Turtles All the Way Down(51)
A woman came in and took me away to get a CT scan, and I was sort of relieved to be away from both my mom and Daisy for a while, not to feel the swirl of fear and guilt over being such a failure as a daughter and a friend.
“Car accident?” the woman asked as she pushed me past the word kindness painted in calligraphy on the wall.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Those seat belts will hurt ya while saving your life,” she said.
“Yeah. Am I gonna need antibiotics?”
“I’m not your doctor. She’ll be in after we get the test.”
They put something in my IV that made me feel like I was pissing my pants, then ran me through the cylinder of the CT machine, and eventually returned me to the shivering nerves of my mother. I couldn’t shake the crack in her voice when she said she couldn’t lose me, too. I felt her nerves as she paced around the room, texting with my aunt and uncle in Texas, pressing long breaths through pursed lips, dabbing at her eye makeup with a tissue.
Daisy didn’t say much, for once. “It’s okay if you want to go home,” I said to her at one point.
“Do you want me to go home?” she asked.
“Up to you,” I said. “Seriously.”
“I’ll stay,” she answered, and sat quietly, her eyes glancing from me to my mom and back again.
NINETEEN
“GOOD NEWS AND BAD NEWS,” announced a woman in navy-blue scrubs upon entering the room. “Bad news, you have a lacerated liver. Good news, it’s a mild laceration. We’ll watch you closely for a couple days, so we can make sure your bleeding doesn’t increase, and you’ll be sore for several weeks, but I’m ordering you pain medication now so you’ll be comfortable. Questions.”
“She’s going to be okay?” my mom asked.
“Yes. If the bleeding worsens, surgery will be necessary, but based on the radiologist’s report, I think that’s very unlikely. As liver lacerations go, this is about as good as they get. Your daughter is really quite lucky, in the scheme of things.”
“She’s going to be okay,” my mom said again.
“As I said, we’ll keep a close eye on her for a couple days, and then she’ll have about a week of bed rest. Within six or so weeks, she should be her old self.”
My mother dissolved into tears of gratitude as I turned over that phrase, her old self. “Do I need antibiotics?” I asked.
“You shouldn’t. If we had to do surgery, you would, but as of now, no.” A shiver of relief rolled through me. No antibiotics. No increased risk of C. diff. Just needed to get the hell out of here, then.
The doctor asked me about my medications, and I told her. She made some notes in the chart and then said, “Someone will be by shortly to take you upstairs, and we’ll get you something for the pain before that.”
“Wait,” I said. “What do you mean upstairs?”
“As I said, you’ll need to spend a couple nights here so that you can—”
“Wait, no no no no. I can’t stay in the hospital.”
“Baby,” my mom said. “You have to.”
“No, I really can’t. I really, this is, like, the one place I absolutely cannot stay tonight. Please. Just let us go home.”
“That would be inadvisable.”
Oh no. Listen, it’s okay. Most people admitted to the hospital go home healthier than they left it. Almost everyone, really. C. diff infections are only common in postsurgical patients. You won’t even be on antibiotics. Oh no no no no no no no.
—
Of all the places to end up in the tightening gyre, here we were, on the fourth floor of a hospital in Carmel, Indiana.
Daisy left once I’d gotten upstairs but Mom stayed, lying on her side in the reclining chair next to my hospital bed, facing me.
I could feel her breath on me that night as she slept, her lips parted, smudged eyes closed, the microbes from her lungs floating across my cheek. I couldn’t roll over onto my side because even with the medication the pain was paralyzing, and when I turned my head, her breath just blew my hair across my face, so I lived with it.
She stirred, her eyes locked to mine. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Does it hurt?” I nodded. “You know Sekou Sundiata, in a poem, he said the most important part of the body ‘ain’t the heart or the lungs or the brain. The biggest, most important part of the body is the part that hurts.’” Mom put her hand on my wrist and fell back asleep.
Even though I was pretty high on morphine or whatever, I couldn’t sleep. I could hear beeping in the rooms next to mine, and it wasn’t particularly dark, and well-meaning strangers kept showing up to pull blood out of my body and/or check my blood pressure, and most of all, I knew: I knew that C. diff was invading my body, that it was floating in the air. On my phone, I paged through patients’ stories of how they went into the hospital for a gallbladder surgery or a kidney stone, and they’d come out destroyed.
The thing about C. diff is that it’s inside of everyone. We all have it, lurking there; it’s just that sometimes it grows out of control and takes over and begins attacking your insides. Sometimes it just happens. Sometimes it happens because you ingest someone else’s C. diff, which is slightly different from your own, and it starts mixing with yours, and boom.