smear.
The pain wasn’t unbearable, but I was incredibly sore. It felt like someone had taken a rough-edged spoon and scraped my entire uterus out.
It also burned when I peed. But the important part was that I was able to pee, and I assumed the discomfort would go away with time.
I took a moment to study myself in the mirror as I washed my hands. I was a pale, greasy-haired, puffy-eyed wreck. But the fear, the anticipation…it was all over. I’d made it through the worst part, and now I could spend the next week resting and recovering at home.
The more I thought about it, the more relief and joy it brought me, and I did a silly little dance in the hallway as the nurse escorted me back to my hospital bed.
Anesthesia was a hell of a drug.
My mother arrived not long after, fawning over me with hugs and kisses and congratulating me for being so brave. I hugged her back, her affection further amplifying my relief. Even as an adult, I would always appreciate my mother’s comfort.
Maybe I should visit them more, I thought to myself. I’ll just steer clear of my grumpy father.
“So the surgeon came out to the waiting room and told us about your procedure,” My mother announced, which made my ears perk up.
“They were right. You did have endometriosis, and they were able to remove it all.”
In my drug-addled state, I wasn’t sure whether to cheer or cry. I ended up doing both, laughing joyously as tears streaked down my puffy face.
“You did it, sweetheart.” My mother kissed my forehead.
Sweetheart…
Thoughts of lying in bed with Devin the night before, him rubbing my hair while calling me that same pet name, flooded my mind. I shot out of bed, which made my dizzy head swirl, and scrambled for my phone.
“Here it is, dear.” My mother pulled the device out of her purse and handed it to me.
The screen seemed unnaturally bright, as if it were burning out my retinas. I could read my notifications—the text wasn’t melting like it was on my Kindle earlier—but I had trouble keeping my hands steady and my eyes focused.
I had one message from Devin, from half an hour ago.
Hey sweetheart. You out of your surgery yet?
Hi Dev! I just got out! I did it!
That’s great! You fe eling okay?
I feel great! Well, drugged, but great! Not in much pain. And the doctor said I did have endometriosis! I was right!
Uh…Avie? You okay?
I froze, my eyebrows furrowing.
What do you mean? Of course I’m okay.
Avery…never mind. Just text me later when you’re less drugged.
Confused by Devin’s odd response but too high on anesthesia to let it bother me, I plopped my phone on the bed next to my hip and chatted with my mother while I waited to be discharged.
She explained that the doctor found endometriosis not only on the outside of my uterus and pelvic wall, but also around my stomach and intestines. That was a huge relief, because it explained why I had so many digestive issues. I hoped that going forward, my stomach wouldn’t blow up like a balloon after every significant meal.
About fifteen minutes passed, and the nurse came in and announced that I could change back into my regular clothes. And as I did, alone in the restroom, I got my first look at my incisions. They were tiny, less than an inch across, and sealed with surgical glue and a row of tight black stitches. But despite their small size, they were incredibly sore, and my stomach was puffy and red from the procedure.
One, two, three…
The nurse said there were four incisions.
Where is…
I tilted my head down at my stomach, and my insides twisted.
My belly button.
They’d cut open my belly button and stitched it back together.
A nauseating quiver ran down my limbs and up my throat as I scrambled to get dressed, trying to get visuals of how the surgery was performed out of my mind.
After that, I was itching to get out of the hospital as soon as possible. I was capable of walking, but the nurse insisted that I be brought to the car in a wheelchair. My father met us back in the waiting room, and to my surprise, he bent down to give me a hug, being careful not to touch my stomach. As he pulled away, I noticed the slightest hint of concern in his eyes.
He had been worried about me. Even if he barely showed it.
The nurse and my mother helped load me into the front seat of my father’s truck. I insisted that I would be fine in the back, but my mother wanted me to be able to recline my seat and get some rest.
“I guarantee she’ll be passed out the rest of the day,” the nurse told my mom as she handed her a bundle of discharge paperwork. “Once she’s awake, make sure she takes some pain meds. The injections we gave her will only last about 12 hours.”
Injections. They gave me pain injections. No wonder my incisions don’t hurt yet.
“Goodbye, Avery!” The nurse waved as she closed the door of the truck and my father pulled away from the hospital curb.
It was still surreal that the surgery was over. It had been less than an hour since I woke up, and I was already being discharged and sent home .
As my mother instructed, I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes as a sudden wave of exhaustion rolled over me. We had a long drive home to Orlando, which was plenty of time for me to get some rest.
I may have had a haywire burst of energy immediately after my surgery, but by the time we made it home at nearly 3 pm, I felt like I hadn’t slept in years. Just the short walk from the car to my bedroom was as exhausting as a marathon, and I needed both of my parents’ assistance to not collapse along the way.
I fell asleep almost instantly; a series of bizarre, anesthesia-fueled dreams looping through my mind in erratic patterns as I slept. My weary body finally awoke in the early evening, when the amount of sunlight streaming through my window had significantly dimmed. Even with my eyes open and my mind alert, I still struggled to sit upright. My limbs felt like lead.
At this point, I assumed the anesthesia had worn off. The world no longer had a surreal, hazy tinge to it, like I was living in some sort of alternate reality. My eyes flicked over to my plain white end table, and I struggled to reach my phone without having to shift out of bed. I knew I likely had tons of messages awaiting me.
Cassidy, Aaron, and a few other members of the game shop had all texted me. Cassidy asked how I was feeling and told me to check my Steam account. She’d gifted me a video game, with a cute note telling me to enjoy it while I was recovering. Aaron said that Sam was asking about me and offered to host a board game night for all of us once I’d recovered .
I smiled, wading my way through the sea of “feel betters” and “get well soons” while a soothing warmth bloomed in my heart. I’d never realized how many true friends I had at Critical Games. How much of a community we’d become.
And of course, after I made my way through all my texts, I had saved the best for last.
I was just about to send him a sweet, loving message telling him that I was fine and that I missed him…until I caught a glimpse of my texts from earlier.
Dev! Jt I got out! I dd t!
I frowned . What the hell?!
Druged gat! Pan not. Docr endo petri has! Rite!
This message was followed up with several blood drop emojis, and I smacked a palm against my burning forehead.
I swear to God that’s not what I typed…
No wonder Devin’s texts didn’t make sense. My texts didn’t make sense. How could I feel so stable and be so incoherent at the same time?
Fucking anesthesia. I plopped my phone on my bed and took a few deep breaths. Never again.
Once I had a few moments to self-analyze and be certain that the anesthesia had made its way out of my system, I picked my phone back up and typed out a message to Devin.
Hey Dev. Just got a look at my texts from earlier. Sorry about that.
I checked the message three times before I sent it, making sure that my eyes weren’t deceiving me .
Don’t apologize. That was hilarious. And hello sweetheart. I’m assuming, based the fact that your message uses actual English, you’re no longer drugged up?
I think so. The world isn’t quite as weird anymore.
That’s good to hear. You’ve recovered okay? Are you in pain?
Yeah, I’m fine. The stitches don’t really hurt, I’ve just been sleeping a lot.
Well I need to ask since it’s almost 5:30… have you received any deliveries today?
Deliveries?
I peered up at the top corner of my phone. It was 5:28 p.m.
I suppose I should go as Mom if anything arriv —
The doorbell rang - a sudden, sharp trill that echoed throughout the house and made my skin prickle. I could hear low chatter and shuffling feet from my parents in the kitchen. I wanted to answer the door, but it took a tremendous amount of willpower just to sit upright in bed.
Ow. I instinctively reached toward my aching stomach but pulled away since I knew touching the stitches would make it worse. The pain wasn’t too severe, but I was very sore, and any movement of my abdomen further irritated my incisions.
The pain meds must be starting to wear off.
I heard the squeak of the door opening, and there was muffled but cheery chatter between my mother and whoever was at the door. I heard my mother’s pitch grow louder and higher, as if she were surprised about something.
I peeled the covers off my legs, but they felt heavy and numb after hours stuck in bed. I attempted to slide my body off the edge, but a sudden, sharp tug at my stitches made me freeze and grit my teeth in pain.
Godamnit.
I was stuck. But it didn’t take long to find out who was at the door, because my mother burst into my room right after they left.
Once I saw the glass vase in her hands, with a colorful assortment of flowers sprouting out in all directions, I felt my face turning red. The sensation of my heart fluttering and my stomach dropping at the same time made it feel like I was in freefall.
“Avie!” My mother exclaimed in her usual excited-squeaky voice as she entered the room. “Look what arrived for you!”
I was a stone statue in bed, able to hear my rapid heartbeat pounding in my ears, as she set the vase of flowers on my windowsill.
“That’s not all,” my mother continued, pointing out the door and into the hallway. “The lady also dropped off a large bag of takeout food. It smells delicious; the bag says it’s from a place called Olive Tree Café?”
Dev…
I felt like I was going to melt into a lovesick, overwhelmed puddle.
He’d sent me flowers. No guy, in my entire life, had ever sent me flowers.
And food. From my favorite restaurant in Orlando.
My first instinct was to shoot out of bed, grab my phone, and text Devin that he was a wonderful, far too generous boyfriend and that I loved him very much. But of course, I couldn’t do that without my mother becoming suspicious.
“Any idea who sent these, my dear?” she asked, inspecting the flowers by the window. “There’s no card.”
A faint chuckle escaped me. Clever, Devin.
“My friends,” I blurted out, in a manner too abrupt and panicky for it to be true.
But whether my mother believed me or not, she didn’t pry further. She offered to help me walk to the kitchen so I could eat dinner with my parents, but I excused myself to the restroom first, making sure my phone was tucked away in my pocket.
“Do you need help, dear?”
“No,” I replied, my throat choking up as I tried to hide how much the stitches hurt. “I’ll be fine. I’ll meet you and Dad out there.”
Once I was settled on the toilet seat and my stitches no longer felt tense and achy, I fired off a few quick messages to Devin.
Dev…you didn’t have to do this.
So I take it the goods arrived?
Yes. You sent the flowers and food?
Yup! Avie, you had surgery and I’m not able to see you while you’re recovering. Of course I’m going to send you flowers. And I figured you and your family would be tired after today and not up for cooking. So, enjoy the food.
You’re an angel, Dev. I’m gonna go eat, but I’ll talk to you later.
Lol. I am no angel, but thank you. I love you, sweetheart. I wish I could see you.
I know. I love you too.
I wish I could see you.
Those words ached more than my stitches ever could.
This was the sort of situation where people needed their partners around. I knew that the next few days would be relaxing, not having to worry about work and getting as much rest and video gaming time as I pleased. But it would be much easier to do it with Devin here. Just being able to curl up on the couch or bed with him would take so much of my pain away.
Would it be so terrible if I had him over? Would my parents really reject him?
Those questions swirled in my mind, pounding against my skull like a migraine, as I stumbled out of the bathroom and walked out to the kitchen to join my parents for dinner.