Page 66 of Speechless

No, not now, come on Henry, not NOW.

This hasn’t happened to me in weeks, but I realize Lucy isn’t here. She’s been my anchor, better than any drug, keeping my anxiety at bay. Now that I’m alone again, it’s like nothing has changed. The nurse looks at me questioning, but I just stare back at her. It’s a stalemate and I want to murder my own fucking brain right now for failing me.

“Hey, did you find out where she is?” Thank God, Graham is here. I meet his eyes and he immediately knows what’s going on. I really don’t know what I’d do without him. He was the first person other than my mum or dad who truly accepted me, encouraged me to have a real life. He takes care of asking all the questions but unfortunately, they tell us to sit and wait anyway.

Thirty minutes, thirtyexcruciatingminutes later, a nurse finally tells us Lucy has been moved from the ER and is seeing a doctor on the eighth floor. We get up there as quickly as we can and run in a few circles before finding someone who can give us a room number. All the nurses up here are wearing pink when I could swear it was all blue and green scrubs down below.

I hear someone tell us we can’t go into her room unless we’re family but Graham and I charge through the door before anyone can stop us.

31

Lucy

Not again.I had my last surgery less than a year ago and that same pain is already back. I can’t believe how sudden it came on this time. I came-to in the ambulance, feeling mostly embarrassed. I didn’t need to be rushed to an emergency room. I knew exactly what was wrong. Once we got here, I explained everything to the staff and after a few tests and scans they moved me upstairs, so that I could explain everything again to another nurse.

I hate hospitals. I should just wear a list of my medical history around my neck.

“So, Lucy.” I see the doctor reading over my chart. “I hear you're already a pro at this. How many laparoscopies have you had now?”

“Five.”

“I’m so sorry, hun. I’m giving you something for the pain now. Do you have a primary gynecologist we should notify?”

“Actually, no. I just moved here from Boston about two months ago.” I haven’t exactly gotten around to finding a new doctor in LA yet, which surprises me. It’s probably irresponsible but I have a feeling it’s also contributed to how much lighter I’ve been feeling.

Dr. Wasserman tells me she’d be happy to see me in her office later this week to establish care. Then she continues poring over all the paperwork that came upstairs with me from the ER.

“Okay. I want to get you an ultrasound today. The CT SCAN showed a pelvic mass and I’d like to take a closer look.”

Graham and Henry crash into the room breathless, like they ran here all the way from Malibu.

“Do you know these men, Lucy?” Dr. Wasserman looks like she’s about ready to throw them out if I say the word.

“Yeah, they’re my roommates, they’re fine.”

“Lucy, what happened? Are you okay, are you hurt? What is that sticking out of your arm? Is she hurting y—”

“Henry, I’m fine. Calm down, okay? You’re freaking me out.”

Dr. Wasserman completely ignores him as she makes her way toward the door. “All right Lucy, I’m going to send in the nurse to get some more vitals from you. Then we’ll get you down for an ultrasound, just to rule out anything that will require surgery today.”

“Surgery!?”

“Henry, chill out!”

He finally focuses his eyes and starts to resemble himself instead of a wild animal. I had no idea he’d react this way. It’s kind of sweet, but also a little annoying if I’m being honest.

Really though, I should be grateful. The last time I went through this was right before Jack left me. The day of my follow-up when they showed us all the test results that meant our future family was an impossible dream. How some women can get through this unscathed, but I was just one of the unlucky ones. It would be so much harder to be alone right now. Having him and Graham both here means the world to me.

What’s the best way to tell my housemates I have severe chronic endometriosis? That every so often, my medication fails me and I suffer excruciating, debilitating pain throughout the whole lower half of my body. That getting a minimally invasive surgery once a year is really not the worst part of it at all.

Well, there really is no smooth way to deliver that so I just blurt it out. And I’m received with blank stares, unsurprisingly.

The nurse comes in and asks if I have any questions about the next steps. “No, I’ve been through all this before, thank you.”

“Okay, is there any possibility of pregnancy?” I start to laugh, and apparently it’s joyless because she looks down at me like she just found out I’m terminal.

I think this is the fourth time I’ve been asked this today since waking up in the ambulance. I can’t fault them, not really. I’m a thirty-year-old woman who fainted unexpectedly. But every time I hear the question it’s like driving a tiny dagger into my heart. I wish I could just get a stamp on my forehead that saysnot pregnantand maybe I would never have to hear that aching question ever again.

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