Chapter 8
The following days alone at the hotel were okay, but lonely. I’d kind of gotten into the idea of being with someone in a way I hadn’t before. Maybe I should have said, Ciao, at some point to Dave to make him mine.
Flying is always so shitty and stressful, but I’m happy to have a direct flight home.
I board in zombie mode and sink into my window seat.
Even though the airline touts that there is free Wi-Fi, per usual, it isn’t working, and I’m kind of relieved for that.
It’s simultaneously stressful and fantastic that I’m cut off from the outside world, and so I pull my yarn and needles from my bag and continue working on the sweater I’m making for Megan Madonna.
The plane lands, and I want to scream because my phone yells at me for ages as service kicks in. The excessive dings and alerts are on me, as I curated such a huge, sweet, very kind following, and so I do feel as though I owe my social media followers something.
I about throw my hands up and post a short video about landing in Boston. Why people love to see me picking up my luggage and meeting my Lyft, I’ll never really get, but if it keeps them hooked on my stuff and moves them toward the restaurants I love, then I’ll nod, and smile, and post.
I do think they all mean well, and who doesn’t want happy, light stuff these days?
Shit, maybe I should go on Love Island and be cut off from the world for weeks. While I’m probably too old, I could possibly pull a guy for a chat. Or talk about “exploring” someone, as one does on that show.
I think about Dave and his offer. Disappearing for a while is sounding pretty good.
When I’m in a car, I catch up on texts, and my heart about stops when I see a message from Patrick.
Patrick: I’m not feeling good. Not because of the pickle-truck incident. Something is happening after surgery. About to puke.
This text is concerning. Vomiting after a head injury is worrisome.
When the car stops at my apartment, I run up the stairs and pretty much hurl my bag across the floor and race around. I shouldn’t text Patrick’s wife or RobBob. They must be overwhelmed.
Goddammit.
Patrick is probably overreacting.
Trying to sound casual, I reply.
Me: Nothing wrong with puking. I’d puke too. Brain stuff is gross. But surgery went really well!
Patrick: It did. Okay, I think you’re right. Yes. I’m good.
The cats.
The cats, I decide—while I amble around my apartment in a fog and toss clothes from my trip into the washing machine—need the things. Food. I’m going to focus on them. Feeding them is at least something I can do to help right now.
No idea how I make it down the back-alley stairs, but I set out containers of food, and soon, there are feral ones devouring food. My little guy doesn’t show himself, and it just makes me more miserable.
I limply get up and start up the stairs. When I’m only three feet from the ground, I lose my balance and trip on a step, and unable to recover, I crash into the alley, catching my fall with my left hand.
The crack I hear is grotesque. The immediate pain in my wrist is enough to make me sick.
For some reason, I sit on the bottom step for a few minutes, watching the feral bunch and pretending this pain isn’t as violent as it is.
I wait until the cats finish their meal and run off.
Despite my fruitless hope, I gather up plates from the alley and go back to my apartment, pretending nothing has happened.
Shock and denial are strong forces.
After I dump the dishes into the sink, I look at my wrist in the light. It’s enough to make me puke.
It’s really horrible. Already swelling like mad.
I swear all the swears. The deformity is so vile.
Maybe it’s just a bad sprain? Sprains can swell and look hideous. This is probably just that. Like, lots of things hurt at the time and for a bit after, and then it’s nothing. Like, stubbing a toe makes you want to scream for the first ten minutes.
While I refuse to accept this is an actual injury, I use my right hand to fill a bowl with ice and water and dunk my wrist into the frigid bath for twenty minutes.
I can only glance at my left hand. It’s so gross and looking at it makes me nearly puke.
I go to bed with bags of ice. Even though I cry myself to sleep because it hurts so much, I know it’ll be fine tomorrow.
When I wake, I refill the ice bags and sort of feel okay.
It’s got to be just a sprain, right? I tell myself, and I’m happy that my wrist at least looks like a wrist again. Sort of.
I spend the day filling and refilling ice packs. Until I finally move my hand across the ice and can hear—and feel—bones moving. I cave and admit that I need help.
After a hideous non-sleep, but at least a very frozen one, I get to urgent care, where a very nice doctor checks me out and sends me for an X-ray.
If it’s a simple break, he thinks he can reset it, cast it, and send me on my way.
People break bones all the time, right? The staff is pretty shocked that my pain level is only at a four out of ten, and so I feel pretty tough.
Maybe a little smug. But after I’m sent for that X-ray, the technician’s face says it all.
Dammit.
After I’m back in the exam room, the doctor walks in. “Good news. You get to go home tonight.”
Hallelujah! This isn’t so bad!
Then he slings X-rays up to a screen. “This is a pretty terrible break. Actually, a few terrible breaks.” He squints and zooms in.
“Wow, really bad. Huh. I consulted with an orthopedic surgeon, and you do need surgery to reset your wrist, but the other good news is that I got you an appointment tomorrow. Usually, you’d have to wait a few days to deal with insurance, but this really is an emergency surgery. ”
So, not so much hallelujah. And this guy needs to learn the definition of good news.
I may regret it, but I take pictures of my breaks.
While my wrist may be the problem, I leave with a cast that goes from above my elbow down to my fingers, so my entire arm is incapacitated. My rideshare home is not exactly fun for either the driver or me, as I’m full of piss and vinegar and swear the entire time.
“What in the hell? Shit. It’s just my wrist, but my entire fucking arm is now locked up. Fucking hell.”
My driver agrees. “Dude, that sucks.”
After parking outside my place, he kindly escorts me to my door.
He’s gonna get a big tip.
My bed feels wonderfully cozy when I stumble in. Sleep is all I want right now. But as I’m about to pass out, RobBob texts me.
RobBob: It’s bad. Apparently, Patrick started vomiting after surgery.
Okay, I knew that. It’s fine. Everything is fine. RobBob just didn’t know that I knew.
RobBob: Then he had a stroke. He has no movement or feeling on his left side. They put him into a coma and on a respirator.
I almost wish RobBob would stop texting me unless he has a positive update. Or until he has one.
Because there will be one. There has to be.
Me: This is insane. Can’t be right.
Me: Broken wrist. Can’t type.
Wishing I were able to say more or call and feeling generally miserable, I roll over and clutch my cast. The ice packs I had on all day are wearing off, and it’s no wonder the urgent care people thought I had a high pain tolerance.
They didn’t realize I’d numbed myself into oblivion and that I’d be hurting so hard later. In more ways than one.
It didn’t occur to me to ask for any kind of pain meds, but now I’d give anything for drugs.
Sleeping only happens in fits. Nightmare fits, of course, but rousing to RobBob’s texts are another kind of nightmare.
The morning is a disaster as I try to dress myself one-handed, and there is simply nothing to be done with my hair.
Trying to even get it into a scrunchie is impossible, and while vanity is by far not my biggest struggle right now, I cannot ignore how deranged I look.
It seems petty, I cannot imagine taking a rideshare to the surgery center.
Then another texts dings. Presumably one I’m not going to want to see. And I’m right.
RobBob: Just keep wishing for some sign he’s still him. Hopefully, that comes as he gets more motor control. Maybe there’s a magic moment where he wakes up fully and tries to talk and smile. Could be he’s resting and recovering and him coming back is not far away.
RobBob: His brain function has diminished significantly since this happened.
RobBob: I worry this is the beginning of the end—for real this time.
RobBob has got to be wrong. Patrick is for sure one to tease us with his death. Like, he’d make it a joke before bouncing back to life.
This is not the beginning of the end of anything.