I run through the words in my mind. Try to use them to ground me here, now. They still don’t sound like words that belong to me. I move to sit up, but the stab of pain in my core stops me. Broken ribs. Those belong to me. Those are too real.
I reach for the call button like the nurse showed me to do if I hurt too much, but my fingers hover in the air above it, trembling. I close my eyes and wait for the pain to subside, try to keep my breaths shallow and fight through it. I don’t want the dull, drowsy feeling the medication brings as it replaces the pain. Actually, I almost don’t want the pain to go away. I almost need to feel it to remind me that this is real, and that something happened to me. Something I can’t remember and still don’t know all the details of.
I hadn’t gotten a chance to ask any more questions, because the nurse came in with a list of things for me to do: swallow some water, keep it down, get out of bed. Move. Walk. At first I thought it was funny how she’d made it sound like she was asking a lot of me, and how nervous it’d made my parents. Like doing those things would be a big deal.
Then I tried the first thing on her list—to drink some water. And I understood.
Little things become big things when your body has been broken. And the big things are a struggle. Like the physical act of swallowing a tiny sip of water after having a ventilator tube in your throat for days. Or fighting the immediate wave of nausea it sets off. Or lowering your feet to the floor and trusting that somehow your legs will still be able to hold you up.
I’d done these things, and my parents had watched, murmuring words of encouragement. When I’d swallowed the water, and kept it down, they’d looked relieved. When I’d gotten out of bed, stood on shaky legs, and taken a few steps to the bathroom with their help, they’d all congratulated me like I was crossing a finish line. It had taken everything out of me—more than I’d realized it would, but they told me over and over how strong I was, and I’d tried my best to believe them.
Here, now, alone in the dark, I want to try to do more. I tell myself I’m strong, and that there are things I need to know. I tell my brain that maybe it doesn’t need to protect me so much from all those things. That it’s okay for me to remember the details of what happened. That I need to remember them, because I don’t feel like myself right now.
I close my eyes and concentrate. Wait for something, anything to come to me, but my mind is as dark as the night sky. I scan the darkness, wait another moment. Hope for an image to streak across it like a shooting star, but there’s nothing. Not even a pinpoint of light.
It’s the loneliest thing I’ve ever felt.
I’m on my own for this. Alone inside myself. Across the room, a shiny balloon sways in the artificial breeze beneath a vent in the ceiling. My eyes follow the ribbon down to the table, where it’s anchored. It’s covered with bouquets of flowers with their tiny notes stuck into them, cards propped up in the spaces between their vases. Get Well wishes for me from people who know more about what happened to me than I do.
I move slowly this time, anticipating the pain that will come with what I’m going to do. I tell myself I can do this, and acknowledge the pain in my rib cage—my new companion everywhere I go. After a moment, I’m sitting upright. A little thing that’s now a big thing. Next, I slide my legs to the edge of the bed, like Betina showed me, and carefully lower them, inch by inch, until my toes brush the floor. When they do, I’m glad for the grippy socks she’d put on my feet—lifesaving socks, she’d called them with a laugh. The floor shines slick in the light from the hall, and now that I have to do this without her help, I think I understand what she meant. It makes me nervous.
I test my weight, first on one foot, then the other, and once both feet are pressed flat to the ground, rubber pads sticking to the floor, I edge myself off the bed. The IV pole has to come with me, so I loop the tubes over my arm like she showed me. With one hand on the stand and the other trailing on the bed for balance, I move toward the end of the bed, where I’ll have to let go for a moment to cross the small distance to the table that holds flowers and stuffed animals and balloons and Get Well cards.
At the end of the bed, I take a breath—not too deep—before I let go and step away. My ribs and the muscles around them protest against the extra work it takes them to help me walk the three steps to the table. I have to rest a moment when I reach it, but it’s a proud moment.
I made it. And somewhere, in the flowers and cards in front of me, there will be something that helps me remember. I look at the bright bouquet of pink and white roses directly in front of me and take the little card from its plastic spear.
Dear Olivia and Jordan family,
Our thoughts and prayers are with you for a full recovery. Please let us know if you need anything at all. We’re just a doorstep away.
All our love,
Carol and Roger
I smile. The Abifadels. They’ve always been my favorite neighbors because they’re like grandparents to everyone on our cul-de-sac. Everyone calls them Mr. and Mrs. A for short. She always has a treat and a joke for whatever kids are around, and he cooks for an army every Sunday—all sorts of Middle Eastern dishes—then sends them around to all the neighbors. I look around, half expecting to see some gift of food from them too, and then I remember that I’ve been on a feeding tube for over a week. They probably knew that, and I bet they’ve been trying to feed my parents instead.
I glance at another bouquet; this one is a huge bunch of some happy red flowers whose name I don’t know. I pluck the card that’s tucked down among them. The writing is messy, and I don’t recognize it.
Liv,
Your favorites, for when you wake up.
Love you
I turn the card over, but there’s no signature. I look at the red flowers again, and the words stick in my head. My favorites? I’m not even sure I have a favorite flower, but this person seems to think so. I look from the flowers to the card, and back again, hoping for some spark of recognition. The Love you makes it seem like I should know, but nothing comes. I give the flowers one last glance, then put the card back carefully and decide to come back to it.
I move to the next flower arrangement, which Betina had brought in earlier in the evening. It’s a huge mixed bouquet with a big bunch of shiny balloons attached, and an unopened envelope. I say a silent thank-you to her for allowing me the privilege of opening it myself, now that I’m awake. Inside the envelope is not a card, but a note card, with the letters of our local news station printed across the top. I feel the pinch of my inhale in my ribs as I pull it out and read:
Dear Olivia,