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“He’ll worry, Mum.” Evie left her phone on the blanket. “I don’t want him stressing before his flight. I’ll tell him after, once I’m all patched up.”
“But if he calls during his stopover while you’re—”
“He won’t. I told him this morning I was going to a musical with Sunita tonight, and like a good theater nerd, my phone will be off.”
The metal curtain hooks screeched as a stocky, swarthy man in blue scrubs yanked aside the material and stepped inside, accompanied by the anesthesiologist she’d met earlier. Marianne and Graham stepped back, allowing the medical team access to their daughter.
“Good morning, Miss Sutherland,” said Dr. Marcus. “How are you feeling? Any pain?”
“No. I can’t feel anything.” Except nerves. Those suckers won’t quit.
Pulling on a pair of blue medical gloves, the anesthesiologist rounded the foot of the bed. “That’s what we like to hear.” She smiled and her large eyeglasses collided with her cheeks. “I’m gonna take a look at your epidural. Could you roll a bit further onto your side, please?”
Hugging Nick’s otters, Evie complied as the physician examined the catheter taped to her back.
“All good.” The anesthesiologist patted Evie’s upper arm. “You can relax now.”
Easy for you to say. She shifted backward.
“So, to recap what we discussed last week…” Dr. Marcus clasped his hands together as the anesthesiologist stood by his side. “Today we’ll be performing a resection, which involves the removal of a damaged section of your small intestine. We won’t know how much we’ll need to take out until we go in and can properly assess the narrowing and inflammation.”
Evie nodded. “It’ll take a few hours?”
“Two to four usually.”
She glanced at her parents. “I hope you bought magazines and snacks.”
“Don’t worry about us, love,” reassured Marianne.
“Most patients who undergo this surgery will have a good number of years remission, but future reoccurrence does tend to happen at the site of the resection,” said Dr. Marcus.
“I hope this buys me lots of time…”
“Well, if it does reoccur, the treatment may differ. That’s the thing with Crohn’s, every instance is a little different. Do you have any questions?”
“No.” She aimlessly fussed with her otters’ tails. “Mum? Dad?”
Graham looked at Marianne, her grin wavering. “You’ll come see us straight after? Tell us how she’s doing?”
“I will. Before she leaves recovery.”
“Great.” Graham tenderly rubbed his wife’s back. “Thank you, doctor.”
With a confident nod, the surgeon and anesthesiologist departed, their exit prompting a flurry of renewed activity. The nurse returned with a hospital aide Evie hadn’t seen before. He offered no introduction, only a sharp tug of the privacy curtain along its track, which exposed her family’s huddle for all to see. Evie’s attention vaulted across the pale peach room, leaving behind the flying swallow tattoo on the aide’s meaty bicep and landing on her fellow surgical-patients-in-waiting, their expressions weary and glassy, resigned as if awaiting their doom.
Is that what I look like? Evie’s heart lurched, pounding frantically as the nurse moved the IV bags. “Mum, I’m scared.” The otters slipped free from her grip, tumbling to the floor beyond the curtain.
Marianne caressed her daughter’s hand. “Everything’s going to be all right, sweetheart.”
“We’ll be here the entire time,” added Graham, rescuing the otters.
The nurse re-hung the IV medications onto the pole attached to the head of Evie’s bed then unplugged the vital signs monitor, unleashing a chorus of annoyed electronic bleeps. “It’s the battery. Nothing to worry about.” She fastened the machine to the pole with the dangling IVs. The aide, meanwhile, reached below and unlocked the brakes with a bed-rattling screech.
“Shit. This is really happening.” Squeezing her mother’s hand, Evie gulped as the aide stepped behind the head of the bed, ready to steer.
“When you wake up, it’ll all be over and done with.” Leaning in, Marianne collected her daughter’s phone and kissed her cheek. She held her hand one more time. “We love you, darling girl.”
Graham’s chin quivered as he rubbed her arm. “So much.”
