4:30 A.M. I am woken by the sound of Eminem’s “Lose Yourself.” I dozily realize that Jewel has elected to start the most important day of her life, to date….with a song about a white rapper and the trials of battling in the ghetto.
I consider for what must be the millionth time how strange
my fiancé is, but then brush it off along with the sleep in my eyes. It is a cool morning so I am grateful for the
warm water in the shower. I contemplate
how this may very well be the only relaxing thing I do all day long. My thoughts are interrupted by Jewel
requesting that I hurry up.
Breakfast is not in the cards for us this morning. Jewel isn’t allowed to eat or drink so I
figure the polite thing to do would be to not gorge in front of her.
We arrive at Inova Fairfax Hospital by 6:00 AM. Several members of Jewel’s family are already
there, including some out-of-towners.
They greet us as one group of zombies greets other--mostly with grunting
and awkward shuffles. We settle into our
seats in a spacious waiting room.
Jewel and her father are called into the back for
processing. I am struck by a strange
parallel between a hospital wing that specializes in organ transplant and a
slaughter house. I push it aside and
follow at Jewel’s heels. Her father, Dallas,
is accompanied by his wife, Waltina.
Jewel heads to prep room “R”. This tiny rectangular room might as well be a
torture chamber. For the next two hours,
six different nurses come in to perform various tasks. One takes her blood pressure. Five minutes later another has her sign some
consent forms. A third asks her about
her medication history. Yet another asks
if she has a living will. The experience
is peppered with Jewel’s whimpering:
“Ouch. That IV needle
really hurts”
“I’m really nervous”
“I’m very cold and thirsty.”
“I’m scared.”
Each sentence she speaks pangs me. Her words are so heavy. I cannot remember the last time I ached with
sadness. I barely spoke at all. I feared that if I opened my mouth or even
made eye contact with Jewel that the dam would break and I’d begin sobbing
uncontrollably. I feign interest in some
medical equipment hung on a wall and struggle to hold up appearances. I’m supposed to be strong for Jewel’s sake--
to inspire confidence and make her feel at ease. But this day the only “support” I could
muster was to not crumble to pieces. If
Jewel’s mother had not also made her way into the room I question if I would
have been able to do it.
Jewel asks me if I am sick.
She tells me I don’t look well.
Apparently, I’m not faking being OK very well. I’m cautious to not make anything more than
very brief eye contact for fear that she will see my eyes glistening with
moisture.
I am afraid Jewel will die.
‘No operation is without risk’ one nurse had said. This fact has been drilled into me for the
past year. I’m convinced this is the
last time I will see the love of my life.
And like a flash they inject Jewel with some drug that
begins to force her eyes shut.
Half-assed goodbyes are exchanged.
No kiss. No “I love you.” Not
even a, “I’ll see you soon! Good luck!”
“Goodbye.”
*************************************************************************************
Four hours pass. Amy (the post-op nurse) introduces
herself. She speaks:
“Unfortunately…
Jewel is still in surgery.
There must have been some confusion but I’m here to clear that up for
you.”
Really? REALLY?! You led with ‘unfortunately’?!?!
She explains that only Dallas is in recovery. A previous nurse had earned a collective sigh
of relief from Jewel’s entourage by informing us that both she and Dallas had
successful surgeries and were in the recovery area slowly coming out of anesthesia.
The anxiety begins to creep back into me. I’m already sore in my shoulder and neck from
being so tense earlier. What’s another
few hours of wondering about the welfare of your future wife? We thank Amy and she skips away.
Two more hours pass.
I’ve found distraction in answering technology questions for Jewel’s
family and responding to the flurry of emails and text messages coming through
both of our phones. I am in the middle
of responding to a text message when a nurse appears in front of me telling us
that the surgery was a success and both patients are in recovery. I may see Jewel in about 30 minutes.
I am escorted to the recovery area with Waltina, Jewel’s
mother. Jewel’s area is a mess of tubes, machines, and
IV bags with long, complicated words printed on them. Another nurse pokes Jewel in the head and she
wakes up. Her eyes struggle to focus and
then she locks on me. The word “Hi”
limps out of her along with a tiny smile.
I repeat the sentiment and beam back at her.
“Am I healthy?” she asks.
I smile even brighter than before and kiss her on the
forehead.
“Yes, Jewel. You are”
*sniffle*
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