CHAPTER 54
Declan
The robotic surgery takes a long-ass time, much longer than I was told it would take. I don’t like that.
I’m back in a waiting room with nothing to do except wait.
There are others here, and they tell me their stories.
One woman is waiting for her husband to get out of heart surgery.
Another is waiting for his daughter to have infected tonsils removed.
I tell them I’m there for my wife’s routine procedure.
I can’t tell them my story. I can’t bring myself to tell them about Summer’s cancer scare and the ovary that’s being removed. About the two percent chance that it’s not benign.
I’ve been on and off the phone again with my family. Everyone is thrilled about the diagnosis. I heard Phoebe crying with relief in the background. There’s a lot of comfort in having such a big, supportive clan who’s got my back. And my wife’s back.
Because Summer is my wife, and I’m the luckiest bastard anywhere around.
The tonsils are done first. Then they call for me. I give the woman all my best wishes for her husband’s recovery, and I leave. At first, I think they’re bringing me to see the doctor, but instead, they bring me straight to Summer in the recovery room.
It’s a large place, filled with two rows of patients, each curtained off for privacy. They show me to a seat next to Summer’s bed. She’s out cold, still under the effects of the anesthesia. They’ve put an oxygen mask on her, and I watch her for any signs of distress.
I can’t stop the memories from hitting me—all those terrifying, horrible days when she was in an induced coma. When I slept draped over the edge of her bed having nightmares about whether her brain would be damaged. And all the beeping machinery and the sounds of her breathing tube.
I need us to be fucking done with hospitals after this. I need us to just be happy for a while.
I brush Summer’s hair from her face and hold her hand.
A recovery nurse approaches and takes Summer’s vitals.
“How is she?” I whisper. “Was the surgery successful? Did they test the tumor?”
“She’s doing just fine, and the doctor will be in to speak with you soon, but it’s time for her to wake up. You can talk to her if you want.”
I lean close and whisper. “Summer, baby, time to wake up.”
“Not like that,” the nurse snaps. “You need to wake her up, not seduce her.” She claps her hands together once and it’s so loud I’m sure everyone else around here has just woken up. “Summer! Time to wake up, now. The surgery is over, and it went well.”
My ears perk up. It went well. I slow my breathing and try to relax with this good news, even though it’s not the whole story. I know I have to wait for Dr. Goldberg for that.
“Wake up, Summer,” I say, again, louder. “We need to go ring shopping. Harry Winston, here we come! I was thinking that maybe we should get Elton John to marry us next time.”
That did it. Summer stirs. “Yacht rock? Good choice,” she mumbles. I watch her struggle to flutter her eyes open. She reaches out with a floppy hand and hits my face. “Holy shitballs, look at your violet eyes. Ain’t that something wonderful to wake up to?”
“I wouldn’t kick him out of bed. That’s for sure,” the nurse says.
“All right,” Dr. Goldberg says, throwing open the curtain and appearing out of nowhere.
He removes his cap. His mask hangs by strings tied around his neck, and he’s wearing scrubs. He’s in a hurry, obviously moving from one operation to the next.
“It all went well,” he says to both of us. “We tested the tumor onsite, and it’s benign. All good news, Summer. The surgery itself went without a hitch. I’ll come around this afternoon on rounds, and you should be good to go tomorrow. We’ll talk about all that this afternoon.”
And then he’s gone.
“All good news,” the nurse singsongs to Summer as she removes the oxygen mask “Dr. Goldberg’s the best. You know the joke about gynecologists? That they can remove an engine through the exhaust pipe? That’s Dr. Goldberg. Miracle worker.”
I smile down at Summer and give her a wink. “Miracle worker.”
“I like miracles,” she agrees, and I kiss her lightly on her forehead.
The feeling of going from sheer terror to elation in a matter of minutes is jarring. I’m flowing with nervous energy. I feel like I could win the Ironman Triathlon right now.
Summer’s back in her room, and I’ve been talking a mile a minute. So has she.
“I’m not even in pain right now,” she says, happily. “It’s better than a period.”
“That doctor is amazing.”
“You mean the robot is amazing.”
“I should put a call in for us to invest heavily into ovary robots.”
“There’s definitely a market for them,” she agrees.
“I have a craving for a ham sandwich. Ten of them. There’s got to be a thousand world-class delis in a five-block radius around here. I’ll order all the ham sandwiches in Manhattan.”
“Mayo and mustard, please.”
“But hold the lettuce or tomato and add an extra dill pickle.”
“I love you for knowing that,” she says.
“I love you for saying that,” I say.
Then I climb up in bed with her and let her get comfortable tucked into my chest. I run my hand over her hair and kiss the top of her head. “Just operated on, and you’re the sexiest woman in New York.”
“I bet. Especially the drool marks on my cheek.”
“Hold on while I order ham sandwiches.”
“Cue the magic Wi-Fi!”
“And tomorrow I’m going to do some real romantic shit for you.”
“Cue the romantic shit!”
“Elton John, even.”
“And a happy marriage and seven babies,” she says.
“Seven? I thought we agreed on four. Or did we agree on an even dozen?”
“No way on the dozen, flyboy, but maybe we should do eight. So eight kids.”
“I’ll have to buy a bigger jet.” I lay a big kiss on my wife’s lips.
“I see we’re celebrating.” Dr. Goldberg enters the room. “Maybe hold off on that kind of celebration for two weeks.”
“That’s okay,” Summer whispers in my ear. “I can still do things to you.”
I get off the bed, and Dr. Goldberg examines Summer and appears happy with what he sees. He takes a seat on the edge of her bed.
“Any questions?” he asks her.
“I’m not dying?”
“You’re not dying.”
“I think that’s all the questions I have,” she says, grinning.
“Ditto,” I say. “Since you already talked about the two-weeks thing.”
“Two weeks and call me if you have any unusual symptoms or increased pain, but I think you’re good to go in the morning,” he says. “Now, let’s talk a little more about the tumor. It’s very unusual. Rare, and rarer still for a young woman like yourself.”
“She’s special,” I joke.
“Unique,” Summer says.
“I’m getting that impression,” Dr. Goldberg says, his voice softer.
“So, this kind of tumor is usually found in perimenopausal or menopausal women. When you arrived yesterday and had your blood drawn, I’d ordered a barrage of hormonal tests.
Has your gynecologist ever spoken to you about this or recommended those tests for you? ”
“I don’t have a gynecologist. Just a regular doctor. I…” Summer glances up at me and I smile to encourage her to continue if she wants. “I was a virgin until, well, until I was married, which was about a month ago. I never really have a need for a gynecologist.”
“Oh!” The doctor seems surprised, but then his brows knit together. “Well, uh, there’s nothing to be particularly alarmed about in terms of your overall health, but I do need to tell you that you’re presenting with substandard fertility.”
“What does that mean?” she asks.
The doctor reaches out and lightly touches Summer’s forearm. “It means that, in my professional opinion, it will be almost impossible for you to ever become pregnant.”