I’m ba-ack! (Did you miss me?)
I admit that my usual humor is light with this week’s piece. However, it feels poignant as I am scheduled to go under the knife AGAIN on Monday. So I hope you don’t mind. (And, yes, I promise I’ll get that sarcasm fired up for next week. I’ll have the whole week to recover and plan devious things to say)
“I see you’ve brought a friend with you.” The nurse’s tone is warm, indulgent, and familiar. He looks down at me with a smile that doesn’t disguise his dismay. I’m used to this reaction; he isn’t the first to lift an eyebrow at my presence.
I wonder what catches his attention first. My faded colors? The flattened state of my fabric? Or maybe the dull luster of my once-piercing eye? Given her tight grip on my body, nothing else is readily visible.
I settle close to her side, watching the nurse walk her through the dance of pre-operative necessities. She’s quick to extend an arm for the blood pressure cuff, tug on the non-slip socks.
“Only two colored bands this time?” she asks, holding out her wrist for the “Latex Allergy” and “Fall Risk” bracelets. He believes the false smile on her lips, laughs as she makes a production of settling the cap over her mussed pink hair. But I recognize the bitter undertone to her words, see the exhaustion in her blue eyes as she extends her hand for the IV catheter.
This process is a learned routine, memorized from an unwanted intimacy with hospital facilities.
My plastic eye traces the nearly invisible scarring on the back of her hand—remnants of past IVs. The translucent spots create a constellation on her skin. The cotton batting pressed within my ears picks up the grinding sound of her teeth as the catheter slides into a vein.
The nurse finishes his checklist, leaving us in peace. Her fingers trace the worn plush around my wing joints, seeking the tiny remnants of softness closest to my body. Even after so many procedures, trembling runs through her fingertips. We both know what awaits at the end of the day; the losing side of protestations and arguments.
She presses me close, compacting my stuffing further.
People stream past the bed in a hurried lineup. Most ignore me; one of her surgical nurses gifts me a genuine smile.
Her humor grows strained as they recite their familiar speeches.
“We’ll take you back shortly.”
“We’re just getting the OR prepped.”
“You’ll get your pre-med cocktail soon. Odds are you won’t even notice when we wheel you back.”
She understands the dance. Her hand tightens around me. When the nurse returns to check the blood pressure cuff, he frowns at the monitor over her head. My eye can’t read the numbers, but I feel the pulse surging through her arm.
He assumes nerves.
I could correct him if I had a voice.
She sits up when the anesthesiologist makes his appearance. Her fingers clutch me tight to her chest. I hear her words clearly; no stutter, no hesitation. She leaves the jokes aside. Her laughter and sarcasm are pushed aside by earnestness. This isn’t a time for a misunderstanding. “My pain threshold is low—core of the earth. You’ll have a plan ready, right?”
The doctor’s distracted, flipping through charts and forms, his mind on other tasks. But he nods.
They always nod.
Too soon for my liking, the nurse returns and points in my direction. “Time for your friend to go.”
She squeezes me once and relinquishes me to her companion.
I watch them wheel her out of sight, the bed passing through barren white doors I’ve never seen beyond.
When the nurse sets me beside her later, she’s unaware. But I know sense trouble. She doesn’t reach for me, doesn’t pull me close. Her hands knot into fists, struggle to twist into frantic shapes. Despite a pile of heated blankets, regular shivering threatens to toss me from the bed. Whimpers escape her lips.
A tiny hole opened in the felt of my beak decades ago. It revealed black stuffing, granting me a fierce aspect when viewed at proper angles. But I can’t speak through the gap. There’s no way for me to call for the nurse, to draw attention to her agony. I’m a silent observer of her painful recovery.
The same horrid routine I witness every time.
The nurse finally takes notice and places his hand on her brow. He asks her to provide a number for her pain. She fumbles to form any word, much less something coherent. The translation of language through a clumsy tongue.
Sighing, he injects a drug cocktail into her IV. It takes longer than I wish for her flailing to calm.
We repeat the game over and over. I have no concept of time.
Slowly, she regains a semblance of consciousness. Her hand reaches out, pulling me close. At the prompting of the nurse, she consents to sit upright. Or as close as she can.
There’s a new hole in her body.
The nurse wheels us to a quiet room for the night. I watch as he sets up her wires, connects her to intrusive monitors, and adjusts her fluid lines. He’s extremely thorough in his preparations. But the call button slides along the rails of the bed, out of sight. It’s not on his checklist.
Nor am I.
She curls into a new position, and I’m suddenly blind. I lost the eye on this side when she was still a child. And the plush of my body is worn away in patches from clutching, desperate fingers. Imperfect, mismatched stitching reveals where she attempted past repairs. A larger hole gapes through the felt in my beak, but I’m still mute. I can’t remind her to turn me around so I can observe her sleep.
Her breathing comes faster. Sudden gasps punctuate tiny movements. The shivering returns, different in tone. She tries not to move, struggling against the uncontrollable writhing of her body.
Soft alarms sound.
I listen to the nurse whisper that she needs to sit up. Needs to breathe faster. When she finally asks for something for the pain, there’s a discussion over her heart rate in the hallway. I can feel the sluggish beats in the tips of her fingers. The delay between each pulse is agony for a creature unfamiliar with the concept of time.
But I also experience every wave of torment washing through her body. Rolling shudders of organs that are no longer present; the body’s attempt to respond to the crying of nerves severed earlier in the day.
When the tears start falling, they soak my head. Once-white fabric faithfully absorbs each one. The beige material is testimony to a lifetime of pain.
The nurse agrees to a compromise: drugs and oxygen.
I wonder if he understands how significant it is for her to nod agreement. Her arms close around me as she finally drifts asleep. I feel her body relax, collapsing into boneless ease for the first time in hours.
She’s eager for discharge come morning.
The nurse rolls his eyes. “I have to remove your IV first,” he councils, pushing gentle but firm hands on her shoulders. “You can’t take the fluid bag with you.”
I could tell him that getting home to her bed’s welcoming safety always ranks high on her list. But he wouldn’t listen to me. His irritation is focused on her yearning for the door.
I share the eagerness. At home, I join the other stuffed animals, resume my position as a household sentinel.
The nurse picks me up while she changes. His fingers trace the warped, broken sticks in my wings. Soap-softened hands find each scarred patch along my body, invisible among the worn fuzz. He peers into my scratched eye.
I watch as the irritation and strained humor slide from his expression.
As he helps her into the wheelchair, his hand brushes her shoulder. “Your friend’s been through a lot.”
She settles me into her lap, glancing up at him. Their gazes meet for the first time in understanding. Her voice is soft. “A lot.”
Hope all goes well on Monday! Sending my best.