Today is the last day I’ll spend with Kyle before he leaves on Christmas break. His flight to Colorado is tomorrow afternoon. He’s gone to class and then to practice, but promised that tonight was our Christmas. I finally got around to putting up the Christmas tree, and wrapping the few Christmas presents I’ve been able to buy during my quick shopping trips with Jenna. Tonight’s dinner is planned; now all I have to do is wait. I never realized how quiet my apartment is when I’m alone. It’s going to be a long week without him.

I perform my weekly chores and hobble into the bedroom to put away laundry, pushing the basket across the floor with my crutches. I’ve offered him the second dresser drawer down several times. I pull on the knobs and it glides open easily—still empty. Instead, he lives out of his duffel bag. He’s a typical guy—always wearing rumpled clothes that don’t match—but to me, it’s another reminder that we’re temporary. Every day he leaves with that bag full of his possessions, and I can’t help but wonder if he plans on returning.

The pain in my calf is worse than usual today. It started in the middle of the night, and almost had me in tears. I thought it was a muscle cramp, but I’ve done everything Dr. Google suggests yet it’s getting worse. It’s an excruciating pain that feels like someone is digging their fingernails into me. I finally broke down and took a pain pill, which is giving me some relief but not much. Something’s wrong.

Finally, I call the doctor’s office and ask to speak to the nurse. She regurgitates everything that I already read on Google, leaving me more frustrated than I was when I called. Once I explained to her that I’ve already done all of the things she’s suggested, she advises me to go to an Urgent Care or the Emergency Room. I really don’t have time for that; I’m supposed to be at Kyle’s practice in a few hours. He wasn’t going to have time to pick me up, so I was going to call an Uber to drop me off. Guess they’ll be dropping me off at the ER instead.

The laundry is done and put away, so I call Kris and explain what’s going on. He promises to get to basketball practice on time and take care of everything. I pull up my Uber app and request a ride. Within a few minutes, I receive a message that someone should arrive shortly. I hustle myself down the stairs and wait in the parking lot, zipping off a quick group text to Jenna, Nick, and Kyle to let them know what’s going on.

A: Going to ER, severe pain in casted leg. I will advise later.

N: We’re at Jenna’s ultrasound. Text me where you go and what’s going on. Take care. Love you.

A: Going to St. Vincent’s ER. I will once I know. Love you too.

Kyle didn’t answer, but then again, he’s with the team and probably can’t answer. The ER is bustling so I have to take a number and wait to register. I sit there forever and begin to lose patience. It’s been an hour and I’m still not even checked in. My Irish attitude, along with the pain that’s gotten increasingly worse since I’ve been there, is about to get the best of me.

I head up to the main desk and ask how much longer it will be. They’re a little past my number now she points out, and says “You must have missed it.” After explaining that no one actually called my number, she apologizes flatly and hands me the next one hanging on the spindle. Taking in a deep breath, I drop my shoulders and squint my eyes, giving her my death stare before hobbling back over and taking another seat.

I don’t wait as long this next round. My number is called and a nurse comes to fetch me immediately with a wheelchair, escorting me to triage. After she takes my vitals and I give her a brief summation of what’s going on, a medical student comes in with some kind of motorized rotary cutter, and boldly explains that he is going to cut my cast off.

He stretches my casted leg out onto the bed and proceeds to cut a straight line down the center. I scrunch my fingers around the thin paper sheeting on the bed, terrified that he’s going to cut my skin with that tool.

“You can relax. I promise I won’t cut you. My Dad’s a carpenter. I’ve been around tools my whole life and know how to use them,” he smirks at me.

“Oh yeah, how many casts have you removed?” I ask.

“Well, you’re my first, but don’t hold that against me. I know what I’m doing,” he snaps.

I roll my eyes at him. “Don’t be mad, but I’m not trusting you until your done and you’ve proven your skills,” I reply.

He laughs and continues on down towards my bright red toes. He reaches the bottom of the cast and takes a long spreader stick off the wall, using it to crack open the hard shell from around my leg. I gasp, completely taken aback by how much smaller my lower leg has gotten.

“See, all done. I didn’t even knick you,” he teases.

“Wait, can you use that tool to save a part of the cast?” I ask.

He shakes his head at me. “We aren’t supposed to do that,” he states flatly.

“But, I need to save the ‘K.D.#0’ part. Please?” I beg him, giving him my biggest smile.

“Who’s K.D.#0?” he asks.

“It’s Kyle Daniels, power forward for the Golden Bears,” I explain.

“Oh, is that your boyfriend?” he asks.

“Well,” I hesitate, not quite sure how to word our relationship. “It’s complicated. He’s entering the NBA draft this year, and probably leaving. We are seeing each other, but I know it’ll end soon enough.” My voice gets quieter as I admit those last words. I really don’t want to voice them to a stranger, but I need him to understand why I want that cast piece.

He swings his legs back around the rolling stool and picks up the cutter and cast. He cuts through that section of the cast and hands it to me.

“Anything else?” he asks.

I shake my head and twirl the piece around in my palm, running my fingers over it lightly.

“I didn’t do that, if anyone asks. Good luck, Miss Bailey,” he says, closing the door behind him.

I place Kyle’s initials in my purse, not wanting anyone else to see it and not wanting to have another visible reminder of the fact that he’s leaving. I have enough to worry about right now.

The doctor finally comes in to tell me that he’s scheduled a Doppler ultrasound for my leg to check for a deep vein thrombosis (DVT), which, he explains, is basically a blood clot. He leaves just as quickly as he entered, without any further explanation. I guess there’s no need for information; after all, it’s only my leg. I hate ambiguity.

The whole process of a Doppler ultrasound is boring and uneventful, but definitely painful when they find the right spot to bear down on. The technician runs the roller ball over my entire leg without finding anything for the first few minutes. Easy peasy, I keep thinking, until she gets to the center of my calf. Suddenly it feels as if somebody stabbed me and my upper body jumps up from the table. I scream out in pain, and try my best to pull my leg away from her, not wanting her to touch it anymore. Tears spring to my eyes and flow in a river down my cheeks. It takes a few minutes for the pain to subside. She apologizes profusely, but says she needs to finish the examination and promises to go slow.

The rest of it passes quite easily, now that she knows where to lighten up. I still maintain a death grip on the edges of the table. My shriveled up leg is lying there unprotected; no muscle mass, white, freckled, and sick looking. I can’t believe just eight weeks of not using it has reduced it to this. I unsuccessfully fight to hold back more tears while I wait for somebody to wheel me back downstairs to the ER.

I pull out my phone and open up my text app. I still have nothing from Kyle. It doesn’t even show that he’s read it. He should be at practice by now. I send off a quick note to Nick that I’m waiting for results from an ultrasound on my leg. He replies with a simple “keep me posted.” He must be busy. I hate bugging him; He and Jenna are a few weeks away from being parents. Their whole world will change and I feel like a stupid third wheel in their life. Where the hell is Kyle?

Eventually, an orderly takes me back to the ER, where the doctor is waiting to explain that yes, I do in fact have a blood clot. He goes over the blood thinner options with me and I decide on taking shots over pills, since the shots require less monitoring by blood draws. This simply means fewer appointments to make it easier on everyone since I can’t drive. A nurse comes in with a few syringes and an orange to practice with. I’ve never given myself shots, but I’m not afraid of needles. So, I practice injecting the orange with a few vials of water before giving myself my first round of Lovenox under supervision.

Another orthopedic doctor comes in and fits me with a massive plastic boot with black Velcro-fastened straps that goes on my leg to protect it while it continues to heal. As he adjusts the angle of it so my toes are pointed down, he explains to me how to use it. It’s a walking boot. I’m not supposed to walk on it until after my next surgery, but he says I can now use the supporting hard plastic under my toes to at least turn around and maneuver with. The x-ray that they took today shows that everything is healing nicely, but that I shouldn’t put my full weight on it yet.

The nurse comes in next and gives me all of the paper instructions for care, my prescriptions, and a number to call if I have any problems. She explains the dangers and hazardous symptoms of a blood clot, scaring me further. I am officially a nervous wreck. How did this go from OK to horrible?

I send off a quick text to Nick with the details, tell him that I’ll need him tomorrow, and that I’m going home to rest. I’m done with this day.

The house is empty when I get there. No Kyle. No noise. I don’t even have a pet or plants to talk to. I change into something more comfortable that doesn’t smell like the hospital and lay down to rest with my phone by my side. Kyle will wake me up when he gets here.

I startle awake at 9:18 pm, not sure what woke me up. Sitting up, I listen to the house and it’s completely quiet. I flip my phone over and see that I have a text. Swiping across the screen, it’s from Kris.

K: Practice was good. Emailed everything to you. No Kyle at practice???

No, Kyle. What the hell? I quickly open up the text I sent him earlier. It’s been read but no reply. I holler out into the house, “Kyle!” but there’s no response. His name echoes off the walls, and my heart sinks. He’s not here, and I’ve got this feeling he’s not coming back. I text Kris back, thanking him for the favor today, and I lie back down. My tears stain the pillowcase with my mascara; what a shitty day.

I never pictured him to be a runner. I don’t know what hurts worse—my broken heart or my leg. I’m being consumed by pain, and right now I choose to drown in it.