Page 72 of I Almost Do

I just do the "get on with it" wave. My ability to pretend not to be an asshole is nonexistent in this moment.

"Your wife is currently in exploratory surgery for suspected ovarian torsion." She passes me a sheaf of papers. Like I'm supposed to be able to sift through this shit right now.

"You couldn't Life Flight her out of this place to a hospital that specializes in this surgery?" I demand.

"I assure you, we are well qualified to perform this type of surgery, Mr. Mellinger. And your wife was experiencing a true medical emergency. She required immediate care. It was in her best interest for the surgery to be performed here."

"Do you know who she is?" I snap out.

The administrator, whose name I've already forgotten, drops her chin and gives me the kind of look a fourth-grade teacher gives an unruly student. "Mr. Mellinger, I am well aware of who Clarissa Harcourt-Mellingeris."

The woman puts her hands on me. Sticks her hands right on my biceps, like we're buddies or she's my Little League coach, telling me to swing for the stands.

"She's a young woman surrounded by people who love her. That tells me all I need to know about who sheis."

There's a knock on the door, and a sturdy brown-haired woman in scrubs enters. "She's in recovery."

Am I supposed to just trust that some ob/gyn in the middle of nowhere PA did everything exactly as it should have been done? Fuck that. I've already had Rebecca organize a surgeon from Brigham and Women's Hospital to come in to consult. I wouldn't even send a report past my desk that hasn't been double-checked by a second set of eyes for errors. I’m sure as hell not just trusting that this doctor knew what she was doing when she cut into my wife.

The Boston surgeon's not here yet, of course, because nobody else is as big of a lunatic as Dean and I were. But when she arrives, and she confirms everything was done exactly as it should have been, and takes over her follow-up care, thenmaybeI'll be able to breathe again.

The gist of all this was that Clarissa had a large cyst on her ovary that eventually caused the ovary to twist and cut off blood flow.

According to Jeanine and Bronwyn, she'd started vomiting and running a fever this morning. She'd insisted it was a stomach bug and attempted to take one of her finals this morning anyway—until she promptly passed right out in class from pain and blood loss from internal bleeding.

The ovary and fallopian tube are both gone now. They were starved of blood flow for too long to save. They couldn't do the laparoscopic version of the surgery on her, so she has a large incision under her belly button and will take close to two months to recover, just from the surgery. That's not including follow-up to determine whether she has any cysts on the remaining ovary.

The only silver linings I can find are that she hasn't gone septic, the cyst appears to have been benign, though we're still waiting on official results, and she does still have one ovary remaining, which means future fertility, while diminished, is still a possibility.

Three days ago, I had the opportunity to take her to a hospital immediately. Three days ago, they probably could have saved her ovary. They could have prevented infection and blood loss.

Three days ago, I said, "I'll schedule you for after graduation." And she said she didn't see what difference a week or two would make.

She's lucky she's alive.

I'm epically failing to care for the greatest gift in my life. I've never deserved her, and I've always known it. When Marcus said, "I need you to marry her," I thought it then. I thought the very idea of marrying Clarissa Harcourt was like flying too close to the sun. I'd crash and burn, and my greatest fear was that she'd burn with me.

She's so pale in that hospital bed. The only color anywhere is her hair, where the auburn highlights glimmer in a halo as she rests against the pillow.

When I entered her room, a nurse handed me a small ziplock bag with her wedding rings inside. Something about that, having a sympathetic-looking woman in hospital scrubs pass me a plastic bag with my wife's wedding rings in it, gutted me.

I'm sitting in a green Naugahyde chair, pulled up next to her bed, forearms resting on my knees, hands and head hanging loose, when I hear her shift on the bed. I look up as her eyelashes flutter, and she turns her head. She's looking for me. I know because her whole expression relaxes when she sees me.

“You’re here,” she says.

I brush her hair back from her forehead. “Sweet girl, make no mistake. When you need me, I will always be here.”

She takes me in, and I'm not sure what it is she sees, but she gives me a gentle smile and says, "You look like shit."

My words are like gravel. “Don’t make a joke of this.”

She reaches for me, holding on to my hand. “Hey. I’m okay.”

She doesn’t understand. “Nothing can happen to you, Clarissa,” I grind out. “Not ever. I couldn't take it.”

28

I Don't Want to Lose You

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