CHAPTER 31
Ian
“All right, Mr. Larssen. Bottoms up.”
Ian grimaced. He much preferred hearing that when he had a tequila shot in hand. He rolled onto his side on the operating table, feeling goose bumps rise on his skin as the nurse pulled open his gown, exposing the area where the needle would go in to harvest the marrow.
He figured this morning wouldn’t be fun, but he’d underestimated how crappy it would feel to forgo dinner and breakfast, then navigate traffic sans his morning coffee.
The hospital room lights were too damned bright at 6:00 a.m., and he’d almost punched the young tech who’d dug for gold while placing the IV port, sending searing pain up Ian’s arm.
Oh, and having to flash the cleaning dude who’d mistakenly burst into his room before Ian had a chance to fully don the flimsy, open-backed hospital gown?
That had been awesome.
Now, he had a pounding headache, either from starvation, caffeine deprivation, nervousness, or all three. The round overhead spotlights shone directly in his eyes, and his heart had begun to pound. The anesthesia couldn’t come soon enough.
Someone tapped his hip. “All the way over.”
Christ.
It was fucking freezing in the operating room.
“Any chance you could crank up the heat?” he joked, smiling at the kind-faced nurse, who thoughtfully pulled a sheet over his bare ass as soon as he was settled on his stomach.
“Sorry, sweetie, no can do.” She lifted the lower half of the sheet, and Ian felt a strap tighten around his legs, securing him to the table.
“Dr. Crawford will be in shortly to administer your anesthesia.”
Dr. Crawford, as personable as a stump, had earlier visited Ian to brief him on what would happen. So had the doctor who would harvest the marrow. A more arrogant young prick Ian had never seen.
At least the nurse was nice. She reminded him of his mom.
She placed a soothing hand on his arm. “How are you feeling?”
“Fantastic. Ready to party.”
“Ever have surgery before?”
“Nope. Surgery virgin here.”
The nurse laughed. “I like your attitude.” She lowered her voice. “I have to tell you, this is bighearted of you. Do you know the recipient?”
“Yes.”
“Well, bless you for doing this.” She squeezed his arm. “Sit tight. We should get started in a minute.”
“I’ll be right here.”
He turned his head, watching and listening as the nurses bustled about, placing surgical equipment on a tray covered with blue paper. He eyed several big and small syringes, a long, thick needle with a flat blue plastic handle, and a small metal mallet.
A mallet.
Fuck.
Ian looked away.
Another nurse took his hand and wrapped something that felt like a Band-Aid around his middle finger.
“It’s a pulse oximeter,” she explained. “It lets us see your heart rate and oxygen level.”
She switched on the monitor, and the screen came alive with spikes, beeps, and numbers.
Someone wheeled over an IV stand, hung up a bag of clear liquid, adjusted the tubing, and connected it to the port already in his arm.
“OK, Mr. Larssen, you will be going to sleep shortly. The surgical team will take excellent care of you.”
He saw a pair of legs stop by his side.
“Good morning, Mr. Larssen,” came Dr. Crawford’s bass voice. “Ready to take a little nap?”
·
He was buried in sand. Something was in his throat. He couldn’t breathe.
Excruciating pain. Pain so horrific, it paralyzed him. Someone was hammering. Driving a hot poker through his lower body.
Ian screamed but couldn’t hear himself.
Garbled voices … beeping … faster beeping.
Pain.
He fought to open his eyes. His eyelids were so very heavy. Three blurry pairs of legs drifted in and out of his vision.
Hammering and pain.
It hurt so bad.
He had to get away. Had to get up.
Make it stop.
Ian raised his head.
“No, no, no!”
“Oh my God!”
Frantic voices. A pair of hands on his shoulders, pinning him.
“Please don’t move!” someone said in a panicked voice.
A hand on his head pushed him down. “Lie still!”
“Why the fuck is he awake? Give him another dose!” a deep voice boomed.
Pain … pain … beeping …
Warmth washed over him.
Heart squeezing … slower beeping …
Long, high-pitched sound.
Night.