30. Georgie #2
I watch her leave the room in search of a doctor with medicine that will likely send me back to sleep and comfort and pain free. At this point, I welcome that silence like an old friend.
"They're coming, love," Mom tells me, but I can't focus. I just hold my eyes shut, holding my breath and willing away the burning sensation.
The machines beep behind me, and I hear footsteps of what I assume is a doctor or nurse. Their voice has a tone of concern, "Her blood pressure is elevated again."
"Is that bad?" Mom asks.
"It's better than it was before. She was moderately hypertensive when she came in, 150/100.
Now it's 130/80, which is a bit high, but it's having trouble reading her oxygen.
" The nurse touches my arm, "Georgia, you need to breathe, honey.
You can't hold your breath, or the machines are going to think you stopped breathing. "
"I can't. It hurts again. So much. 10/10." I choke out.
The nurse must leave to get a doctor, or pain meds—hopefully that option.
Mom sits back down and takes my hand, "Georgie, what can I do to help? What do you need?"
What do I need? I need to not be in pain.
I need to not feel like throwing up. I need to feel like my heart isn't racing out of my chest. I hate to dwell, but it’s my current reality and there’s no escaping it.
I know that Mom doesn't mean it literally, she knows there's really nothing to help at this point.
She's a typical mom, scared for her daughter and wants to do anything she can to make her feel better.
So, I do what I can to make her feel helpful.
"A drink? I'm really thirsty." This is true. My mouth is like the Sahara, and though my stomach hurts and feels sick, it's because I am probably overly dehydrated and hungry. I barely ate at the baby shower after all.
"Sure, baby. I'll be right back." She kisses my forehead and sets out on her motherly mission. I love her so much, it hurts.
I stare up at the ceiling, the cracked tile that reminds me of the ugly dotted stucco ceilings in elementary school, cracking down the middle.
The curtains are a sad green yellow. The gown they put me in is an ugly pale blue.
Every colour in this hospital screams 'be sad because you're sick'.
I don't have the energy to be sad, let alone check my phone.
But I do it anyway, because Mom has put my phone right beside my hand in case of an emergency, as if the doctors wouldn't call her first. But I pick it up and slowly raise my good arm without the IV up so I can see the screen.
It's just as blinding as the lights above that we shut off, but it's filled with messages from Franny and Noah.
Franny:
Georgie
GEORGIE
YOUR MOTHER JUST TEXTED ME
WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME
GEORGE I SWEAR TO GOD
There's a break between her older messages and one that just came in a few minutes ago.
Franny:
I love you, George. I'm worried. Please message me when you can.
Georgie:
I love you, Francis. I'm alive. Will text when I don't feel like dying. Please take care of Birdie for me. xx
To which I get an image back of my baby girl Birdie in Franny's house, curled up on Bennie's enormous fluffy dog bed. Birdie looks so sad; it breaks my heart. But in the next image she's sleeping peacefully, and Bennie is spooning her in a cuddle with his paw over her side.
I then turn my attention to the person who sent the largest number of notifications.
Noah
Georgie
Georgie please.
Where are you?
I'm freaking out, please answer.
Georgie, I mean it.
Georgia
Georgia Wright please for the love of god I need to know you're okay...
Please.
Please just tell me what's going on. Please don't pull away. You promised.
I see so many more messages, begging me to tell him, begging me to answer at all, telling me he's worried, he's talked to Franny who also doesn't know anything, and then he goes silent.
For minutes, he said nothing. I assume this was when my mom called him.
Because then? It's the message that breaks my heart in a single word.
Noah:
Why?
I can't. I can't do it. I can see how badly I've torn him apart; I've let him get attached.
Hell, I've gotten attached. But I can't let him fall in love with me.
I can't let him feel this way. I love him enough to let him go.
I clear my throat, blink away the tears and put down the phone without another word.
I continue to focus on breathing through the pain still rearing its ugly head, so I don't freak the nurses out.
"She's in here." When I open my eyes, I think I see Noah standing in front of me. But when I blink again, it's a tall doctor in a white coat who smiles at me and pats my foot gently.
"Georgia, Joanna tells me you're still in pain.
I just wanted to update you," He goes on to tell me everything I already know.
Cellulitis from the original site of infection from the procedure, led to sepsis because the oral antibiotics were—shockingly—not working.
They've got me on antibiotics now they hope will work, wide-open fluids for dehydration, and pain meds accordingly.
Those, as promised, are pushing in my IV and the second they kick in, I sigh in relief.
It's not perfect, it never will be. But it's enough to make my heart rate slow to a normal rhythm, enough to make my tongue feel heavy and my eyelids slip, despite my trying to stay awake until my mom got back.
The doctor tells me he hopes to have me out of here in a few days after tests and antibiotic overload.
He pats my foot again to signal his leaving.
"Thank you." I breathe out softly. A thought enters my mind, and I open my eyes long enough to say Joanna's name and have her turn around to smile at me.
"Yes?"
"I need you to do something for me. Please."
"Sure, what can I do for you?"
I tell her before I can stop myself or second guess the decision.
When she walks away, promising to fulfill my request, I let myself fade out again before the pain returns.
The next few days are more of the same. More meds, more nausea from the meds, more in and out sleep. More pain. I try to get through it as best as I can with a smile on my face and ignore my phone when at all possible.
"Noah's here to see you," Mom says as she walks into my private room with a coffee in her hand and a bag of food in the other.
"What?" I say, flipping through the tv channels as if something interesting is going to appear through my fourth flip through.
"He's out at the desk signing in, I think."
"He won't get in," I say, picking at a pull in the crocheted throw mom brought me yesterday. She stills from where she is emptying the contents of her bag.
I look away from her as she questions, "I'm sorry?"
"He won't get in," I repeat.
She sits down, and I can feel her watching me. She knows something.
"Georgia?" I glance up instantly to meet her hardened gaze. "What did you do?"
I feel my cheeks flush, , "I—he can't see me like this. Mom, I don't want that. I don't—he can't..." The words come out garbled, I cover my face because I know what I've done is terrible but necessary.
"Georgie, he's scared. He wants to see you. He—"
"Needs to learn to let go. I have to let him go."
“Have you told him this is what you’re trying to do?” I say nothing. My mother crosses her arms across her chest, "You know, Georgia, I thought I raised you better than that."
"Mom…" It’s like she's stabbed me in the chest. Nothing hurts more than a parent being disappointed in you and openly admitting it to you.