“How… what’s wrong with me?” I ask now that I’m fortified with two spoonfuls of ice chips. My eyes widen when it dawns on me that I had surgery after I had just eaten. Don’t they prefer an empty stomach? “Um, what happens if someone ate before surgery?”
She sympathetically smiles at me, and I know this must be a question she frequently gets from patients. “For elective and scheduled surgeries, it’s recommended to have nothing by mouth at least eight hours beforehand. However, in emergency situations where surgery can’t be postponed or prolonged for a length of time, the anesthesiologist uses special catheters to suction out any vomit that might occur during the procedure.”
And… now I’m grossed out that I possibly upchucked while I was completely out of commission and under the effects of anesthesia. She must sense this because she pats my hand and adds, “Honey, it’s part of their job, trust me.”
“I understand, but it’s kind of embarrassing,” I admit. Even my drug induced mind understands that mortifying dilemma. “I mean, nobody likes to throw up as it is and to think I might’ve done it when a bunch of strangers were operating on me has me feeling some kind of way.”
“Then I won’t regale you with stories where patients have had other bodily functions occur during surgery,” she teases. “Please understand, Marnie, it’s part of our job, and those are things that you cannot control when you’re sleeping with Prince Propofol.”
I snicker because I’ve watched enough true crime shows to know that’s the drug they typically use when they’re putting someone under for surgery. Of course, I think there’ve been several singers who used it in their personal lives with disastrous results.
“Well, hopefully, all I did was puke a bit,” I ruefully exclaim. “Because if I thought I peed or pooped on the table? Just shoot me now and let me die before the mortification completely hits.”
She starts giggling as she checks my vital signs, before she asks, “Do you want to sit up slightly? If so, I need to grab another pillow because your abdomen is going to feel like you’re being torn in half.”
“Maybe just a little bit. Not fully upright, but more lounging?” I ask, using my hands to describe what I mean. When I see three different IV lines in my left arm, I question, “Why do I have so many of these?”
“One is for the fluids and medications now that you’re out of surgery, while the one on the inside of your wrist is where you were given blood transfusions. That last one is because you had to have medications called pressors to help get your blood pressure under control. You definitely scared a lot of people who are anxiously waiting for you to be moved to your room,” she says as she sits me up so I’m reclining, a pillow pressed securely against my aching gut.
I shiver as I realize that now that my past has caught up with me, I need to either shit or get off the pot. I can either tell Ash and the club who attacked me, or once I’ve healed enough, I can quietly leave town.
You’re not going anywhere, you idiot,my brain whispers.
As my nurse settles another warm, toasty blanket over me, I allow sleep to pull me back under. If I remember anything about before, rest is healing.
“God, I wish you’d wake up, Marnie,” Ash whispers in my ear. I know it’s him because I might not have acted on my attraction,but we’ve become friends of a sort since I started working at the bar.
I’m sure there are people out there who feel as though I could have a more rewarding job, and perhaps I could. But I like people and being able to serve them is something I enjoy. Besides, being an artist doesn’t really pay the bills, which is why I’ve never done anything with all my doodles and sketches.
“Ash?” I ask as I try to move, only to immediately fall back whimpering.
“Hold on, baby,” he says before he reaches over and pushes a button. I feel something cool slide into my veins as the pain starts to lessen. “Pain pump,” he states at my questioning look. “They can add to it if needed, but that’s going directly into your IV.”
“How bad?” I question while he gently maneuvers me so I’m more comfortable. I always wanted his hands on me, but I never expected it to be in this scenario.
I watch as sorrow briefly crosses his expression before it goes blank, and he takes my hand in his. “Are you sure you want me to tell you? I can call your nurse and have her page the doctor.”
“No, Ash. I know you won’t bullshit me,” I tell him. “If nothing else, we’re friends and you’ve never done it before, so I don’t expect you’ll do it now.”
“Well… about that. I might have done a bit of it when they first brought you in,” he admits, smirking at me. “But I knew otherwise, we wouldn’t have gotten any information about your condition.”
“What did you do?” I ask, “tell them I was your fiancée or something?” I’m chuckling a little bit even though it hurts because I don’t expect him to nod in agreement. “What?” I whisper. “Ash, you can get into trouble for something like that.”
“No, I can’t, Marnie. Besides, it’s just semantics.”
“What do you mean? We barely know each other, Ash.”
“We’ve been dancing around this attraction long enough, as far as I’m concerned. When I saw you…fuck, when I saw you lying there, unconscious and covered in blood with your hair cut off, I knew it was time to step up to the plate. We’re obviously going to have to take things slow, of course, but mark my words, you’re going to be my ol’ lady and my wife.”
“I am?” I feel like a parrot right now, but unless I’ve died and been reborn in an alternate dimension, what he’s saying is what I’ve dreamed of for so long.
“Yes, you are,” he emphatically states before he punctuates his pronouncement with a kiss to my forehead. “Now, as far as what all was done, they had to remove your spleen, repair a laceration to your liver, and do a resection of your bowel. Um, they also had to remove your uterus, sweetheart. The damage was too severe.”
His words shock me into silence. No babies? Ever? I always dreamed of having them ‘someday’ when I met the right man and fell in love. I don’t even realize I’m crying until his hand reaches up to swipe across my cheeks. “You don’t want me,” I reply. “I can’t give you babies, Ash. I won’t doom you to my life.”
I’m not sure how he does it, but he manages to gather me in his arms while I cry. He doesn’t say anything, just croons to me as his hands smooth over my back. Once I’m finally cried out, at least for now, he pulls back and says, “There are other ways tohave a family if that’s what we want, Marnie. In fact, they can always retrieve eggs which can be fertilized and implanted into a surrogate if you want biological children.”
The drugs they’re giving me are obviously top tier or something because the most gorgeous man I’ve ever known is telling me that he’s okay with the fact I can’t give him biological children the normal way, I’d have to use a surrogate. How is this my new reality? I’d ask him to pinch me to make sure I’m awake, but I can feel the warmth of his arms that are banded around me, and the wetness on my cheeks from crying.
