Because There Wasn’t Enough Blood Already
It feels like it has been 10 years since Thursday.
Since I nervously smiled at the receptionist at the Newton Medical Center ER desk.
But now we are years later into Monday.
Surgery is today.
I took a good shower the night before.
Scrubbed every crevice of my skin.
Dragged a razor up my leg
I have no idea when I’ll be able to do that again.
Someone from Neurology gives me the lowdown.
The surgery will take about two hours.
There is still no confirmed time.
But Dr. Moshel is expecting me.
Gable and I swing around the hours.
We asked the front desk if there had been a time added to the schedule.
They repeatedly tell us no and promise to check every half hour.
By 1:00, I am hangry and tell them we are going for a walk.
Gable and I sit in a round courtyard out front.
And I am fucking pissed.
The snake lifts its tail for the first time since I got here.
I could strangle someone for a cheeseburger and a chocolate milkshake.
I start spitting out curse words, and Gable rubs my back in fear.
“When the fuck is this going to happen? Am I just going to fucking die here, a ghost?”
A Carolina Wren swoops just overhead, and I try to calm myself to her call.
Look at the Sun.
When we get back to the room, I go to the bathroom.
My underwear is soaked in blood.
This is the first full period I’ve had in 4 months.
I never get my period anymore since I started taking Tamoxifen in 2022.
Because, Of fucking course.
I got it today.
I got it right now.
“GOD FUCKING DAMMIT!” I bellow.
“I JUST GOT MY FUCKING PERIOD.”
I hear Gable get up and come to the door.
I tell him to get the tampons out of the car, barely able to think through this starved and hormonally raged fury.
He comes back within 20 minutes, and I am cleaned up.
Just in time for transport to pass by the threshold of my door.
No warning, no heads up.
No polite exclamation.
Let’s go now.
“Mrs. Moore?” “We are ready to take you down to the OR.”
Great. Let’s get this over with.
He takes one look at me,
“WHOAH M’AM! I SEE A FEW THINGS THAT WILL NEED TO GO BEFORE YOU.
I see you’re wearing pants, socks, shoes, underwear, and jewelry. That all needs to come off now.”
I storm into the bathroom.
I am not taking off my underwear.
I am not bleeding out into my own bed.
They can pry them off my ass with their bare hands.
I hand Gable my rings and give him a kiss.
I lay down on the stretcher.
The transporter asks if Gable can rap?
The transporter clearly does not read the mood.
We are just so not in the mood for this right now.
I glare at Gable and tell him to rap like my life depends on it.
He launches into a song Lennox sings at preschool about rhyming words.
The transporter is not impressed.
Neither am I.
My life’s dependencies shrink entirely when we are in the holding bay.
Get my show pony husband out of here.
Get this fucking tumor out of my brain.
Get me a woman who will give me a pad and disposable underwear.
Get me a woman who has bled out before surgery.
I roll my eyes at the transport man.
Sir, I am a nice woman.
But not today.
This is my last level of patience.
I cross my arms and figure out who the hell is going to give me socks.
My feet are cold.
My toes dangle from the stretcher edge.
And I imagine a placecard with my information dangling from my big toe.
“PLEASE FEED THE PATIENT A CHEESEBURGER AFTER HANDLING BRAIN MATTER
AND A CHOCOLATE MILKSHAKE IF YOU CAN SPARE IT.”
Kathlyn Ramsey Moore 