RobBob:I worry this is the beginning of the end—for real this time.
RobBob has got to be wrong. Patrick is for sure one to tease us with his death. Like, he’d make it a joke before bouncing back to life.
This is not the beginning of the end of anything.
Chapter 9
This stupid surgery is annoying in too many ways to count.
I’ve been told that that I have to have a non-rideshare driver. Like, I apparently have to have a friend pick me up.
Obviously not my difficult, nutty mother. My Megan Madonna?
I could, but that would feel like breaking a workplace boundary.
So, who is left? I really don’t have friends.
Do I call up my favorite dumpling people and say that I need a ride to urgent care? Definitely no. So weird.
But then, maybe yes?
At least I know these people aren’t assholes.
After cringing while dialing, I sit up when the call is answered.
“Jia here.”
I fumble over words for a few seconds. “It’s Diana. From the other night.”
“Oh, Diana? You want dim sum? My Choo Choo thought you might. It’s not the weekend, but we can do that for you! Or just dumplings?”
Previous to tonight, the extent of my communication with her grandfather has been me drooling via my posts and making happy gestures tonight as I smiled and pointed to everything on her grandfather’s delectable menu.
I cave and ask her for a hugely nutty favor. A ride to the surgical center, and for some reason, she doesn’t hesitate.
“See you tomorrow!”
I’m waiting outside the next morning when she shows up at my place after she’s double-parked an Infinity sports car.
She points at my arm and shakes her head. “Not only does your hand look wretched, bur your hair might be even worse. Like, more broken than your wrist.”
Not that I’ve ever been vain, nor had reason to be, but I’ve often tried to embrace my curly red hair as best I can, doing what I can to style it circa Julia Roberts in herMystic Pizzadays. Wild hair, long, fun curls. But working with one hand has indeed left me unable to even put my mess of hair into a scrunchie, so I know I look crazy.
We get into her car, and there are audible and infuriated noises as she wrestles my hair into place.
“Buckle up,” Jia orders.
It’s a good thing she mentioned buckling up because she drives like a wonderful maniac.
Jia peels up to the surgical entrance and slam-parks the car. “Good luck!”
I smile and try not to hear that in Liam Neeson’s voice as I give her a grateful smile.
I’m numb and disconnected when I maneuver myself into the surgeon’s office.
From what I read overnight, apparently, my surgeon is the best of the best. Yet, I find his demeanor rather odd. Most notably, he blinks about a thousand times a minute as he tells me about the surgery I’m about to have. He’s also shorter than I am, so I put him at about five feet. Between his blinking issues and his height, I’m just not sure how he’s going to see anything inside my wrist, nonetheless rearrange my bones. Raised shoes or such, I guess.
Even though I’m leery, I go ahead through what feels like a surgical conveyer belt. One person takes me into a room and has me change into a gown. Another escorts me to a bed and inserts an IV. Then an anesthesiologist grills me with questions and has zero compassion when I tear up and worry about being drugged and becoming a viral meme of people waking up after surgery and behaving like lunatics. Still, I sign some kind of consent form. There’s a swab on my neck and another IV, and when I look to my right, the nurse is injecting something in my arm.
