Must be pretty serious. The idea makes me uncomfortable, and I shift my weight in my seat. I don’t really want to know.
My mom and I sit on a bench in a busy hallway outside of the x-ray procedure rooms the hospital. I’m thirteen years old and humiliated in a gown that ties in the back. I look around to be sure that no kids my age are hanging around. Good. Just nurses and old people. Thank God.
An elderly woman emerges from a changing room and sits next to my mom. Her hospital gown is hanging off her ancient shoulders, and I notice the thin, spotted flesh of her chest peaking out. She doesn’t seem to mind and doesn’t bother to pull up her gown. My mom chuckles to herself; I guess she noticed, too.
“A mammogram,” she whispers to my mom.
My mom nods politely and agrees. “Yes,” she says, “we all need to keep up with our regular exams.”
Please just shut up about it. I want to get up and run. I want to run away from this conversation, from my ridiculous hospital gown, from the needles, from my sickness. I don’t know if I can get any more uncomfortable.
The old woman agrees with my mom and goes into detail about this and that. “And here’s the brochure,” she tells me, pointing out the pictures that illustrate her particular procedure. “See? Right there.”
I turn my face away, desperately trying not to see whatever is on the page. Still chuckling to herself, my mom moves the brochure away from me and reassures the old lady. Moments later, a technician calls us into the x-ray room.
“Lots of information, huh?” my mom giggles.
* * *
My mom and dad stand to my left, looking at me with big smiles. I look at them and try to smile back, but my eyelids slide down. I struggle to keep them open. The grey light of a winter afternoon floods in through a window at the foot of the empty bed next to mine, reflecting on the cold tile floor. A stupid animal is painted on the wall.
I realize that a man is standing on the other side of my bed, pulling plastic tubes out of their wrappers.
“No, stop,” I snap in a weak, scratchy voice. It’s all I can speak out.
“Oxygen to help you breathe, just oxygen,” he tells me. I try to protest, but my words come out as mumbles and groans. My parents look at me and touch my face, then reassure the man that oxygen isn’t necessary. I settle down again and relax.
I’m all done! Thank You, Jesus! At last, I feel all the months of pain and illness and fear melt away.
* * *
A nurse enters my room with a syringe, obviously prepared to give me a shot. “Something for the pain, Sweetie,” she tells me.
“No, I’m fine,” I insist. I try to sit up to prove how well I’m doing, but my body doesn’t cooperate.
“No need to be brave about the pain,” she chides.
“No, I’m fine! I don’t want it.”
She is irritated with me. “If you are in pain, then take the medicine.”
“Take the medicine,” urges my mom.
“No, just give me a Tylenol,” I say. “I’m not in pain.” The women frown at me.
My dad intervenes. “If he says he’s comfortable, then just do what he says.”
“Fine. Just wait and see how you feel when you get up,” the nurse threatens. “We’re going to have you out of bed later today.” She practically stomps out of the room.
My mom is upset. She tells my dad that I’m just being stubborn and that I should take the shot for the pain because I am lying here hurting and she can’t bear to see it. My dad tells her I seem fine.
* * *
The first evening after surgery, I receive an all-liquid dinner. Normally, I would be upset, but I have no appetite right now. The aroma of the soup mixes with the odors of the hospital, creating something entirely different smell. I don’t drink my juice or chicken broth, and I leave my square of green Jell-O on the tray. It wiggles when I bump the table.
“Time to get you up,” announces the crabby nurse as she marches into my room. “Need to get you moving.” It’s less than eight hours after surgery, and I’m kind of surprised that she is serious. “Let’s go,” she barks.
My parents timidly clear the tray away and move back the chairs and IV stand. The nurse and my dad come to the side of my bed.
My brain is telling my legs to move, but they feel heavy. I start try to sit up, but it’s uncomfortable. I don’t want to use the muscles under the all the gauze.
When the nurse see me struggle, she slides her hand under my armpit to help me keep my balance. “See?” chides the nurse. “That’s why we want you to have something for the pain.”
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I take a moment to feel my body. I feel the air on my bare legs and my arms and my back, and the blood rushes out of my head, making me a little dizzy. Nothing really hurts. I feel tired and stiff, like standing up after a long car ride. “No,” I say. “I’m okay.”
“Okay, then,” she says.
My dad helps her raise me to my feet. A wonderful revelation washes over me: I made it. It’s over. Thank you, Lord, for taking away my sickness.
