“The surgery will be the worst part. After that, it’s all uphill,” said the kind-eyed nurse who shuffled some papers on her clipboard before taking my blood pressure. Strapping the soft cuff on my upper arm, she rapidly inflated it until all I felt was tightness and pressure. My entire body began shaking; the thin, blush-colored hospital gown was barely enough to veil the goosebumps crawling up my legs and arms. After scribbling some numbers down on the multi-colored sheets of paper, the nurse ordered, “get in your bed. The anesthesiologist will be right in.”

The only thing shielding me from the rest of the hospital was a flimsy, mint green curtain. In my robe, I settled into the bed that had wheels at the bottom. Everything was a stained tinge of white: the pillow, the blankets, and even the rails. Turning towards Mom, I confessed, “I’m not ready for this.”

Mom sat in the corner of the room, settled in a stiff, padded chair. Apprehension painted her eyes a light green, covered behind thick-rimmed glasses. “Claire, you will be okay,” she promised, but her pale, drained face said otherwise. “Just read your book. The next doctor will be here, then you will have your surgery done.”

Just hearing the word “surgery” made my skin feel like it was being pricked. A lump formed in my throat, and a sudden realization struck me that hours from now, a large, three-inch titanium screw would be lodged in my hip. The initial doctor had informed me that there would be a scar on my upper thigh, a scar that would be held together with stitches for the first few weeks following my surgery. A sudden feeling of nausea erupted in my stomach as I reached over for my book, hoping for a distraction. The cream-color pages spiraled with inky words, and I couldn’t focus on what was happening. I could only think of how stale the air was, how dingy the water here tasted, and how in less than an hour, I would be splayed in front of surgeons who would proceed to cut me open. I traced my fingers on the ink markings the doctor made on my thigh. Written in a faded, blue pen, these simple numbers directed the surgeons what and where to make the incision.

Before I could focus more on my anxiety-inducing thoughts, the curtain was pulled open, revealing a tall doctor. “Claire, right?” he said, looking on his clipboard. “I’m Dr. Rudrow, your anesthesiologist. Basically what I will be doing today is making the correct dosages of anesthesia for you so that you are unconscious for the entire duration of your procedure.”

I nodded but didn’t say anything.

 “Are you nervous?”

Again, I nodded. “Yeah,” I said, “a little bit.”

Dr. Rudrow warmly smiled. “Don’t worry. I know it is hard to do, but try to relax. You won’t feel a thing, I promise. There will be pain afterwards, but having a screw in your hip is better than having growth plate slippage, right?”

I forced a laugh. “I guess, yeah.”

“Now, we’ll give you a pill to take which will make you feel a little drowsy. When we enter the operating room, we will put a mask on your face which will allow you to breathe in general anesthesia in a gaseous form,” Dr. Rudrow explained.

Mom interjected, “How do you know that you’re giving her the right amounts? What if she wakes up in the middle of her surgery?” Her voice cracked and was unnaturally high-pitched.

“Why would you ask that?” I thought, but I contained myself. My heart felt like it was racing a marathon.

            “I can assure you she will not. It is my job to make these correct measurements and dosages, and for the three years I’ve been working as an anesthesiologist, there have been no incidents of the sort.” Dr. Rudrow grinned once more, his bright eyes gleaming with positivity. He handed me a small, paper cup with two maroon pills inside.

My hands were icy, but the pills were colder. After taking a sip of metallic water and swallowing the tablets, I could already feel my eyelids drooping lower than they were before. The thought of a screw being in my hip, however, still terrified me enough to keep me awake until the trailing moments before being taken into the operation room. My fingertips turned numb, and ice soared through my veins, pulling away all feeling from my body. The anxiety I felt, similar to a heartbeat, slowed its pulse until it was nothing but a shy murmur in the back of my mind. I heard Mom saying “goodbye” to me, and the last thing I remembered was breathing in steamy gas and a huge, yellow light illuminating a room with turquoise walls and surgeons crawling around like spiders.

...

 “Shh, I think she’s finally up.”

I opened my eyes, and at first, everything seemed blurry and was tinged gray. After a few moments of adjusting myself, I saw Mom sitting in the same chair she sat in minutes ago… or was it hours?

Suddenly, it all came back to me. I just had surgery. There was a screw in my left hip. Just to be sure, I moved my leg. An enormous, sharp wave of pain crashed over like an ocean tide, as if someone were stabbing me. As I whimpered, Mom came over to me.

            “You did it, sweetie,” she said, a smile on her otherwise wrinkle-etched face. “How do you feel?”

            “Hurts,” I said. “It hurts. A lot.”

Mom nodded. “I know. It’s going to for a bit. C’mon, we can go home.”

Putting my clothes back on was extremely hard. To put my right leg in the pant hole, I had to somehow balance myself so I put no weight on my left leg. After a long seven minutes, I wore my black Arbutus sweatpants and navy blue sweatshirt as I used my crutches to walk out. The doctor said I could not bear any weight on my left leg for an entire month, which to me, seemed like an infinity. Tears gathered in my eyes as I hopped along the tile floor of the hospital to the lobby where Mom and Dad checked out. It was raining outside, and the sky was painted a dark indigo mixed with violet. Swirling with storm clouds, it roared a deep cry of thunder as I tried my best to scurry to the car. The pavement was slippery, but I relied on my crutches to steady itself on the ground. The last time I was outside, the sun was beaming like a daffodil planted in the bright, cerulean sky.

            “How do you feel?” Dad asked as we got in the car.

            “Not okay,” I grumbled. I just wanted to be home. The pain was too much, like a blooming, fiery warmth stinging my left thigh where the incision was made.

The entire car ride home from the hospital was dead silent except for the faded country music streaming from the radio. I counted the amount of raindrops that fell onto the window to distract me from my pain, but nothing worked. Tears pricked at my eyes once again, only this time I let a few of them slide down my cheek.

 Once Dad pulled into our driveway, he and Mom helped me get out. The asphalt was slippery as well, but at least the rain was slowing to a stop and the clouds were parting. I used my crutches and hopped to our front door. Once I was safe inside, my sister Margaret greeted me. A gift basket sat on the coffee table.

 “How do you feel Claire?” she asked.

I wish people would stop asking me that, I thought, but instead I replied, “It hurts.” Then, pointing at the basket, I asked, “what’s that?”

 “Your friends dropped it off for you after school. Sydney, Grace, and Jennie I think,” she replied.

After settling down on the couch, I read the note: “Get well soon, we love you Claire!” I couldn’t help but smile at the cute drawings and their signatures – Sydney’s a narrow, perfected blemish of ink, Grace’s doodle of loopy cursive, and Jennie’s static scrawl of pencil. Inside the basket were homemade snickerdoodles, pieces of chocolate, and magenta lilacs.

Maybe recovery wouldn’t be so bad.