Chapter Seven
The morning of the biopsy I waited with Mom in another hospital room, in another green gown, my stomach growling with the vengeance of a thousand told-you-sos. My phone pinged with a text from Jason. It was a cute picture of puppies. What else do you do when someone’s getting a biopsy? I’d texted with everyone last night, because of course they all overheard Mom tell me about the biopsy on the stairs and were worried about me. Which was super great.
Jason was kind, but what did he really think? He lost his mom a little over a year ago. Now the first girl he’s kissed since then has a tumor? It was messed up.
A nurse came in and handed Mom a big plastic bag with my patient ID number on it. “This is for Ellie’s belongings. She’ll be in post-op after surgery and then released, so you two won’t be coming back to this room.”
The nurse had me climb onto the gurney and stuck an IV in my arm. Ouch. The pricked spot stung as the nurse wheeled me down the cold halls away from my mom. I caught glimpses into other surgery rooms with bright lights and huddles of masked faces as I prayed I’d be okay and drifted away.
Waking up, I fought to resurface from the pool of pudding where someone must have tried to drown me. Muscles heavy, breathing tight, brain unfocused. I didn’t know if I was making noise, but a young nurse came over with a cup of ice chips. She encouraged me to open my mouth, and slipped in an ice-chip. It cooled my dry mouth. So thirsty. As if reading my thoughts, she told me I wasn’t allowed water yet. Tubes poked out of me, and the nurse pointed out the button I could press to ease the pain. Isn’t that nice—relief at the press of a button?
If only all of life were that simple—a morphine-drip for the soul. The drugs oozed into my veins, knocking me out again.
The next time I woke up, Mom was there. She smiled. I tried to smile. Out again.
In and out of consciousness for I don’t know how long. Amid the fog of nurses, machines, beeping, the first inkling of pain in my leg, a scratchy throat, moans that didn’t belong to me, maybe some that did, I picked up a few bits of information. The biopsy had gone well, I shouldn’t get my leg wet for three days, and I could go home. I didn’t have to spend the night at the hospital.
Eventually I was disconnected from my IV and morphine drip, cumbersomely helped into a wheelchair, and pushed to the juice-and-graham-cracker room. Another hour-long wait. You could track the movement of the minute hand on the clock by Mom’s repetitive sighing.
Then my leg woke up. It was cranky, demanding morphine. The chair I sat in became its own little torture device, where the slightest shift was like an icepick to my thigh.
Pain. I’d been asked my level of pain—a scale from one to ten, like that meant anything to me—a bunch since this thing started. What’s the point of rating things that can’t really be rated? The stabby-throbbing didn’t have a number—it just hurt a lot—so I’d answer: I don’t know, between five and six? Not knowing if this made me a drama queen or someone to ignore.
I chewed on the cuticle of my thumb.
Why is this happening? Did I do something wrong?
“Is it my fault this thing is inside me?” I hadn’t meant it to, but the last thought came out as a whisper. Crap.
“Oh sweetie, no, no, of course not.” Mom took my hand and squeezed it, giving me a sad smile and pensive eyes. “I never told you this part of your birth story, but…”
Okay, random. “Um, are you saying being pregnant is like having a tumor inside you?”
She screwed up her face into shock, and let out one big belly laugh. “What? For goodness’ sake, no. What I was going to say is that I worked to do everything right for your birth. I ate healthy, drank lots of water, took us on walks, and told us peaceful, encouraging thoughts.”
I smiled. I’d heard this, but I liked the thought of her taking her belly—with me inside—on walks.
“You know the part where I tried so hard to not have any medication during your birth.”
“But then you needed an emergency C-section.”
“That’s right. You kept springing back up every time I pushed, and they were worried about your heart. But the part I left out is that I screamed and wailed down that hall into surgery, like a wild animal torn out of her nest.”
Whoa. This surprised me.
She put her other hand on top of our clasped hands.
“I felt like a failure, like my first act as a mom had failed you. The nurse came back and put you on my chest and said to me, ‘you did great, you did your best. All that matters in all of this is that little peanut in your arms.’ And she was right.”
She kissed my forehead. “I’m so grateful for you, baby girl. The point of my story is that I know a little of what it feels like to have your body not cooperate with your hopes. That we have to keep focused on what’s important, which is to make sure you’re healthy. Right? Mostly I’m saying, it’s not your fault.”
My lips trembled.
Nurse Darlene came to check on me and examined my chart. “It looks like you’ll need some crutches, so I’ve scheduled you a session with a physical therapist for training.”
“What? What do you mean she’ll need crutches? No one told us that,” Mom said.
Darlene’s chin squished into her neck. She had no idea and bustled off to find someone who did. Didn’t they know I had improv and sketch rehearsals? Our second show at the Comedy Mash-Up a week from today?
Mom clutched my hand, saying, “It’ll be okay, sweetie, it’ll be okay.”
The nurse came back after a while and explained that I could be on crutches anywhere from two weeks to a month.
“A month?” Mom stood up, outraged for both of us. “And no one considered this important information? We were told this was a simple procedure.”
“I’m sorry no one mentioned it to you, Mrs. Hartwood. The procedure was relatively simple but the incision went through her muscles and into the bone right above her knee. This will cause weakness, and she’ll need support.”
Mom’s jaw set in the way it does when she’s furious. Her hand gripped mine tighter.
I went still and silent.
It didn’t sound like I’d be in any condition to dance disco.
The physical therapist arrived. I hated the sight of the silver metal in her arms.
She slipped the padded tops under my armpits, and I gripped the two rubbery handles, having to round my shoulders slightly. Standing firmly on my right leg, I swung both crutches forward until the stoppers hit the linoleum floor. Ka-clunk.
“Good,” she said, so upbeat. “That’s it, Ellie. You got it.”
Ka-clunk. Ka-clunk. The Transformers theme song started playing in my head. Great. It would be Una Paloma Blanca versus Transformers battling it out for worst sticky song in my brain for the next month.
As I practiced, I could hear Mom and Dr. Nichols talking.
“When will we learn the results of the biopsy?” Mom was in don’t-mess-with-me mode.
“The labs often take longer with bone tissue,” Dr. Nichols said. “We can expect to know in seven to ten days. We’ll call to schedule an appointment when we have the results.”
My lungs squeezed. My grip tightened. Why didn’t the doctor say something reassuring?
Swallowing hard, I glared at her, even though she couldn’t see me. Please tell me she is just being dramatic. Please.
Mom returned, and we were released with a bag of drugs, two crutches, one swollen leg (and a partridge in a pear tree).