Page 6 of Doctor Second Chance

I nod, trying to believe her words. But the truth is, I'm scared. I'm afraid of the surgery, of the unknown, of possibly never waking up again if I do go in for surgery.

For a brief moment, I consider picking up my phone to call Justin. I know he would be kind and would probably offer to drive here to be with me. Selfishly, I want to do that just to have someone here—someone to know if I don’t wake up from surgery.

But I know it isn’t right. I know he would be here for me at a moment’s notice, and that is exactly why I shouldn’t. Because I know it would be for the wrong reasons. Nothing has changed for me regarding our relationship. I can’t do that to him.

He is everything any woman would want in a husband. But I never had those feelings for him, and I could not see myself marrying him. He’d been dropping the hints for a while. I just knew I wouldn’t get there because my annoyance and resistance grew every time he mentioned it.

Part of me worried that by staying with Justin, as wonderful as he is, I might end up holding both of us back from finding our true life-partners. So I ripped off the band-aid and broke it off, as painful as it was, convinced it was for the best.

Sitting in a bed in this cold hospital room, I can't help but wonder. Was I throwing away a good thing because I had unrealistic expectations? Maybe Justin was as good as it will get for me, and I torpedoed it out of some misguided search for a storybook romance.

8:04 pm

Sophie finally left about an hour ago after I recapped what the doctor said. And how he seemed to be leaning toward surgery, depending on the scans. Even in the best of circumstances, I’m not out of here anytime soon.

Here it is eight o’clock, and I’m still waiting on a prognosis. I’m so grateful Sophie finally listened to me and left.

My phone buzzes on the tray over my bed. I turn it over and see it’s Isabella.

“What are you doing calling me? Go enjoy your party, you crazy person!”

“I’m just so worried about you. Have you heard anything?”

“Still nothing. Things move at a snail’s pace around here. I’ve never felt so out of control my entire life.”

“Well, we are all missing you here. It all looks amazing. Thank you for everything you did to make this happen. I’m so sorry you’re not here with us. Can I come see you tomorrow?”

“Of course. Maybe if we are lucky, I’ll be gone. But either way, yes, I want to see you.”

I say that, but with each passing minute I’m less convinced that will happen. I try to keep all of my despair out of my voice, hoping to sound chipper and upbeat. But I felt anything but.

“Go to your party. Enjoy. I love you!”

“I love you, Elly-Belly.”

I put my phone down, and then I lost it. Just hearing her voice somehow puts me over the edge, and I can’t hold it back anymore. I reach for a small box of tissues on the same tray and blow my nose.

That is when I hear a man clear his throat with a deep baritone. I look up to see Dr. Hampton.

“Oh, hi there. Don’t mind me. I’m just having an existential crisis over here. All my friends are enjoying the party I was decorating for when this happened,” I say, trying to lift my hand to indicate the marshmallow hand that feels like it weighs a hundred pounds.

With only one hand, I blow my nose again and wipe my cheeks. It’s more challenging than I might have imagined it would be using only one hand. “Okay, I need some good news. What are we doing, Doc.”

He pulls out the computer beside the bed and swivels it to face me. He types something on the keyboard, and black-and-white images of what appears to be my hand pop up on the screen.

“I hate to tell you this, but your scans show what we suspected. You have severed your flexor tendon as well as a few smaller but still important tendons. This type of injury requires surgery to repair. Otherwise, you will not be able to use that hand.”

The surgeon’s words stay on repeat in my mind. A juxtaposition of Isabella’s kind, hopeful words and his harsh ones is like a tsunami in my brain. I want to make all the words stop, but I can’t.

His voice feels like the teacher from Charlie Brown’s school. “Womp womp womp womp womp.” His words are all blurred together, and they don’t make sense. The only thing I can process is surgery.

I feel like I am free-falling. My heart is racing, and all I want to do is scream my lungs out.

“You probably can't tell because of all the bandaging, but as it is now,” Dr. Hampton keeps droning on. “You will not be able to move your fingers, at least the first three, unless we reattach these tendons where they were severed.”

I have so many questions, but I’m unable to articulate them. I feel overwhelmed by everything he’s saying. It’s too much all at once.

“Will there be any irreversible damage? I mean, if you’re able to fix the tendons, what can I expect?”

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