“No more meds. Too much makes me feel groggy,” I shake my head, regretting the move instantly. “Fuck that hurts.”
“I’ll get an ice pack.”
I hear the soft crinkle of plastic and her delicate hand guides it against the back of my neck a moment later. The sudden cold bites at first and I shiver uncontrollably, but soon the relief spreads like a wave. Ivy steadies the pack in place with one hand, her other palm brushing my shoulder in much needed reassurance.
There’s nothing overly personal in the touch, but it conveys that I’m safe and being cared for. Deep down, I’m embarrassed that I need this kind of comfort, that I can’t tough it out like I’ve always done. But Ivy doesn’t seem to judge me, and shenever tells me to man up or pretend the pain isn’t real. She stays until the panic clenching around my lungs begins to loosen.
“You don’t have to hold it all in,” she murmurs soothingly. “It’s okay to admit you’re hurting.”
My throat works around the lump forming there. “Not really my style.”
“Good thing styles can change,” she answers, a hint of humor in her tone. “Besides, nobody expects you to be indestructible right now.”
For once, I don’t argue with her statement. I just keep breathing, hoping to feel better soon.
Another morning creeps in without light. My head isn’t splitting like last night, but I still feel bruised from the inside out. Like someone hollowed me and put the pieces back incorrectly. The silence in the room is heavy, broken only by the steady rhythm of machines keeping watch over me.
“How are you feeling today?” Ivy asks during the morning checkup, her voice careful but not pitying.
“Like I got steamrolled,” I admit, my throat dry and the words gravelly. “But not as bad as before. The ice and sleep helped.”
“That’s good.” I hear the pen scratching against the chartboard as she notes something down. “I was worried for a moment there.”
“Me too.”
The excruciating pain from yesterday lingers in my sore muscles, like aftershocks of an earthquake. I wonder if I should tell her how close I came to losing it last night. But the words stick in my throat.
“I’d like some help with my phone, if you’ve got the time,” I finally say with a reluctant sigh. I hate being so helpless and not being able to do things I always did. Every added request feels like handing over a piece of myself I can’t get back. “Texting is surprisingly hard when you can’t see the damn screen. But I want to keep it on silent, so I won’t be notified with each new message.”
“Sure. I’m gonna need your face to unlock it,” she replies, grabbing my phone from the side table and settling into the chair beside the bed.
“You’re about to have access to all my hidden secrets,” I joke, turning to face her.
“There. Unlocked. I’m switching on Siri for easier navigation and texting before handing it to you.”
“Guess I’ll have to get used to outsourcing my life to a digital assistant. And honestly, it feels like a disaster waiting to happen,” I groan.
“It’ll be fine.” She finishes the set up and nudges the phone into my hand, her touch lingering just long enough to notice. “Let’s try spoken responses first. Just start with ‘hey Siri, text Emerson Merryweather’.”
“I don’t see Emerson Merryweather in your contacts,”the phone chimes.“To who?”it adds.
We both chuckle, and Ivy clears her throat. “Repeat what I just told you and then dictate the message. Remember to say full stop, question mark, comma and exclamation mark when youneed them,” she explains. “And if you want to double check what was typed, say ‘read the text’.”
I squeeze the device hard, wanting to throw it instead. Clearing my sore throat, I try to find humor in the situation instead of frustration. “Hey Siri, text Em the Bulldog.”
Ivy snickers, mutteringof courseunder her breath. I like how she isn't stuck-up like one of her colleagues and can laugh at my antics. Life’s too short to take everything seriously.
“What do you want to say?”comes from the phone.
“Ivy is a genius and I’m helpless without her,” I say without thinking. Another laugh slips out of her, bright and unfiltered, and it hits me like a shot of adrenaline. It’s ridiculous how much relief one sound can bring.
“Send it?”Siri asks.
“Read the text.”
“To Em the Bulldog: Ivy is a genius and I’m helpless without her. Send it?”
“Yes.”
