MAY 18
When I open my eyes, my first thought is that I’m underwater. Everything is bright and out of focus. My instincts tell me I need to breathe, but I’m afraid that if I try to inhale the water will rush into my throat and I’ll drown. As I push for the surface, I exhale a tiny breath of air and my teeth press hard against something plastic. Reaching my hand up to my mouth, I realize there’s a tube in my throat. I gag violently as I pull on it. Some sort of machine starts beeping.
“No, no,” a female voice says sharply. A strong hand grips my wrist and moves it away from my face. I blink hard. The whole world is still blurry. I try to ask what’s happening but no words come out.
“Well, don’t yell at her. I can only imagine how scary it is to wake up on a ventilator,” a male voice says. “Page Derby and see if we can extubate.” Someone places my hand down next to my hip. “Genevieve. You were in an accident,” the male voice continues. “The tube in your throat is helping you breathe. If you pull it out, you could damage your larynx.”
Ventilator. Extubate. Accident. I’m in the hospital, but that’s as far as I get. The rest of the guy’s words fall through the grates of my brain, lost in a current of blood. What if I have brain damage? I lift my hand again to make sure my skull is still intact, but my fingers get distracted by a bandage wrapped around my head.
My hand is quickly pinned against the soft mattress and held there. “Don’t mess with your dressing, okay? Try to stay calm.”
“He’s coming.” The female voice is back. “I brought you a warm blanket.” Something cozy unfolds over my whole body, like slipping into pajamas fresh from the dryer. A soft cloth wipes across my eyes and suddenly I can see again. The forms are a little fuzzy, but I can make out a tall black guy and a shorter redheaded woman, both dressed in navy blue nursing scrubs.
A man in a white coat strides into the room. “Well, hello, young lady,” he says in a booming voice. “I’m Dr. Derby from Neurosurgery. Let’s see if you’re ready to breathe on your own again.” He shines a tiny flashlight into each of my eyes and then has me squeeze both of his hands. He hands me a whiteboard and a marker. “Can you write your name for me?”
My whole body aches and the marker feels awkward in my hand, like I’m back in preschool, learning how to write for the first time. And just like my four-year-old self probably did, I curse internally at how long my name is. It takes about three lifetimes, but I finally manage to scrawl out the letters
G E N E V I E V E G R A C E. At least I dropped one letter when I changed my last name from Larsen to Grace after my parents divorced.
Next, Dr. Derby asks me where I am, and what day it is. I take to the whiteboard again. When I apparently flub the date, he gives me a follow-up question of what year it is. Thankfully I get that one right.
The doctor turns to a computer and flicks through a few screens. Then he goes to the big ventilator machine parked next to my bed. The machine chirps in response as he presses a few keys. “I think we can extubate,” he says. “Page Respiratory and put her on q fifteen-minute neuro checks for the first two hours. Call me for anything out of range. Oh, and put her on clear fluids until tomorrow night.”
The redheaded nurse grabs a phone from the pocket of her scrubs and steps outside the room. The male nurse smiles at me. “Welcome back,” he says. “The respiratory tech will be here soon. Just hang in there.”
Like I have any other choice. I inhale deeply and the ventilator chirps again.
A couple of minutes later, an Indian girl who doesn’t look much older than me pushes a cart into the room. “I’m Priya from the Respiratory department,” she says. “It’s lovely to see you awake, Miss Grace. I’m going to take that tube out of your throat.” She starts to loosen the tape around my mouth.
And then I hear another voice, as sharp as a scalpel—my mother’s.
“What’s going on in here?” Her high heels rat-a-tat-tat across the tile floor like machine-gun fire. Everyone in the room looks like they want to take cover. “Why didn’t you page me that she was awake?”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Grace. She literally just woke up,” the male nurse says.
My mom pushes past him without replying. “Genevieve, honey. I was so worried about you.”
I try to squeeze out a “Hi, Mom,” which is probably inadequate, but it doesn’t matter because I can’t talk with the tube in my throat.
My mom glances around the room. “What are you waiting for? Extubate her.”
Priya bends low with an empty syringe. She does something I can’t see and then slowly pulls the tube out of my throat. For a second, I feel like someone is choking me, but then I gasp in relief. My mother hands me a tissue.
I wipe some crusty stuff from the corners of my mouth. “Hey,” I manage. One word. Soft. Hoarse.
“Hey,” my mom says. Her eyes start to water.
Wow, she must have been seriously frightened. My mom is one of those people who thinks crying is a sign of weakness and that signs of weakness are unacceptable. It’s probably a good combination for a pediatric cardiac surgeon. Less so for a mom, or a wife. It’s a miracle she and my dad stayed married as long as they did.
As if reading my mind, she says, “Your father is in the waiting area.” She gestures around the room. “A lot of your friends stopped by while you were . . . sleeping.”
I wrap my arm around one of my bed rails and pull myself to a seated position. The room is full of colorful cards, balloons, and stuffed animals. Like completely full. What the hell? There must be stuff from fifty people here, which would be nice, except I only have two close friends. Maybe it’s all from my mom’s coworkers, or maybe Dallas’s music industry friends sent a ton of crap.
I furrow my brow as I look past my mom, through the glass door of my room. A nurse in navy blue hurries by, the pocket of her scrubs bulging with syringes and other medical stuff. Behind her, doctors in white coats are clustered around a bank of computers.
“Where’s Dallas?” I ask. He should be here right now.
Mom starts talking about the accident, but her words fade out, because suddenly I start to remember what happened.