Lily and the Octopus(17)
“Basically, we make an incision that creates a window into the vertebral bodies and exposes the spinal cord so we can retrieve the herniated disc material.” Retrieve it and do what with it? “Lily’s procedure went without complication and she recovered from the anesthesia uneventfully.”
Uneventfully. Like being put under and myelograms and spine windows and alumi-numi-numi-num surgeries are everyday phenomena in life.
“Is she able to . . . Was the surgery a success?”
I am suddenly aware that I’m standing, as if the doctor has walked into our living room. I have no memory of getting up, and now that I am up, I’m unsure of where to look or what to do with my hand that is not holding the phone. The news is what I want to hear, but somehow I’m ice-cold, the warmth of the vodka having drained out of my limbs.
“Animals that suffer this type of injury make most of their neurologic improvement over the first three months postoperatively. You’ll notice some immediate improvement, but don’t be discouraged if Lily’s progress is initially slow. But I’m cautiously optimistic.”
“Cautiously optimistic that . . .” There’s a hiccup of laughter from upstairs and I give a death-stare at the ceiling.
“Cautiously optimistic. That she will recover.”
“Fully?”
“Cautiously optimistic.”
Stop saying that. Will she walk?
“We need to board her here for the next seventy-two hours to monitor her initial recovery and watch for any signs of complications. Our offices are closed tomorrow for New Year’s Day, which means you can visit her the day after if you want to. But only briefly. It’s not good for her to get too excited. Otherwise, you can take her home the day after that.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“It was our pleasure working with Lily.”
She’s not getting what I’m trying to say.
“No.” I say it with import. “Thank you.”
I hang up the phone and collapse on the couch and relay to Jeffrey what I was told and when we can see her and when we can bring her home.
He looks at me, not quite knowing what to say. “I guess we have a wedding to attend.”
I’m Afraid There’s No Denyin’/I’m Just a Dandy-Lion
EIGHT TIMES I WAS COWARDLY
1 When I was five and my father told me to walk in a more masculine way and I was so immediately overcome with shame that I did.
2 That time in the seventh grade when this popular kid with a French last name called me a faggot and instead of standing up for myself I thought of how faggot would sound in French (fag-oh) while wishing for the floor to swallow me whole.
3 When my parents divorced and people asked me about it and I pretended I was glad.
4 When this guy in high school performed oral sex on me and I told him afterward that it was not a big deal because even though he might be gay, I was comfortable with my heterosexuality.
5 Deciding not to major in creative writing because I thought that the broader and blander “communications” was the safer degree.
6 When I ended one relationship by becoming so distant and cold that after months of trying to reach me and discover what was wrong, he was left with no choice but to break up with me.
7 When I didn’t immediately confront Jeffrey about the text message I’d seen.
8 Every time I don’t tell my mother that I love her because I’m afraid she won’t say it back.
AND ONE TIME I HAD COURAGE
1 When I left Los Angeles for my sister’s wedding, leaving Lily behind, boarded, in recovery, trusting her to heal.
The Tonga Room and Hurricane Bar
I watch the low morning sun glimmer off the water as we take off over the Pacific; it’s a short flight to San Francisco and we’re still getting in on New Year’s Day as planned. I ask the flight attendant for a ginger ale to pop an old pill I found in the bathroom drawer (which I’m hoping is Valium, but is probably Vicodin), otherwise I don’t say a word. I’m grateful for my window seat. Normally I’m stuck in the middle, as Jeffrey refuses to sit anywhere but the aisle, but the flight to San Francisco is a smaller plane with only two seats in each row on either side of the walkway. If nothing else, I can stare out at the view below and not have to make eye contact with anyone. Eye contact is dangerous. Eye contact is a trigger.
When we land and I’m able to turn on my phone, I have two missed calls. The first is from Meredith, to see if we made our flight, and the second is the animal hospital calling to say that Lily has made it through the night and continues to exhibit good vitals. I listen to the second message four times for any hint that they are lying to me or glossing over an unpleasant truth, but I can’t glean anything untoward and I end up not calling them back.
Meredith is waiting for us at baggage claim. She greets me with a hug, which I collapse into.
“You okay?” she whispers in my ear.
“Okay adjacent.” I can be matter-of-fact with her, even today. We’re only eighteen months apart, and while I sometimes joke that my first eighteen months were the best of my life, it’s just that—a joke. “Did you call Mom?”
“We’re eloping. Okay? If we invited everyone and made a big to-do it would be a wedding.”