The Boy from the Band

Found Out?

We were making love when the pain hit. It had been two weeks since he'd come back from the tour and it was the first time I'd seen him. He called me a few times and even sent me flowers, but this was the first opportunity we'd had to spend time together.

It was supposed to be our reunion after being apart and I'd been looking forward to it but the pain was an unwelcome intruder. I hoped he didn't notice, but he did.

"What's wrong, Dacy?" he asked and stopped. He pulled out of me though I didn't want him to.

"It's nothing, just be careful," I said, but he wasn't buying it. Inwardly I was thinking, oh no, not again, please god, not again.

I almost died a couple of years ago from a pelvic infection. I have a scar on my bikini line that's about four inches long that I'm very self-conscious about. Rick asked about it once and then never mentioned it again.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked, "Come on, you have to tell me."

"It wasn't you, it was me. It's like the time I had surgery, only the pain isn't as bad. Okay, I hurt, but I don't know where it's coming from."

"Do you think you're having a miscarriage? Or cramps?" He's asking questions only a married, or as good as married, man might ask his partner. He knows I don't use anything and we made a pact to decide what to do if I get pregnant. Personally, I plan on getting an abortion, I'm definitely not ready for motherhood.

"No, I'm not pregnant and it's too soon to have my period. Rick, I'm kind of scared that something bad might be happening and I'm going to wind up having surgery again." I know something is wrong, I can feel it. The last thing I want to do is go under the knife, but I may not have a choice.

"You go to the doctor, tomorrow, you hear me? And call in sick, none of this 'I'll be okay' bullshit. If you won't do it for yourself, do it for me."

"Yes, okay I will," I say meekly. I know he's right, I'd try to pretend it's nothing though I know better.

He does something he's only done once; he traces my scar with a gentle finger. "If you have to have surgery, that's okay. I'd rather see you with another scar than attend your funeral. Your life is half mine now, I want you to take care of yourself." He gets up and gets dressed. I don't want him to leave but I understand. He kisses me goodbye then says, "Go to the doctor."

At nine o'clock I call and make a doctor's appointment. Then I make a pot of coffee and call in sick to work. The last time I went through this I was still living in Seattle and working at a different phone company. I tell Dorothy, the world's greatest clerk, the whole ugly story and that I hope I'm not going to see a repeat of the past.

She tells me to take care of myself and asks if I've heard from Rick. Well, yes I have, I tell her, but I don't tell her about last night. I promise to rest and I'll get back to her and let her know what's going on.

I'm sitting in the doctor's office, hurting like hell. Excedrin isn't even touching this. I'm glad when my name is called and I go into the room. After the nurse does her thing Doc Amundsen comes in and looks at me over his half-glasses and asks where I hurt.

I point to my right side—where it all began—and his fingers probe my abdomen and he tells me he's going to have to do a pelvic, he can feel a mass there.

Yech, hate those, but I dutifully undress from the waist down and let him do his thing. He confirms that he has found something and has the nurse take some blood. I tell him about the pain, how bad it is, and can he give me something because over-the-counter medication isn't doing a thing. And please don't give me codeine.

I'm not a meds seeker and he knows it. He also knows my history and how scared I am. He's one of those older doctors with a kindly, no-nonsense manner. He pats my hand and says he'll give me some Percodan if it's that bad. And take it easy for a few days until the pain starts subsiding. He'll have the nurse call and tell me what course of action he's going to take.