18
Istared down into my latte nervously, both hands wrapped around the scalding hot styrofoam cup.
How was I supposed to even start a conversation like this?
Nathan wrapped his hands around mine, covering my fingers with his palms. I looked up at him, his expression concerned, but sincere.
"You can tell me anything," he said.
"I never meant to keep anything from you," I said. "I just don't like to talk about it."
His brow furrowed, but he nodded, ready to hear my story.
"Remember when I told you I was sick a lot as a kid?" I asked. "It wasn't just a passing illness."
Nathan cocked his head, listening intently.
"I have a congenital heart defect," I said in a rush, getting the words out before I could talk myself out of it. "It was bad when I was younger."
"How bad?" Nathan asked in a hushed voice.
"They didn't think I'd make it passed my tenth birthday."
Nathan's eyes went wide as his hands squeezed down on mine.
"Oh my god, Becca…"
"That's why I missed out on a lot," I explained. "I had to have surgery to fix my heart when I was just a baby. Then it was needing regular valve transplants. I was in and out of hospitals all the time. It wasn't just because of surgeries, although that was a big part. There were also just so many tests and things. They had to monitor me constantly."
I could almost smell the antiseptic hospital odor in my nose, making my sinuses burn. I could hear the constant beeping of the monitors, could feel the little heartbeat sensor clip on my index finger. I could feel the scratchy bed sheets against my skin, rubbing and chafing.
But that was only the beginning of the story.
"I hadn't gone to a movie theatre until high school," I told him.
He sat up straight in his chair, alarmed. "Were you in the hospital the entire time?"
"No," I replied. "It wasn't that bad. But they were always worried about me catching something if I went out in public, afraid that the smallest bug would turn into pneumonia or something worse."
I remembered fighting with my parents, wanting to go watch the latest summer blockbuster. They'd refused. They were apologetic about it, trying to spare my feelings by throwing our own in-home movie party. My mom made homemade popcorn and we huddled up together under blankets on the sofa. I appreciated their efforts but it wasn't the same.
"I couldn't go to sleepovers," I continued. "Not just because of the worry about germs, but because I couldn't go anywhere overnight. I wasn't able to keep on enough weight and they had to get extra calories into me somehow, so I was fed through a feeding tube every night."
Nathan's face went pale.
"Like those tubes that go through your nose and into your stomach?" he asked. "Those things are awful."
"It wasn't as bad as that. It was a gastrostomy tube, not a nasogastric tube."
Nathan looked confused, trying to figure out the difference.
"I got fed through a tube in my stomach," I explained. "It went on for years. At first it was every night. Then every other night. Then once a week. Eventually I was able to keep enough weight on myself. But it meant I missed out a lot of opportunities."
"Shit, Becca, I can't believe you went through all that," Nathan murmured, his hands tightening against mine.
"I couldn't just hug my dad when he got home from work," I continued. "He needed to take a full shower, washing before he could even touch me. They didn't want him to get me sick through the germs he'd picked up outside."
Almost all memories of my father from childhood included the scent of his soap and aftershave. I'd never been able to run to the door and greet him, throw my arms around him and give him a welcome home hug. I always had to wait until he was done cleaning up.
