You know how a love story goes. Boy and girl meet. They fall in love against all odds. And after some thrilling, heartpounding moments, there is a happily ever after. It is shame that the story ends there. Because it is the happily ever where true love shines like a jewel against the nitty gritty of the real world.
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The anesthesioligist tells me to relax and breathe normally. I know I have no choice on the relaxing part. I can feel that he has put something in the IV. My muscles are awash in warmth and become limp, the awareness that I have left is hard to focus. “Think of something good, and when you wake up, you will be thinking of that.” He says, confident. So I imagine that my husband James sits beside me on one of those metal stools on wheels, one foot braced on the OR floor so that he will not roll away. He looks into my eyes and takes my hand, his fingers curling around mine and dwarfing them. He smiles, and I know that everything will be all right. I think of this and see his face vividly in my mind’s eye, framed by that silly, pouffy hair net. This is how he has sat before, and where he would be this time if only he could.
The Doctor has lied to me though, for when I wake, there are no good thoughts of James, my rock. I know not who I am, only that I am dying. My lungs struggle for breath, and I gasp, but cannot draw in the sweet air. I cannot see, but I can hear as the doctor gives orders about epinephrine and IV’s. After this my awareness come and goes, I remember scenes that swirl and ebb as I cling desperately to awakening reality.
“I talked to the husband about the surgery. Call down and tell him he can’t come to the recovery room.” A male voice, must be the surgeon. I hear the nurse talking on the phone, and I know it is to my love. “Hospital policy…” she explains, and hangs up. “He wants know what the policy is. Has anyone seen the three ring binder?” Her voice sounds stressed. My vision returns at some point and I can see the jagged line of my heartbeat, but the voices are all behind me. I can hear her talking on the phone again.
“Is that my husband on the phone? Can I talk to him?” My voice sounds high and thin to me. There is no reply from behind me, but I hear them moving within feet of my head, and I know they are ignoring me. The dark haired nurse comes over to take my vital signs and write on my chart, but she is avoiding eye contact, and leaves quickly.
I try to move to see what is behind me, but find that I cannot. I locate the problem. A strap across my chest holds me down. I pluck weakly with my fingers and succeed in loosening it a bit so that I can roll slightly to my side. I still can’t see anyone.
“The husband’s at the door! He’s knocking on the door!” The nurse sounds even more stressed. “Call security.” The doctor’s curt reply.
I want to reason with them, to explain why we so desperately wish to see each other. “You might have lots of surgeries today, but this is probably my only one this year. Can I see my husband?” I beg. No reply. Then it dawns on me that they will not do lots of surgeries today, for it is Saturday. They were on call, and if it hadn’t been for me, they would not have to be here. That is why I see and hear noone but me and the nurses who will not look me in the eye. I am the problem patient with the husband that wants to come in.
The dark haired nurse comes over to write on my chart again, and when she sees the tears that are squeezing out and sliding down my face, she says “If you don’t stop crying, you’ll be in here longer.” Her’s is not the stressed voice. That belongs to the other nurse. Her voice is an angry one. (There is a third nurse, the one from the OR, that comes and speaks comfort to me, and tells me she is sorry that I lost the baby. But this is not her story). I wait an indeterminable time in tearless sorrow.
And then the door crashes open, and in comes the transport lady, smiling. She must not have heard that I am the problem patient. She cheerfully comes and informs me that it is time to go to my room, and she will take me there. “Hey, did you know your husband loves you an awful lot?” I smile in return, and am glad to be doing so. She has seen what the doctor and nurses treat so cheaply. That outside waits my true love, and we want to be together. “Yes, I know.” I reply. She helps me onto the new stretcher, and we crash again through the door. I immediately see my James, flanked by security guards, calm and waiting. “Hi,” he says. He looks into my eyes and takes my hand, his fingers curling around mine and dwarfing them. He smiles at me, and I know that everything will be all right.
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Happy Valentine’s Day, James, my own love. May our happily ever after never end, whatever hell or highwater comes our way. I love you.