Shortly after Jonah
was born, I went back to school. I was
in graduate school, which means I taught classes in addition to the classes I took
for my degree.
My cell phone rang
at 12:15, when my 11:00 class let out. The cell phone was there, in case an emergency
came up.
It was Sunday. The incision from the C-section had come
open. I remember getting dizzy and my
chest tingling from fear. I gripped the
table I was walking past, and I really didn’t think I was going to make it out
of the room without breaking down crying.
She confirmed how
little she understood when she said, “There’s blood all over the place and I
called the doctor. We have an
appointment at 2:00.”
AN APPOINTMENT AT
2:00?!?! IS THIS DOCTOR CRAZY?
I asked Sunday if
she thought that an ambulance should be called or if I should meet her at the
hospital. At this point, she said the
one thing that I never expected: “No,
just go to your next class and meet me at 2:00 at the doctor’s.”
GO TO YOUR NEXT
CLASS AND MEET HER AT THE DOCTOR’S?!?!
IS THIS WOMAN CRAZY?!?!?!
At this point I remembered
something that I have consistently recognized at various points in our
relationship: Sunday’s a stud. She looks emotional and fragile and all that malarkey,
but that’s what all those sentiments are: malarkey. She’s as tough as nails and she is the
toughest when she needs it most.
She was focused and
I wasn’t.
That drive from the
campus to the doctor’s office was like moving through clear gelatin. I didn’t hear anything, everything was a blur,
and I really didn’t feel much, either. I
was scared to death. I didn’t know what
I was going to encounter when I got there.
Most of the stuff I imagined weren’t positive, and I have a pretty good
imagination.
When I got there, I
met her at the doctor’s waiting room and she looked just fine.
We went into the
doctor’s office—Sunday’s mother looked after Jonah, which was a huge help—and
we met another doctor who was not our doctor.
I immediately began worrying again.
A little
explanation. My marriage to Sunday
introduced me to a new concept: the
regularly-scheduled doctor’s appointment.
When I was a kid, we didn’t have those.
In fact, we didn’t have a “family doctor” which shocked Sunday when we
got married.
To me, “doctor”
meant the guy in the blood-splattered white coat at the Emergency Room. Unlike me, Sunday had scheduled doctor’s
appointments when they were well. My parents didn’t believe in that kind of
medicine. We went to the doctor when
some thing was sticking out of our skin or when someone had lopped something
off of someone else. Obviously, Sunday
was raised in a more civilized environment.
The doctor/patient relationship was more of an acquaintance for us, and
an invested partnership for Sunday.
I was used to
having a stranger take care of me, but Sunday wasn’t. She formed a bond, a relationship with the
person providing her medical care, and I didn’t think this new guy was going to
fly, mostly because he was new. But,
again, Sunday surprised me. She seemed
not the least bit nervous or uncomfortable.
As the doctor
looked at the bloody bandages and tape that Sunday had put on her belly to stop
the bleeding, he began explaining how this type of thing happened all the time
and that it wasn’t a big deal. (Yeah
right). I have noticed when a doctor
says that “this kind of thing happens all the time” he says it with the boredom
of an expert.
While he’s saying
“this sort of thing happens all the time,” I am thinking, yes, this happens all
the time. So do violent verbal
outbursts, mutilations, butt kickings and death—all of which may happen to the
next doctor who tells me that something “happens all the time.”
The doctor started
peeling off the layers that covered her wound, and everyone got quiet: Sunday, the doctor, the nurse, and me. When everything was uncovered, he did
something I didn’t expect: he opened her
incision about four inches long. Inside,
there were dark patches where her blood had clotted.
The doctor broke
the silence as he explained what happened.
The way he told it, the clotted blood inside her acted in the same way
that frozen water acts inside a plastic bottle.
Simply put, the clots expanded so much that it burst her incision. He pulled out clots that totaled the size of
my palm and then he turned to me and said, “Are you ready to be nurse?” I realized that this point was not the time
to make a joke and ask for my sexy nurse costume, so I just said, “Yes.” I have discovered that saying “yes” before I
really know what I am agreeing to can lead me into some exciting, daring
adventures. This wasn’t one of those times. This was a duty, not an adventure, a job, not
a thrill.
Then I started
running it through my head, “…in sickness and in health…”
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