Page 122 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

“Non,” I said. “Needing to fart doesn’t make you run a fever, babe. You need to go to the hospital.”

Peter grumbled and tried to shove my hand away from his head before another pain ripped through his body, forcing him to clutch his stomach again. Before he could build a case and protest what I’d suggested, I rose and went over to flip the lights on. Peter shut his eyes at the sudden burst of light. No longer in the dark, I could see that Peter wasn’t experiencing a typical stomach cramp. Pasty white, sweating through the t-shirt he’d put on before we went to sleep, his hair matted with damp, I knew he was not well.

“Don’t call a fucking ambulance,” he hissed.

“Do you prefer that we rely on my driving skills to get us to the hospital?” I asked, my hands on my hips. “Because you’re going one way or the other.”

I was not going to be nice to Peter when it came to the fact that he was going to the hospital. One way or another, he was going. I was no medical expert, but I knew danger when I saw it. Focusing on Peter and getting him to the hospital also helped keep the panic at bay that was rising in my gut.

“Enzo,” he said.

Then another pain made him jerk once more. Nothing else came from Peter’s lips as he looked up at me, his face painted with panic.

“Ambulance,” I nodded.

Peter said nothing, but he nodded back. So, I hurried over to my bedside table and snatched up my cellphone once more.

Hospital waiting rooms are the worst. Over the years, I’ve grown to absolutely loathe them. They try to be cheerful, with muted primary colors, and beautiful landscape pictures on the walls. Or maybe they’re ultra-modern so everything seems futuristic in an effort to remove visitors from the now. Televisions play the news to distract people. Magazines with covers displaying exciting headlines about celebrities with lifestyles everyone envies try to draw people from their thoughts. Vending machines with enticing, affordable, caloric-laden treats glow brightly from corners next to soda machines with more variety than anyone would need.

But the seat cushions are always a synthetic material that is easy to wipe free of germs and bacteria. The floors are scuffed and worn from the treads of wheelchairs, hospital beds, and other medical devices used to help people ambulate. Permeated with the combination of potent cleaning products and the smell of illness that can’t quite be masked, the air is always stale.

Hospitals are cold. The blankets they provide are barely thick enough to deserve the name. I’d thrown on some jeans, a t-shirt, a sweater, and comfortable sneakers while Peter and I waited for the ambulance. I’d even helped Peter into some presentable clothes so he didn’t have to be taken to the hospital in pajamas. When one can help another preserve a little bit of their dignity, one should always try. Then I helped Peter downstairs, his arms wrapped around me as he winced with each step.

Appendicitis.

That’s what I told the 911 operator I thought was wrong. The EMTs, who I let in the front door so that they could attend to Peter in the living room, agreed with me. Peter and I were whisked away in the ambulance, me sitting opposite the EMT in the back of the ambulance with Peter lying on a stretcher between us. I did my best to comfort him as we raced to the hospital, but the EMT had work to do, so hand-holding wasn’t possible.

Once at the hospital, everything became a blur. Peter was whisked into the Emergency Room, which was surprisingly not busy. Considering it was the night after Christmas, it was possible everyone was staving off addressing medical issues until the holiday was over. A doctor saw Peter within minutes, by which time, Peter could barely lay flat, such was his pain. Some tests and scans were done…and…I was in a surgical waiting room.

Peter had been whisked away from me, frightened and in pain, clutching at my hand as I followed his gurney as far down the hall as I could before he went into surgery. And then I was alone in an empty room designed to seat at least fifty visitors, waiting to hear anything about how he was doing. The hospital staff had been kind to Peter and me, treating us like a married couple instead of two gay men, but that did nothing to relieve my worry.

Should I call his parents?

A friend?

Alex?

It’s not quite four o’clock in the morning. No one will be awake. Would they want to be woken up for something like this? Should I wait until someone tells me how Peter is doing?

How dangerous is an appendectomy?

Do I need to call his insurance or leave a message for his primary doctor?

Do I need to call his employer?

He doesn’t go back to work until the new year, but surely, he will need recovery time?

Is…

Is my husband going to die?

The fear was mentally paralyzing, though I couldn’t stop pacing from one end of the waiting room to the other. All of my thoughts slowly faded away and I could only focus on my feet moving beneath me, carrying me across the room, over and over. Finally, unsure of how much time had passed, I fell into one of the wooden chairs with a barely cushioned plastic seat and slumped.

Wait.

That was all I could do.

Outside, the lights of Minneapolis twinkled. The sun hadn’t even considered rising for the day yet. I thought about buying a snack from the vending machine. And a soda. Something to give me energy and distract me from my thoughts when they started to return, but I had no money in my wallet. I didn’t quite trust vending machines with my debit and credit cards because I suddenly remembered a news report I’d heard about stolen credit card information.