Page 128 of Riding the Edge

Chapter Thirty-eight

Al returned to the hospital after having assessed the situation with the club and other than revealing the guys would not be arraigned for a few days due to the holiday weekend, we didn’t speak about the Satan’s Knights. The anesthesia had worn off, and I was feeling the effects of the surgery. I was in pain and every nurse and doctor in sight was poking me, emptying my drains and checking my incisions. I felt like a science experiment and truth be told, I couldn’t wait to be released.

However, going home was no better. Two days after surgery, I was in my own house, my own bed, and instead of nurses and doctors ogling me, it was Adrianna and Lauren. They took turns changing my bandages and emptying my drains. And before I went to bed, Lauren would stop by and help me undress and pin the drains to the inside of my nightgown. As parents, I don’t think any of us want to inconvenience our children. After all, it’s our job to take care of them, isn’t it? It shouldn’t be the other way around yet the only thing I didn’t want more than being a burden to my kids was having Al see me like this.

I wasn’t only feeling helpless, but I was I also insecure in my own skin and couldn’t help but feel as though I was mutilated. My femininity was slipping from me and though Al had done nothing but say all the right things and support me. He cooked, he cleaned and slipped into bed at night, looking to hold me but I didn’t let him. Instead, I counted the minutes until the arraignment, knowing then and only then, he’d leave my side and I’d finally be alone.

Without him or the girls near, I could cry.

I could scream.

I could take the bandage off and finally face what I have been avoiding.

Now, he’s at the courthouse and I’m standing in the bathroom, trying to find the courage to look at myself. Drawing in a deep breath, I lift my head and open my eyes. My fingers move to the buttons on my blouse and I force myself to undo them. Cringing through the pain, I cross my arms and drag the silk away. My eyes dart to the two drains pinned to my pants, and a gasp escapes my lips. Tears start to blur my vision as I reach across the counter for one of the plastic cups the doctor gave me when I was discharged. Ripping the top off the drain, my fingers tremble as I empty the contents into the cup. I repeat the process for the second drain and take a step backward as my eyes follow the length of the tubes that disappear under my bra.

Foolishly, I thought it would be a long while until I wore a bra again, but I quickly learned there were bras made especially for mastectomy patients. It was as soft as a sports bra and it had Velcro straps that wrapped around the shoulders and a Velcro closure that rested where my cleavage once had.

Holding my breath, I lift my hands to the closure and slowly peel it apart. The straps fall from my shoulders, revealing the gauze covering my wounds. Since the plastic surgeon was able to begin the reconstruction, I’m not as flat as I expected and what once filled a C-cup is now barely enough to fill a B.

As I reach for the corner of the gauze, I close my eyes.

You are a survivor.

You are strong.

You are a warrior.

I peel the bandage away from me and open my eyes.

A sob wretches from my gut and echoes off the walls of the bathroom as I gawk at my body, at the two angry red scars that stand in place of my nipples.

The tears stream down my cheeks as my knees threaten to buckle and I grab the edge of the counter to steady myself. As much as I want to look away, I can’t.

I stare at my scars and weep.

I mourn the loss.

I might be a survivor.

But I also have two scars that prove I’m a victim too.

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