Round 2

“Have you experienced any shortness of breath in the past 14 days? Fever? Cough? Headache? Runny nose?

She inclines her ear towards me each time I say “No” and nods more than once before moving on to the next question. She adds a “Sweetie” at the end. Her “Okay’s” and “Mhm’s” also come with a “Sweetie.” I’m experiencing the care of a nurse all over again. When the doctors show up, she addresses them with a deeper voice, stern and directive, holding her ground. At times, she speaks for me, almost defending me. It’s us against the people in white coats.

“Surgery finish.”
I wake up to a nurse, another one, who later tells me she’s from the Philippines. Her hair is a muddy brown with thin streaks of pale yellow. I remember it being tied up in a low ponytail.
“Surgery finish.”
I think she was assuring me that the surgery was over.
“Anesthesia can make you emotional. Surgery finish.”
I feel a hand rub my left shoulder. I realize that I’d been crying. I blink twice, hoping that’ll clear up my blurry vision. My torso is pinned against the bed.

This time, I walked into the hospital with both legs but I knew that wouldn’t be the case on my way out. When I was discharged that night, the attendant with the bowtie and semi-afro wheeled me into the hospital lobby which had already closed for the day. It was almost 10pm when I got into my dad’s car. The doctor said I’d be out by 3:30.

He’s the same doctor who said, “I’ll do the best I can but you’ll never have a normal foot again.” A prognosis that I had no choice but to accept. No, there’s nothing normal about having fractures in both feet. And there’s nothing normal about needing a piece of dead bone inserted into my right heel. Normal—a forgotten vocabulary word.

Not many had marked their calendars for this surgery. Dad. Alex. Casey. Grandma only found out when I came home limping with one leg wrapped in a cast. Same as last time. She didn’t ask many questions. Same as last time. Jeff would text a few days later after Dad reminded him. And Josh would leave it at a one-liner. Brothers.

I can now add a pair of crutches to my collection of post-suicide paraphernalia. There was a wheelchair for the very start, a walker that I never really used, a cane that I needed for half a year, and a boot for ankle-related complications. Each piece of equipment suggesting a varying level of helplessness. With time, I would graduate from one to the next. But with time, I would have to start all over.

These days, I don’t need help going up and down the stairs (though it’s nice to have someone behind me to make sure I get from Point A to Point B in one piece). I don’t need help getting in and out of cars (thought it’s nice to have someone hold my crutches while I maneuver my body into the back seat). I also don’t need much help crossing the street (though it’s nice to have someone wait for me and go at my pace).

All that to say, I really do need help. So I guess Round 2, if anything, was a reminder of that. But also a reminder that I have those people who can wait for me, hold my crutches, and make sure I get from Point A to Point B. And they’ll be the ones at my graduation ceremony in 3 months.

Sincerely, Esther