I remember sitting in my hospital bed, looking out the window. The nurse had just been in with the results of the scans and the conclusions drawn based on them. She’d seen the look on my face and asked if I wanted something to calm me down before the surgery the next day. I was baffled. Baffled that that would be her concern. Baffled that she would think it was the surgery I was worried about.
I’d thought that when you give a 21 yr old the verdict that she’d never bear or have biological children of her own… that they’d offer to send in a a therapist or someone to talk to who knew and understood what that really meant. Even hand out a damn flyer, you know?
To them, I guess, it wasn’t so out of the ordinary. I even remember a few days after the surgery while I was still confined to the bed, they compared me to a girl in the next room who had just undergone the same surgery, telling me with a look down their noses that “SHE wasn’t in pain and was dealing with it just fine”…
That’s probably when it really hit for the first time. The feeling of inadequacy and humiliation. Reduced to half a woman and now not a good patient either.
I spent 16 days in total in that bed in a place that felt a world away from my friends and family – and even when they did come to visit I couldn’t deal with it and just closed off. Most of the time I just lay there alone, feeling trapped and alienated from anything and everything – most especially myself.
Until the 8th day. Then I got a new “room mate”. A woman about my mom’s age. She’d had surgery on her leg and was bedridden too. Her family visited a lot and were very nice. She and I talked, not about what was wrong with us, …but about everything else.
One day when we were bored, we somehow ended up imagining that we were in Paris, having lunch in one of those small cafes. I was mobile at that point and would often go to fetch things for her from the cafeteria or snack carts down the hall. I guess that’s what started it – me bringing in a tray and serving up coffee for her. When the nurse came in later to check on us we were both bawling with laughter and spent the rest of the day living out that little fantasy, even speaking with poor French accents.
Afterwards, we of course blamed the drugs and being couped up in bed for so long. But for us both, it had been a welcome escape where we had been reminded of all the things we could still do, instead of those we couldn’t.
I left a few days before her and saying goodbye was actually kind of hard. The week we’d spent together had been so intimate that it felt like much longer. She even gave me her phone number and I gave her mine, both of us promising to call to keep in touch. Neither one of us did.
Perhaps, the reminder of that time was too painful for us both to want to dig it up again. Perhaps, we were just so relieved to be out of that place and get on with life that we forgot. Or maybe we just didn’t know what to say… chained to a bed, completely dependent on nursing staff and overhearing everything that’s said, even when you try not to listen in… it makes talking easier, I guess. Being up and about again… it was too easy to run away. So we did.
I haven’t thought about her or that cafe in years, and don’t know what brought it to mind now. But truth be told, she should be remembered. It – she – was the one bright spot in the wash of numbness and pain of which my life consisted at that time. I really hope she is well and happy. I hope she recovered fully, and I guess, in a way… I hope she remembers, too.
Whether she does or not, I – at least – will always have Paris… *smiles quietly*