“Are you feeling tired?” he asks.
“No. Not really.”
But then I pass out.
Two hours later, I awake, pretty lucid and pain-free, much to my surprise. I thought I’d be hurting. I’m told that I was given a nerve block, and when it wears off tomorrow morning, I can take the pills they’re sending me home with. The weird surgeon shows up for thirty seconds, shows me an X-ray of the metal plates and screws that are now part of me forever, then disappears.
It seems I have to eat and drink something before I leave, so I go with applesauce and a ginger ale. The dude next to me asks for a Budweiser, and I can’t blame him because all things surgery suck. I sip my ginger-ale and slurp an applesauce. The nurses here are so nice. But even in my fog, I can see how this whole system is wonky, how everyone is pressured to move so fast. To care for us within a fraction of the time they’d like to.
After I don’t vomit and am allowed to go home, a nurse gently sets me in a wheelchair and takes me outside She doesn’t love that I’ve called for a rideshare home. I don’t love it either, but I also don’t love that I was here at all with these uncaring creeps while my already sad semblance of an emotional life is shattering into something that even Gorilla Glue can’t handle.
Seconds after I’m wheeled outside, a cherry-red sports car peels into the drop-off/pickup spot in front of this hateful surgical center and slams to a stop.
Jia leans out of the window. “Diana! Get your ass in this car! I’m taking you home!”
The nurse laughs, but approves this pickup.
And then I’m getting eased into the back seat of this cool car. It’s impossible not to stare at Jia, and I almost hate and love how beautiful this rescuing angel is. Flawless skin, flawless sleek haircut; flawlessly casual sexy outfit. Why is some perfect girl picking me up? Like, here I am in pajama pants, no bra—because I couldn’t figure out how to get one on—and my hair in again total disarray, as there was no way to contain my curls with one hand. My humiliation battles with my gratitude, and I give in and let her buckle me into the back seat of this luxury car.
While I’m not really drugged from the anesthesia, I do feel a bit funny, and I start to laugh uncontrollably because I am surrounded in this back seat by all the versions of my favorite food. There are actual tens of cartons of dumplings, gyoza, potstickers, soup dumplings, and on and on. Cartons from too many places to identify right now, but they’re all wonderfully bouncing around with me at every turn.
After I’ve regained myself, I say, “This is so nice of you.”
As she takes off at an alarming speed, I see her glance into the rearview mirror. “Yeah, apologies about all that mess of food. My family wanted to make sure you didn’t starve while you recuperated, so they got all their friends to hook you up.”
I busy myself with righting cartons. “I’m so sorry for inconveniencing you,”
“It’s nothing!”
Jia zips onto the highway, and I’m pretty sure she’s going to kill us.
I had no one else to ask.
“New car?”
“No, just one of four I have. I love all the zippy things.” She glances into the rearview mirror and winks.
It’s almost always impossible to park anywhere near my place, but she finds someone trying and failing to back into a spot nearby, and I watch with terror and admiration as she lowers the window and screams in Chinese until the driver takes off. She helps me lumber into my apartment and sets me up on the couch.
I feel her inching in and hear her deep sighs as she runs a beautifully manicured hand against my scalp.
“God, your hair is bad. Horrifying really. Yet this insane, natural red color and these waves are too enviable to leave unattended.”
Without my saying a word, Jia swoops in, sweetly guiding me to the sink to wash and condition my hair. “Don’t smash that cast anywhere!” she warns. I have no choice but to follow her orders, so I relax into the head massages, the masks and conditioners, then the way she dries and sets my curls with various products until I look sort of cute. Probably better than I ever have. Before I can apologize about how useless this makeover is, I nearly weep with gratitude as she helps me change into one of my favorite cotton pajama sets. The new cast weighs about eight hundred pounds, so I appreciate her walking me to the bedroom. My arm is so weirdly numb, and I accidentally bang it against the kitchen counter and the bathroom door as we toddle forward, like I have no control over my own body.
I just want to go to sleep, and I get into bed and lift my hand onto a pillow next to me.
“Sleep well,” she says, and I hear my front door close seconds later.
Just as I’m hoping to crash, my phone sounds.
I’m beginning to hate RobBob’s texts more and more.
RobBob:Hey. You should call me.
Replying takes ten times as long as it usually does, possibly because I don’t even want to reply and get a response.
Me:Shattered my wrist. Broken in about a thousand places. Was in surgery. Full of new body parts.
