Once again, I'm roused by hospital sounds, beeping, whooshing, muted announcements from some far-away PA system. My eyes are still closed. I begin the process of coercing them to stay open, and they fall closed again several times.
Are these people drugging me? Is that why I'm having such a hard time waking up?
Oh, right, of course they're drugging me. I just had my leg cut off, so I'm sure the pain meds are heavy duty, like morphine or something. I'm thankful for them, but I don't like the feeling of not being in control of my body.
Then I hear soft weeping. My mother is crying again.
"She's alive, Gabby." My father's soothing voice breaks through my fog. "She looks better than I thought she would."
Strange. I wonder if my dad expected me to be in a coma, covered with all sorts of tubes and bandages.
"And you know our Sarah," my dad continues in a quiet voice. "She's one tough girl. She will do everything she can to get her life back. She's as strong as an ox and stubborn as a mule."
I'm not sure if I should be insulted or encouraged by my father's assessment of me. I hear some more shuffling, probably my dad giving my mom another solid hug. For as much as he travels, my parents have a strong marriage, and I've always appreciated the way my dad takes care of my mom. When he's here, anyway.
I will my eyes to open and stay open. Sure enough, mom is wrapped in dad's arms, but as soon as he notices that I'm awake, he rushes over.
"Hi, Baby Girl." I'm calmed by my father's hushed voice, breathing his greeting onto my forehead. He follows with a kiss.
"Hi, Daddy." I blink my eyes. "You made it."
"Of course, Baby. I'm sorry it took me so long to get here." Same old story. He was tied up in meetings and couldn't get away. But something is different this time. I notice a crack in his voice, and then I meet his gaze. Tears are starting to brim over his eyes.
"Daddy, it's okay...."
Then my father, the very capable and successful businessman who travels the globe and stays in hotels more often than he sleeps in his own bed, begins to weep. "No, it's not. It's not okay, Sarah. You could have died and I wasn't here for you." He leans down and puts his head on my shoulder as if he's the one who needs comfort. It's hard to believe that he's the one who was speaking words of confidence to my mom just a few moments ago. I hug him and stroke his hair a little.
My mom walks over and rubs his back. He pulls away and continues, "When your mom first called me about the accident, she didn't tell me how serious it was. I mean, she didn't know how serious it was, really. I'm sorry," he repeats and chokes back a few more sobs. "When we hung up, I assumed that you would have a broken arm or something easy to fix. I figured I would try to carve out some time to come home for a weekend to check up on you. Your mom couldn't contact me again for a few days because I had my phone off during some important meetings. I mean, she could have called the emergency contact numbers for my company, but I know that she couldn't even think straight when she found out how serious it was. I hopped on the next plane as soon as she told me."
He breaks down again, and after another round of weeping, he says, "I'm so sorry, Baby. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me."
"Daddy, of course I forgive you. I'm okay now. I'm alive and you're here. I was really out of it until today anyway...or was it yesterday?"
"Okay, Baby," he agrees, stroking my hair and sniffling. He gives me one more giant hug and whispers, "I'm so thankful you're alive." He sits down next to me with a big sigh.
"So, how are you doing with all of this?" He asks.
I shrug. "I don't know. I can't figure out if I'm sad or weirded out or just really pissed."
Dad laughs. "I can't imagine. This has to be really tough. It's tough for Mom and me, but you're the one going through it and you haven't had much time to process everything."
I nod and then I stifle a huge yawn. My mom leans in for a hug and tells me that she's going home. I can imagine that she's thoroughly exhausted. I doubt she's left the hospital much at all during the past five days.
"Good, you need some rest, Mamá," I tell her. "Te quiero."
"Oh, you're so sweet," she coos, kissing my cheek. "Don't worry about me, I'll be fine."
I sigh deeply as she walks out the door. I'm so tired in every way, emotionally, physically, mentally.
"You get some sleep, too, Baby Girl," Dad says. "I know it's pretty late. I'll be here when you wake up."
I close my eyes and drift off immediately.
When I wake up again, I see that my dad hasn't left the chair. He's slumped over, snoring lightly, with his coat draped over him. I must have slept through the last two or three vitals checks. I hope my mom is getting some good sleep at home and not worrying about me.
I think a little bit about what my dad asked me last night.
How am I doing?
How am I supposed to be doing? I lost my leg. It sucks, to be honest. I'm sure it will take some time for me to fully accept that my leg is gone and that my body will be different. I know it in my mind, but I don't want to accept it yet. It's not fair. For the rest of my life, I will be different, compromised, less... less something, but I don't know what yet.
But whatever it is, it will be for the rest of my life.
For the rest of my life!
I've never been one to admit defeat and I'm not going to start now. Surely there must be some kind of new technology they can use to re-attach my leg. Part of me is still waiting for the doctor to come in and tell me that I'm part of a psychological study about people who think they've lost their limbs, but now the study is over and I can have my leg back.
As much as I try to come up with ridiculous alternatives to having no leg, I know enough about medical advances, and certainly, they haven't come up with limb transplants just yet. I just hate feeling like I have no control over this. I didn't want to lose my leg and no one even asked me! Why couldn't they have at least waited until I woke up so that I'd be in on the decision process?
I figure it's time to try exploring my new body again, to see if it sickens me as much as it did the first time. I feel down the outside of my right thigh again. I hesitate at the bottom before moving over the stump and then back up the inside of my thigh. I start to feel faint again, but this time, it's not as bad. I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth. Twice. Three times. The feeling eventually subsides.
"You okay, Sarah?" My dad asks, obviously just having awakened.
"Yeah. I'm just trying to get used to this," I point to my leg. "It's just...I don't know, creepy, I guess, that it's not there anymore."
"I wish I could tell you it's going to be easy. I don't know how long it takes to get used to something like this." He gives me the most encouraging smile he can muster. "But I do know, Sarah, that you are the most persistent young lady I know. So, that's got to count for something."
"Strong as an ox and stubborn as a mule, or so they say," I smirk.
My dad looks down at his hands and smiles sheepishly, saying, "Oh, you heard that, did you? I meant it in the best possible way."
I just laugh at him. Even though I've spent a lot of time being angry that he's gone so much, I love him dearly, and I'm always thankful he's my dad. I guess you could say it's kind of a love-hate relationship but mostly love.
Soon, we're joined by a woman in a dark pink sweater and khaki slacks. Her long blond hair has such perfect curls at the end that I almost wonder if they're fake.
"Hi, I'm Carol," she smiles, and her voice is almost as bouncy as her curls. "I'm an Occupational Therapist."
"Sarah," I say simply.
"Sarah, I'm going to show you some tricks today. Since you've lost a limb, you might not be able to do things the same as you did them before, things like bathing, dressing, or going to the bathroom. Over the next few days, I'll be helping you to do those things while compensating for your lost limb."
I nod and give her my best 'I'm ready' smile, although I'm not sure I'll ever be ready.
Dad gives me one last kiss and tells me he's going home to get a shower and some sleep. "Mom should be here soon. I'll be back later today," he tells me as he waves goodbye.
"Can I use the bathroom first?" I ask Carol. The nurse had removed my catheter yesterday, but I haven't been allowed to leave my bed.
"Of course," Carol replies, bringing a bedpan to me.
I groan in disappointment. "Can't I just hop over to the bathroom? You can hold on to me. It shouldn't be too hard, right?"
"I'm sorry," Carol tells me. "I'm not allowed to do that, and you haven't been cleared for wheelchair use yet. It's the good old bedpan for now. Besides, it's hard to move when you're still connected to the IV."
I roll my eyes, not at Carol, but at the idea that I can't get up and do something as simple as peeing on my own. It feels more like they're punishing me than protecting me. I take care of business and Carol swiftly removes the pan.
She pulls the blankets away and helps me to sit up. I haven't really looked at my right leg – well, what remains of my right leg – yet. I'm not as shocked as I thought I'd be. But then again, I've been in sort of a constant state of shock since I woke up three days ago. Besides, the stump is still covered in thick layers of bandages. And there are no gruesome blood stains like you might see on a soap opera. It's just a wad of white at the end of my now very short leg.
I'm actually more startled at the appearance of my left leg. There is a long, narrow strip of gauze that must be covering the stitches. But the rest of the leg has these huge, dark purple and blue-green bruises everywhere, which frankly, I find appalling.
"We'll have to give you another sponge bath today."
"Another?" I ask, cringing.
"The patient care techs do sponge baths for people when they're unconscious or in a coma."
The thought of someone else sponging off my naked body makes me feel sick. I wouldn't want that kind of help, even if I was fully conscious. I like to be able to do things for myself and I've never been one to ask for help. I guess I really am stubborn as a mule because if I can't do something by myself, I will try and try and try until I get it right. Asking someone else to help me is never an option. Obviously, I had no say in the matter while I was out for a few days, but it's still unsettling.
"You're still connected to so many tubes and wires, and your legs are very weak," she explains. "Once you transfer to a regular bed, we can think about getting you into the shower."
She pulls the privacy curtain around my bed, for which I'm very grateful. I'm in a room by myself, but I'd hate for someone to walk in while I'm sponge-bathing. I'm already mortified enough at the thought of someone else washing me without my knowledge. It seems like, at every turn, there's someone making a decision for me, doing things to me, making changes against my will, and I don't like it.
Carol brings a small pan of hot water to my bedside. She places a few towels under my head and washes my hair rapidly. I wish she would take a little longer with it because it feels nice to have her massage my scalp. All too quickly, though, she's finished and wraps a towel around my head.
She unceremoniously opens the snaps on my gown and pulls it away. I'm just sitting here with my breasts exposed and Carol doesn't even flinch.
She's used to it, I think. But I'm not. I'm not a prude or anything. I wear a bikini in the summer. I get dressed in front of my room-mate. But it's just a little odd to strip down in front of a stranger.
I realize that I do smell pretty funky. I glance down to see that I have on a pair of hideous mesh underwear.
Carol notices and says, "We'll leave those for now, okay?"
"Sure," I say. Actually, I'd really like to take them off because they're so ugly.
She quickly puts a plastic bag over my stump and tapes it shut with first aid tape. Then she fills a pink plastic basin with hot water and hands it to me, along with a washcloth. I start washing my body, but then I stop. "What about the sheets?" I ask.
"I'll change your sheets when we're all done."
I finish washing everything I can reach. Carol smooths the washcloth down my back and then hands it back to me. "These open right here," she says, pointing to the side of the mesh underwear. "They're disposable. Just let me know when you're finished washing up." She steps behind the curtain to give me a smidgen of privacy.
I tear off the mesh panties and toss them onto the floor. I wash around my private areas as best I can since I can't exactly stand up to do it. Once I finish, I'm completely naked and getting cold. "Is there a towel?" I ask, beginning to shiver.
"Sorry about that," Carol quips as she hands me a surprisingly fluffy towel. I dry off and then leave the towel over as much of my breasts and hips as I can.
"I'm done."
She's amazingly quick about covering my body with a fresh gown. Once it's all snapped into place, she instructs me to roll over to my left side. Even a simple thing like rolling seems like a chore right now. My body must be really weak after lying here for days and I find it discouraging. And annoying.
Carol pulls the sheets off of the right side of my bed and then tells me to roll to the other side. After removing one set of sheets, she has me repeat the same maneuvers as she swiftly replaces all my bedding.
We hear a knock at the door and Carol disappears for a moment to see who it is. "Is it okay if your mother comes in?" She asks.
"Of course," I say as I make sure I'm covered, not that it really matters. She is my mother, after all. But still, it would be weird to greet her in my birthday suit.
"Well, we just have to finish getting you dressed," Carol says, handing me a pair of hospital-issue panties.
I cringe and beg my mother, "Please tell me you brought me some of my own underwear!"
She pulls a pair out of the small suitcase she's carrying and hands them to me.
Carol shows me how to pull them on without putting any pressure on my legs. I might be tempted to push upward with my legs to get the underwear over my backside, but she instructs me to "roll" my hips into them, the way I had done with the blankets.
"Perfect! I'll have a lot more to teach you once you've transferred. Would you like a warm blanket?" She asks.
"I'd love one." I am feeling a bit chilled since I was sitting here naked and wet just a bit ago.
Carol leaves, comes back quickly with a heated blanket and drapes it over me, and then she departs again just as quickly.
"You look great, honey!" My mom gushes.
I laugh when my mom pulls out a brush and some makeup and hands them tome. "Oh, I look great, hey, Mom? What are these for then?"
"Well, you are always beautiful, mija, but I thought you would appreciate some of your own things from home."
"Thanks, Mamá," I say, really looking at her while I'm speaking.
She's petite, about an inch shorter than me, but she looks especially tiny compared to my dad's 6'2" frame. I remember last night's vision of him wrapping himself around her in his comforting embrace.
I hope to find a love like theirs someday, not that I'm impatient to find love at all. It might never happen now, with this new "development" in my life. I've never felt like I had to have a man to complete me. If I don't find the right person, I've always thought I'd be fine pursuing my career and living on my own.
At least I used to think I'd be fine with that. Now I wonder how on earth I'll ever manage anything on my own.
My mood lifts after I've had a chance to brush my hair with my own brush and not a hospital-issued comb. I've always liked my auburn strands. Without a hairdryer, I know that they will curl up as they dry, but I don't care. I'm happy to have washed away the greasy look.
Next, I apply a bit of makeup. Just a little foundation and some mascara. My green eyes pop in the morning sunlight streaming through my window.
I breathe a sigh of relief. I look like the same girl I was a week ago.
Not everything has changed.
* * * * *
Love you all!