Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
After hanging up with Bette, the nurse led me deeper into the Department of Fertility.
Hilary trailed after us like a lost puppy.
Or, more accurately, an annoying younger sibling who couldn’t accept that their cool older sister didn’t want them around.
Because puppies were cute and endearing and this woman was neither.
“These are the rooms women labor in,” the nurse I didn’t know said, sounding like a tour guide as she waved to the currently empty rooms. “They all have birthing tubs and comfy beds, and nice big showers for after the delivery. They really are luxurious.”
They were, even if they still had a hospital feel to them, with real beds instead of uncomfortable hospital beds and big tubs in the middle of the rooms, as well as plush couches, which I assumed were for fathers – or partners – in case that was something the laboring woman had.
“Back here we have the pre-op area, which isn’t as nice, but still much better than what you’d get at a hospital,” the nurse said as she stepped into a room.
Lights flicked on automatically, revealing a space exactly as the nurse had described it. Sterile and functional with a rolling bed and miscellaneous medical equipment, but a vibe that was much more chic than what you’d find at a hospital.
The nurse waved to the folded cloth gown at the end of the bed. “We’re going to need you to get completely undressed. You can put your clothes in this plastic bag.” She patted the bag beside the gown. “Okay?”
Maybe I should have been grateful that she’d framed it as a question, but since I had no choice, it irritated me, and my response was curt. “Yeah.”
If the nurse noticed my annoyance, she didn’t react before saying, “Good. We’ll step out while you do that, then I can get you set up with an IV.”
“We’ll be right outside,” Hilary reiterated, possibly trying to reassure me but instead infuriating me even more.
Once they left, I did as I was told, undressing and stuffing my things into the bag before tossing it on a nearby chair.
Then I climbed into the bed to wait. The room was chilly, making me wish for a blanket when goose bumps popped up on my bare legs.
I looked around, and not seeing one, pulled the gown down as low as it would go.
It didn’t cover enough, and even if it had, my arms would still be exposed. My teeth were chattering in seconds.
I was rubbing my arms when a low knock sounded and the nurse asked, “You ready for me?”
“Yes,” I said just loud enough that she would be able to hear me through the closed door.
It opened and, seeing me shivering, the nurse gave me a sympathetic smile. “It’s always so cold here.”
Hilary stepped in as the nurse hurried across the room. She retrieved a blanket from a metal cabinet, which I realized once she’d spread it across me was a warmer. The fabric was stiff and not all that thick but felt like it had just come out of the dryer. I instantly felt better.
After that, the nurse was all business. She checked my blood pressure and temperature, asked if I needed to use the bathroom – I did not – then started my IV, all the while telling me what to expect while Hilary hung out by the door.
“I know this is last minute,” the nurse said as she clipped a pulse ox monitor on the index finger of my right hand, “but you shouldn’t be scared. This is a routine surgery, and the recovery time will be fast.”
“How fast?” I asked.
“One to two weeks total.” The nurse made a notation in her tablet before continuing. “But if you don’t overexert yourself, it could be much shorter. You can use your best judgement about what you can and can’t handle.”
“Within reason,” Hilary, who was busily scribbling on a paper I assumed I’d have to sign, broke in as she came over to join us. “You need to remember the ultimate goal here.”
The nurse ground her teeth, but I wasn’t sure if she was annoyed by the interruption or the implication that the Department of Fertility’s agenda was more important than my health. Either way, it made me like her. And feel like I had an ally against Hilary.
“As I was saying,” the nurse went on, not glancing toward Hilary, “it’s minor surgery, but you will have some cramping as your uterus returns to its normal size, as well as some bleeding and discharge for a week or possibly two.
In two weeks, you should come back so the doctor can check everything is okay, and we’ll continue to monitor your hCG levels with bloodwork.
If everything goes as planned, we can restart you in the program in six weeks. Questions?”
Since I didn’t have any, I said, “No.”
“Good.”
Hilary had been making notes as the nurse spoke, but once she was done, my fertility counselor held the stack of papers out and said, “You know the drill.”
I did.
I had to extract my arms from the confines of the blanket to take them, and once I had, I skimmed the words printed on the pages as well as the notations Hilary had made.
As usual, she’d missed nothing. When I was satisfied I’d gotten the gist of what the forms said, I initialed and signed where necessary, then handed them back to Hilary.
Once my fertility counselor had them, the nurse said, “I’ll see if the doctor is ready.”
The rest of the process went by in a blur.
My bed being wheeled into the operating room, and the doctor and anesthesiologist going over the same things the nurse and I had already discussed, each of them making sure I had no questions.
Then the anesthesiologist hooked me up to an IV via the port the nurse had inserted into my hand.
“We’ll start the anesthesia in a second,” he said.
Unable to find my voice, I focused on the ceiling – where there was thankfully no cheesy motivational poster – as I thought about the procedure.
It was so strange, thinking about being unconscious while the doctor scraped out my insides.
Intimate, and yet not intimate at the same time.
It made me shiver, and seeing it, the nurse patted my arm gently.
“Cold?”
I shifted my attention to her, relieved to find a sympathetic expression in her light blue eyes.
“A little,” I said, realizing that the blanket had cooled off and I was once again covered in goose bumps.
“I’ll get you a new blanket.”
She moved out of my line of vision, and I heard a door creak.
Seconds later, she was back, a thin cloth blanket in her hands that was identical to the one already spread across me.
She put it over the first one, and warmth instantly soaked into my bones.
It was almost as comforting as being in Trevor’s arms after a bad day. Although not quite.
“Ready?” the doctor asked, addressing the anesthesiologist.
“Yup,” was the reply, and then the man in charge of the medicine that would put me under focused on me. “I’m going to start the drugs now. I want you to count backward from ten. Okay?”
I swallowed, then began. “Ten. Nine…” My eyelids grew heavy. I blinked, managed to open them. “Eight…” My eyes fluttered shut. “Seven…”
Darkness surrounded me.
Slowly, I became aware of quiet chatter, but I was unable to focus on it or open my eyes. Where was I? I couldn’t remember, and I didn’t understand why my mouth was so dry. Had I passed out after a night of drinking? No. I couldn’t drink because I was pregnant. Or was I?
“She’s coming to,” a familiar female voice said.
“Arabella,” another woman whispered, “How are you feeling?”
“Ara,” I mumbled.
A hand patted my arm, and I suddenly recalled the nurse’s compassionate expression as she spread a blanket over me.
That was when I remembered where I was. The Department of Fertility.
I was having surgery. Was having what should have been a baby scraped out of my uterus, because it wasn’t a baby.
It was tumors. Wasn’t I supposed to be counting?
“How are you feeling?” the nurse repeated.
I forced my eyes open, squinting against the bright lights, and looked around.
I wasn’t in the operating room anymore. The nurse was at my side, Hilary behind her, and the doctor and anesthesiologist were gone.
Had the surgery already happened? It must have, but to me it felt as if only seconds ago, I’d been counting.
“Is it over?” I asked.
“It is.” The nurse patted my arm again. “Everything went as planned.”
“Good,” I said, letting out a long sigh.
“We want to observe you for a bit before you go home, so just rest. Okay?”
“Okay,” I mumbled, my eyelids already trying to shut again.
“Can I get you any water?” the nurse asked.
“Sure,” I replied, the word coming out thick and sticky, as if it were coated in honey.
My eyes were closed, but I still registered the thud of footsteps crossing the room.
Since my mouth felt as dry as the Mojave Desert, I tried to cling to consciousness until the nurse returned, but apparently failed, because the next time I woke to the sound of voices, I cracked an eye to find a small paper cup sitting on the table next to me.
I shifted to a half sitting position and reached for it while looking around, at first taking in Hilary – who was staring at her phone – and then the nurse and another woman.
I’d only seen Bette a handful of times, and in my groggy state, I didn’t register who she was at first or that she was here for me.
Between the anesthesia and the whirlwind morning, I’d completely forgotten that I hadn’t been able to get in touch with Trevor and had been forced to call a virtual stranger.
A very friendly stranger, something that was emphasized when Bette noticed me sitting up and her face broke out into a wide smile, but a stranger, still.
“Hey, you!” she said, coming to the bed and taking my hand like we were old friends. “How are you doing?”