Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
I’m waiting with Mom in pre-op when Dr. Newberry arrives to talk with us about the surgery.
Cosmos isn’t with him. I haven’t seen him in days, and I still don’t know if he got in trouble for the almost-kiss.
I tell myself it’s fine, that nothing happened, but seeing Dr. Newberry without Cosmos cranks up the buzzing of my already deafening anxiety.
What if he got in trouble? What if he got fired?
For the first time, I realize there were probably cameras outside the hospital.
My stomach bottoms out, sinking into my toes.
It doesn’t help that Dr. Newberry is telling us they won’t know exactly what to expect until they get in there, which basically means they can’t tell from the scan exactly how many tumors Mom has.
They won’t know for sure until they’ve cut into her and she’s lying there bleeding on an operating table.
Even though he reassures us that this new surgery technique is revolutionary, hearing about it doesn’t make me feel better.
I prop myself on the edge of Mom’s bed, squeeze my nails into my palm, and blink repeatedly, trying to make the queasy, spinning feeling go away.
Dr. Newberry doesn’t seem to notice. He tells us that the surgery will take roughly five hours and will probably require a blood transfusion. My face feels clammy and tight, hot and cold all at once.
He assures us that Mom has the absolute best team of surgeons, but I can’t help thinking of the day I saw Cosmos in the garden. The day they lost someone on the operating table.
Mom’s tumors have shrunk, thanks to the drug treatment, and we’ve given her the best possible chance of a successful surgery, but there are still risks. Dr. Newberry goes over all of them with us, and I nod along numbly, silently begging him to stop. I can’t hear this. I just can’t.
“Do you have any questions?” Dr. Newberry asks.
“When do I get my cocktail?” Mom asks with a laugh. She’s been doing so much better since we stopped the drug. She’s still weak, but she’s eating again, and she’s got some of her spunk back.
Dr. Newberry gives her a pleasant smile. “The anesthesiologist will be in soon.”
Just then, the curtain that wraps around Mom’s bed pulls back. I’m expecting the aforementioned anesthesiologist, but it’s Cosmos. My heart somersaults through my chest.
“Dr. Newberry,” he says the name like he has something important to tell his supervising surgeon, but his eyes immediately find mine, and I have the distinct impression he’s here to see me, not the other doctor.
Time slams to a stop, and the beeping, humming machines go silent.
“Did you get in trouble with Samantha the other night?” I ask, not wanting to dwell on Mom’s surgery anymore.
He smiles that cocky smile from the first day I saw him. “Were you worried about me?”
I take a step closer, trying to decide if I should let him deflect the question.
Before I can make up my mind, he reaches out and takes my hand. “How are you feeling about the surgery?”
The question erases all the floaty sensations and slams me back into my body.
I can’t put words to what I’m feeling right now.
Nervous isn’t enough. Terrified is more like it, but also makes me feel like I’m overreacting.
I know people go through surgery every day.
People’s lives are saved because of it. Mom’s never had a problem with anesthesia before.
She’s got a great team. There’s no reason to think this surgery won’t go perfectly. But, still…
“I…” Cosmos clears his throat. “You don’t have to explain. I know what it’s like.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
He doesn’t look away, but there’s a twitch in his cheek that makes me think he wants to, like the intensity of holding eye contact while he says whatever he’s about to say is too much. He takes a deep breath. “My dad died of cancer when I was in middle school.”
Oh.
“It’s why I became a surgeon.” His hand tightens around mine before jerking away like he only just realized he was touching me and hadn’t intended to.
He shoves both hands in his coat pockets and rocks on his heels.
“I wanted to help people the way my dad’s doctors helped him.
They gave him four years of life he wasn’t supposed to have.
They saved him. Even if they couldn’t save him for good. ”
Something in me breaks and is pieced back together differently after his confession. This is his way of fulfilling his dream of being a superhero. A surgeon who saves lives, who gives people more time.
“I tried doing oncology, but I couldn’t take the uncertainty of it. The immediacy of surgery was a better fit. I like knowing right away if I’ve succeeded or—”
He cuts himself off, and the silence is a black hole, dragging me slowly down. I don’t want to think about what failure could mean. Not today. I want to know that everything will be okay, even if it’s a lie. I want reassurance. “Would it be entirely inappropriate if… I asked for a hug?”
“Yes. But…” He steps closer rather than away.
Slowly, his arms wrap around me, giving me plenty of time to pull back.
Just as hesitantly, I bring my own arms around his waist. He’s a few inches taller than I am, so I have to look up to maintain eye contact.
I wish I could rest my head on his shoulder and burrow into him.
This angle is awkward. But it’s also wonderful. Warm and safe. Comforting.
My shoulders relax. The nausea I’ve been fighting dissipates.
I settle back into my body. His own brow unfurls.
His shoulders soften. A calm smile tugs at his lips.
Maybe we both needed this moment of human contact.
He pulls me closer, and I squeeze him back.
I want to imprint this moment on my memory as an anchor for later when I’m alone in the waiting room, unsure of what will come next.
“Do you have someone to wait with you? Siblings? Your dad?”
I shake my head. I don’t want to think about Jeremy right now, and I definitely don’t want to talk about it. My throat feels restricted, like I’ve swallowed something too large to get down. Tears gather in the corners of my eyes.
“She’s going to be okay,” he whispers. We both know there’s no way for him to know that. But his certainty is a lie I appreciate.
My throat feels tight with unshed tears. If we stay here much longer, I’m going to dissolve into sobs and melt down completely. I can’t fall apart. Cosmos still seems to think I’m attractive, and I’m not ready for him to realize his mistake.
I look away.
Like a rubber band being pulled tight and released, we snap back to the places we were before. My eyes are dry again, but there’s a burning pressure behind the bridge of my nose, and I know I could cry at any moment.
Cosmos blinks a few times, clearly trying to reorient himself in time and space.
“Did you need something, Dr. Romero?” Dr. Newberry asks.
“Um, yes, we’re all set in the OR.”
Dr. Newberry asks Mom again if she has any questions, then pats her hand and tells her he’ll see her soon before leaving with Cosmos. I wish Cosmos would look back, that I could have one more moment of safety, but I’m also relieved he doesn’t. My heart is too tender, and the tears are too close.
The anesthesiologist comes in soon after.
He looks like a young Robin Williams and has the same sort of twinkle in his eyes.
As soon as he enters, he starts making jokes that feel entirely inappropriate for the occasion.
He’s trying to lighten the mood and put us at ease, but his casualness about something so serious grates on me.
“Alright, we’ve got to go over some paperwork. It’s likely to put you to sleep, but that’s what I’m here for, right?” He laughs. I don’t.
He goes over another set of risks, these directly related to anesthesia. Again, I try to focus and not throw up. Mom nods along, seemingly unaffected.
“Now, would you like me to knock you out with gas or a canoe paddle?” When we both look at him blankly, he adds, “It’s an ether/oar situation.”
My overworked and overstimulated brain doesn’t get the joke until at least three minutes later. I try to keep up, try to be nice. But I just want him to shut up and leave.
I push a polite smile, but I’m fairly certain it looks more like a grimace.
Kane always said I had resting bitch face, and I hated that.
I don’t want to come off as a bitch. But in situations like these, when I’m feeling more than I can handle, it’s too much work to monitor my facial expressions while also trying to figure out what everyone else expects me to feel and how they expect me to respond. It’s exhausting.
When the anesthesiologist finally leaves, a nurse comes in.
She unplugs the cord that attaches the little strip of fabric around Mom’s finger that measures her blood oxygen levels.
She unhooks the pressure cuff and moves the IV bag to a pole attached to the bed.
With each movement, I know the clock is ticking and we’re closer to when they’ll take Mom back to the operating room.
I bite my cheek to keep myself from crying.
She shouldn’t have to deal with my emotions on top of everything else.
Mom chats casually with the nurse. Something about how long she’s been doing this.
I can’t follow the conversation. All I can hear is the beep, beep, beep of the machine screaming about not being able to get a read on Mom’s vitals now that the nurse has unhooked her.
I don’t understand why she hasn’t silenced it yet.
It takes all of my self-control not to start randomly pushing buttons to get it to stop.
Finally, she turns it off. Mom’s gonna be fine.
The nurse unlocks the brakes on one side of the bed.
Click. Click. She’ll be okay. Then, the other side of the bed.
Click. Click. She’ll be just fine. Maybe if I say it to myself enough, I’ll believe it.
Dr. Newberry knows what he’s doing. She will be okay. She has to be.
I hug my purse closer to my body as the nurse rolls the bed out of the room. She directs me to follow and says she’ll point out the door to the waiting room on the way.
I grab Mom’s hand and walk next to the bed. Mom looks up at me and smiles. “I love you, Hazelnut.”
I try to put on a brave face, but holding back the tears is taking all my energy. It’s hard to get the words out, but I force them past my lips. “I love you, too, Mom.”
The nurse waves a badge at a little black box on the wall, and the doors swing apart, one opening in and the other opening out. She pushes Mom into the hall, turns a corner, and opens another door. This time she doesn’t wheel Mom through. She points. “Waiting room is that door at the end.”
I’m still taking in this information when she turns Mom away. I rush forward and give Mom a hasty kiss on the cheek before they make it through the new doors.
“I’ll see you on the other side,” she says.
I stay frozen in the hall, watching until the doors close, cutting us off. It all happens too fast. One moment she’s right in front of me, joking about getting the good meds from the anesthesiologist. The next, she’s gone, and I’m staring at the brown wood grain of a closed door.