It is now 1:00 in the afternoon.
I have been told that I have a 3cm brain tumor in my cerebellum that will come out through emergency neurosurgery tonight.
My mother-in-law sits in a chair across from my bed as we wait for transport to move me to Morristown.
Then it is 2:00. Then it is 2:30.
A nurse walks in.
“Excuse me, do you have any idea when the transport will be here?” I ask.
“If I said 10 hours, would you promise not to get mad at me?” She retorts. I think she’s kidding until I look at my mother-in-law.
“Well, you might be waiting here 10 hours, my dear,” she replies.
FUCK.
In the hours later I’ll learn that they are waiting for a bed to open up and transport has been delayed twice.
I watch two cops walk a woman in handcuffs. I laugh as the guy brought on the stretcher screams at the top of his lungs
“THERE’S NOTHING WRONG WITH ME! GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!”
YEP, I feel that dude.
Except there is something very wrong with me. But can I drive to Morristown and hug my kids one more time?
“No, no, no, you cannot do that,” they reply when I ask.”
“It’s a liability, you must be moved into our care.”
The guy on the stretcher is being removed.
“DON’T TOUCH MY FUCKING BRITCHES YOU GODDAMN FAGGOT” he yells to the doctor pleading with him to get into a hospital gown.
I smirk.
Passersby gape and sigh as they walk by his bay.
“I AM 70 YEARS OLD. THERE AINT NOTHING WRONG WITH ME!” He persists.
Oh my god, I love this man.
“WHO THE FUCK IS DROPPING ME OFF?” He barks at the EMT team walking past.
I return my attention to the nurse who slides in by my curtained-off bed.
I want to apologize for being a bitch, but I can’t.
I haven’t eaten or had any water all day, and I don’t know what the hell is happening right now.
Transport arrives at 8:15.
Two girls in their late 20s to early 30s.
Thank fucking god.
These are my kind of girls.
I make eye contact with the one transporting girl and instantly know that she’s here for me. She’s smiling! She’s beautiful.
Her partner helps Gable figure out the GPS for Morristown Parking as he asks if “there’s a parking lot at Morristown.” I can’t control my laughter. Fucking men.
They load me into the back of the ambulance, and it’s the first time I’ve had reliable cell service all day long. I make a post and talk with the transport girl.
An hour later, I am being rolled into a private room with hexagon tiling on the backsplash of the sink. They take my vitals, and someone from Neuro is there to see me.
“No, you will not be having the surgery tonight.” She informs me. I chug 2 vats of pebbled ice water as she shows me the imaging from the day. I don’t even care about food. I’ve never been more parched in my life.
The nurse pulls over her screen, and my brain illuminates the room.
“You can see your cerebellum is quite swollen, but fortunately, the rest of your brain looks good. There were lesions seen along your spine, which they will look for in your MRIs tomorrow.
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes,” she responds,” you will have surgery earliest on Monday, and they want four more images of you with and without contrast. That will happen to tomorrow, and the group will best determine what to take out after the proper imaging is set up.”
She leaves after an hour of our time, and Gable falls asleep on the cot.
All I can think about is Jet and Lennox, who are at Gigi and Poppop’s right now.
How was this not supposed to be the way it went down? This was supposed to be fucking allergies or misdirected tension.
I heave a sob. When the fuck will I see them again?
A nurse opens the door. “Good evening!” She smiles. She pulls a scanner from her pocket and scans my wristband as she simultaneously fumbles with my bed remote for a lighting button. Fluorescence punctuates the dark, but Gable snores along just fine.
“I’m here for your steroid.”
She comes around to my IV drip and connects a piece of plastic to my IV. She pushes the liquid through my veins. It is cold and awful, and the slumber evades me as she tries to smile reassuringly.
“This is to reduce the swelling in your brain.” She says like she’s from another world.
My body turns to ice. The smell of saline rips through my skull and peels me from peace.
“I will be back in two hours for your vitals and flush, okay, dear?” She shrugs. “Try to get some sleep!” The kind phantom nurse floats out the door, but I am still here. Alive? And unfortunately, awake.
My eyes are on the ceiling, staring at the “DO NOT FALL – CALL” sign. There are not enough blankets in the world to mummify my IV-plagued arms from myself. There is no yanking this thing out and getting in the car and pretending that I never went to the ER this morning.
I reach for my phone and pull up pictures of Jet and Lennox, and somewhere in the hours, it slips from my hands, and I wake up with no battery.
Kathlyn Ramsey Moore 