11. Layla
Chapter Eleven
Layla
The next couple days in the hospital made me anxious to get back to my own place. I had excellent nurses and was well cared for, but I couldn’t wait to be in my own bed and get a good night’s sleep, without the sound of monitors and other hospital noise.
My release from the hospital finally happened on Monday afternoon. My mother hadn’t brought up trying to care for me again—probably thanks to my father’s interference. I was grateful the subject had been dropped.
Nevertheless, I was on edge. I’d been putting on an act for everyone.
I knew if I didn’t smile and seem optimistic, they wouldn’t have let me leave a day ahead of schedule.
Instead, I would have been monitored to ensure my mental health was on par with my physical well-being.
They’d given me information on breast cancer support groups, both in-person and online versions, but I wasn’t ready for that.
I could hardly verbalize how I was feeling, let alone share it. I needed to grieve in private.
The moment I stepped into my apartment, I practically pushed my brother out the door. He’d been amazing, but not even he could help with the new emotions I was experiencing.
“You sure you want me to go?” he asked for the tenth time.
“Yes. I’ll call if I have any issues. I have a nurse coming by in a couple of hours.”
He was reluctant to leave. “I could stay until she gets here.”
I walked from the front door over to my couch.
There was a total of eight hundred square feet in the one-bedroom apartment, which made it easy to travel from the kitchen behind the living room to the bedroom down the hall.
I was slow but steady on my feet. “No, Russell. I’m good. I need some time to myself.”
“When are you seeing Kellan?”
“I’m not sure. I told him I’d let him know once I was feeling up to it.
” Even as my body healed, I could feel my mental state deteriorating.
Kellan’s text messages over the last couple days had made me smile, but I wasn’t ready to see him in person.
Hiding out in my apartment sounded like a much better alternative. “I’m really fine. I promise.”
“Okay, I’ll go.” Russ walked over and kissed me on the forehead. “But on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“I need at least two text messages a day to show me you’re all right. Preferably one when you wake up and one before bed. Before you argue, think of the alternative: Mom calling you constantly. This way you report to me, and I tell her not to come over and smother you. Deal?”
He might be my little brother, but he certainly wasn’t taking no for an answer. Besides, he’d been incredibly supportive. Denying him this request wasn’t possible. “Deal. I’ll agree to your welfare-check texting. I’ll even send you one tonight before I go to bed.”
“Good. Love you, sis.”
“Love you, too. And thanks. For everything. I wouldn’t have gotten through this last month without you.” I meant that sincerely.
He shook his head. “You definitely would have, but I’m glad I was here for you.”
Once the front door shut, I could breathe.
I was free to cry and let go of all the bottled emotions.
The depression I’d kept tamped down in the hospital came pouring out in the form of tears.
Although I knew feeling sorry for myself wouldn’t get me through the fight ahead of me, I needed some time for a pity party.
Without anyone watching, without anyone judging, and without anyone trying to say something to make it better.
My surgeon had insisted I see my chest before I left the hospital.
I hadn’t wanted to. But my nurses had asserted it was for my own good.
Nobody wanted to be cruel; they just wanted to ensure I didn’t freak out when I first saw my loss of breasts.
I suppose I should have been grateful for the nipple-saving surgery.
That meant the implants I’d eventually get would have my own nipples.
But all I’d seen were the incisions, my flat chest, and drains protruding from my swollen and bruised body.
I felt I was staring at an alien version of myself.
I think I’d been in shock. I’d registered what the nurse had said about home care, but had simply nodded and diverted my gaze from the scarred mess.
Could I imagine Kellan seeing something like that? Nope. Not at all.
Now, wanting nothing more than to take a shower, I went into my bedroom and took out my plastic “shower shirt.” This ingenious invention for mastectomy patients allowed me to tuck in my drains and protect the surgical site while I washed my hair.
Hopefully, doing that would make me feel human again.
But the problem was I needed to wait for my nurse, so she could reapply my bandages afterward.
I lay in my bed, snoozing until the doorbell rang.
As I opened the door, I wasn’t sure what to expect, but this wasn’t it. I saw a woman in her fifties or sixties with short, spiky silver hair, wearing skull-and-cross-bones scrubs and huge bangle earrings.
“Hi, I’m Patricia, but you can call me Patty. You must be Layla.”
“Yes. I am.” I stood there, too doped up on pain killers to realize I was being rude.
“You ready to let me in, honey?”
“Sorry. Of course.” I led the way inside, watching as she entered with her bag.
She wore a sincere expression. “I bet you’re anxious to take a shower with it being your first day home. You get the shower shirt? If not, I always bring extra.”
Clearly, this was a woman who dealt with the after-care of a lot of mastectomy patients. “I have one. But I suppose I could use some help getting into it.” I absolutely loathed having to ask.
“That’s what I’m here for. And I’ll re-dress your bandages after. If you need help washing your hair, I’m happy to do that, too. Sometimes it’s difficult to raise your arms directly after surgery.”
I hadn’t thought about that. It did hurt to move my arms. “You deal with a lot of double mastectomy patients?”
On the dresser, she unpacked some supplies from her bag. “I have. And I was one myself. Of course, that was fourteen years ago, before shower shirts or the surgery options they have now. Took me eight years before I had reconstructive surgery.”
Here I was lamenting having to wait months. “Why so long?”
“Back then, they used to remove the cancer without setting up the skin or incisions for reconstructive surgery later. But fortunately, I found a surgeon who could take old scars and insert expanders, and she gave me these nice C cups. It was a process, but I have to tell you it was quite the day when I felt confident enough to wear a swimsuit again.”
We walked into my bathroom. While I unbuttoned my blouse, I thought about how progressive treatments were today versus fourteen years ago. “I bet.” I gave the older woman a tentative smile and decided to share. “I’m having a case of the ‘poor-me’s today.”
Her face softened with a knowing expression. “Ah, honey, you’re entitled. And I’m not about to tell you not to because I had plenty when I went through it. But I will share that it gets better. Gorgeous girl like you have a boyfriend or husband?”
“No. I mean there’s a guy, but—”
“But what?”
“We met last week, and he just found out I have cancer.”
She took over once I had removed my button-up shirt. As she unwrapped the dressing, she met my eyes with her somber, hazel ones. “He couldn’t deal with it?”
“Jury is still out. I think he believes he can handle it. He came the day of my surgery, but I haven’t seen him since because I told him I needed some time. We text. He seems anxious to see me.” Kellan wasn’t pressuring me, but he did keep reminding me that he was free to come by anytime.
She undid my bandages like a pro, both efficient and gentle, before putting on my shower shirt. “Sounds like a keeper.”
As if on cue, the phone I had placed on the bathroom vanity buzzed with an incoming text.
Patty inquired, “That him texting you?”
It was. When I swiped my phone, I saw he’d added a photo to his text of the menu from my favorite sushi place. He wrote, “Can I bring you dinner tonight?”
“How do I say no to that?” I whispered to myself, hating that I’d been reduced to such insecurity in a matter of days. I’d gone from walking into a room and owning it with sexy confidence to swimming in newfound self-doubt.
“Not sure you should say no. You have a picture of him?”
“I do.” I scrolled through my phone to find one taken the day we’d toured Seattle. We were both smiling for the selfie. Just seeing his face made me miss it. But it also reminded me that I was no longer the same confident woman who was smiling with him in the photo.
Patty’s gaze observed me, as if she guessed how bringing up his picture had affected my thoughts about seeing him in person.
“Good-looking fellow. Bet he’s anxious to see you.”
He certainly acted like he was. But I was indecisive. Now, in my plastic shower shirt about to wash for the first time after surgery, I had no desire for him see me this way. Maybe in a few weeks—or perhaps months—I would be.
“Tell you what. Let’s get your hair washed and your makeup on, and you can decide. It’ll do wonders to feel clean again.”
Maybe she was right.
Thirty minutes later, I was finally clean. By then, I’d lost all modesty about having a stranger wash my hair while seeing me naked. I’d also exhausted myself completely with something as simple as a shower.
Patty finished wrapping my chest with a fresh bandage while I refused to glance down. “I can dry your hair, do your makeup.”
I waved her off. She’d already gone above and beyond. Or maybe she was simply doing her job, and damn, she did a hell of one, all right. “No, it’s okay. You’ve done far more than I could’ve ever expected.”
She grabbed my brush and moved behind me to comb through my hair. “Do you know why I became a nurse and took this job?”
She didn’t wait for me to respond.
“It was because after I had cancer, I wished to dedicate my life toward helping others get through it. I was a hair dresser and esthetician before that. Still good with a round brush, by the way, if you want me to blow out your hair.”
For a person like me who’d always prided myself on independence, it was tough to accept help. “Are you certain you don’t mind?”
“Honey, I leave here with you feeling pretty and calling that man of yours over for sushi, and I’ll feel like I’ve won the lottery.
It gives me purpose. Cancer might be the biggest enemy, but after losing your breasts and enduring treatments, self-doubt becomes the killer of hope.
And hope is what will get you through even while your body is letting you down. ”
There was that four-letter word again. Hope. Such a simple concept, but it caused hurtful consequences when it wasn’t enough. But as much as I wanted to crawl under the covers, binge episodes of Stranger Things, and throw a pity party, would I give cancer that power? No. Not today.
“Thanks, Patty.”
I picked up my phone and texted him back the address to my apartment. Before I could change my mind.