Saving Meghan(76)

I gripped the thin sheet covering the surgical bed, balling the fabric up in my fists. I tried to clear my thoughts, but it was no use. All I could think about was Dr. Fisher sticking a needle the size of a spear into my right thigh. No, I said to myself. It’s not my right thigh. It’s the “vastus lateralis,” the largest muscle of the quadriceps group. Dr. Fisher had taught me that name. I don’t know why it helped me to think of the incision point in anatomical terms. Maybe because I thought of my thigh as belonging to me, but that vastus lateralis didn’t even sound like a body part. Whatever. I didn’t want to analyze that one too much, because it was working. We had talked about conscious sedation again, but I decided against it. I was worried about having to deal with two unknowns at the same time, and resigned myself to get through this experience without the added help.

There were no bright overhead lights in this small operating room, no specialized equipment. It was a simple procedure, after all. Minor surgery, right? There was a tray with some sterilized instruments on it, but I made sure not to look at the needles—or the scalpel, for that matter.

I had my mom with me, which was probably the only reason I wasn’t crying hysterically. I unclenched the bedsheet to hold her hand. I felt so stupid for being this afraid. It’s just a dumb needle, after all. You’d think after being pricked and prodded for two years straight, I’d become immune, but the brain gets what the brain wants, and mine wanted fear. I know there’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s a prick, and then it’s over. I should be over it. It’s childish and stupid. It’s pathetic. It’s weak.

I tried to reason it away—won’t hurt, little pinch, I’ll have anesthetic, yada yada yada—but my anxiety was up in my throat. The room spun like I was inside a tumble dryer. Mom held my hand tighter. My dad was somewhere nearby. I didn’t want him with us, but he’d insisted on being there. I knew it had to have hurt him when I told him not to stand too close because it made me feel worse.

Good.

“You ready, Meghan?” Dr. Fisher asked.

Tears sprang out of my eyes. My body shook so badly that the line Dr. Fisher had drawn with marker on my vastus lateralis must have come out crooked.

“This is that first pinch we talked about. I’m going to infiltrate the incision point with a local anesthetic containing adrenaline. You’ll be fine. You’re doing great.”

I liked hearing Dr. Fisher’s voice. It was comforting. I could wrap myself in his sadness like an extra layer of protection. His hurt took away some of my own. I squeezed my mom’s hand harder.

The needle went in. I felt the pinch. Dr. Fisher didn’t warn me, or did he? I couldn’t remember. I screamed, that much I knew. I screamed because I knew I was that much closer to getting the giant needle.

My father came over to my bedside. “You did this to her,” he said to my mother.

“Not now, Carl,” Mom said. I could tell without looking that she was clenching her teeth.

“You’re doing great,” Dr. Fisher said again, which I knew was a lie.

He swabbed my leg with antiseptic solution and covered the area with a surgical cloth containing an oval-shaped cutout centered over the incision point.

“I’m going to test you first. Does that hurt?”

I lifted my head off the bed and could see Dr. Fisher’s hand dragging a scalpel across my leg like he was painting a line with a thin brush. I didn’t feel anything, but my mind told me it hurt like hell. I swear I could feel my skin being ripped apart.

It’s a trick … it’s all a trick. Your mind wants you to be afraid.

I thought of my mom. I wouldn’t let her down.

“No, it doesn’t hurt,” I managed.

And just like that, the pain went away.

I closed my eyes. I could feel pressure as Dr. Fisher cut, but couldn’t feel the clamps he used to keep my skin pulled apart. Dr. Fisher talked me through the next phase of the procedure.

“The first layer I’m going through is the subcutaneous fat, then we’ll get to the Scarpa’s fascia and then the subscarpal fat,” he said. “Okay. I can see your fascia. Looks great, Meghan. You’re doing great. I’m going to make a little more incision.”

A hornet the size of a small pony was buzzing around my head, its stinger dancing in front of my face. “Go away, go away,” I said.

“It’s okay, Meghan,” Dr. Fisher said. “Nobody is going anywhere.”

I knew I’d sound ridiculous if I confessed to imagining an oversize insect buzzing near my face. I didn’t need it getting back to Nash, who’d have yet another reason to think I was crazy. It was bad enough she couldn’t find any medical reason why I kept getting sick every time my parents came to visit.

Reason or not, every day my body felt like it was shutting down a little bit more. More switches inside me kept getting turned off. Everything I did—from showering to eating to talking with my therapists—felt like a series of impossible tasks, or what my English teacher would call a “Herculean effort.” Just opening my mouth to say “I’m fine” takes a lot out of me.

“I’ve incised the underlying fatty tissue,” Dr. Fisher said, “and I can see the muscle tissue underneath. No wonder you’re so good on the soccer field. That’s some great-looking muscle you have there. I’m now mobilizing a short section of your muscle and applying a stay suture to both ends so I can manipulate the area.”