by Renee Dyer
“So, did your doc say surgery was a success? You and I going to be reclaiming our ass shaking crowns soon or what?”
The thunderous laugh that roars from me, shaking the room with happiness, leaves us both with tears running down our faces. Pain ricochets across the back of my head, hurting and feeling good at the same time. I needed this, her, the laughter, and forgetting the shit from the last few weeks. John Cougar Mellencamp’s old song rushes to mind and I shake my head, thinking, I get it.
Five days. That’s how long I was in the hospital. I always assumed with brain surgery you would be there much longer. I mean, on television it looks worse. Your entire head is wrapped in gauze, drugged into oblivion, and on the brink of death until the miraculous moment when the camera zooms in and you’re cured. I should have known not to compare my life to a TV show. There’s no cure for Chiari, but that first day, I sure did wonder if I was going to survive. I do have a bandage. Guess, I’m a little like a TV show, except mine isn’t all encompassing. It’s just stuck—literally stuck—to the back of my head. It’s the weirdest feeling. I keep placing my hand to the bandage. Not hard, but I can’t help but feel it, knowing the hair has been shaved and I’ll have a scar. I try not compare myself to Frankenstein, but I can’t stop thinking about the bone that was removed or what was put in my body. Every time I put my hand to the back of my head, feel the staples under the bandage, it’s a reminder. I can’t stop my mind from going to places I don’t want it to. The more I think of what was done to me, the uglier I see myself.
It’s my two week check-up today. It might be why I’m feeling extra sensitive. The staples are coming out and I’m a little freaked. Okay, a lot freaked. I’d be lying if I said I’m not afraid. I tossed and turned all night, worry over this appointment keeping me from claiming the sleep I need. Staring into the shadows, grasping for answers that never manifested—I’m tired and cranky. Being confined to a hospital bed or my couch since surgery is starting to chafe my nerves. I understand why Dr. Wendell said no climbing stairs until I’m off the pain killers or the waves stop, but I miss my bed.
Waves. Not loving the surfing in my head so much.
I’ve tried explaining them to Nick, but I can tell I fail by the blank expression on his face. I open my mouth and hear myself explain…something, but it’s never what I really feel inside. Lately, I’m feeling disconnected from my thoughts. Will I be able to explain things to Dr. Wendell?
Reaching up, my fingers brush the bandage, the very thing covering my fears. I fear the pain of the staples being removed and the scar that will mar my skin. But what I’m most afraid of—the thought that makes me break out in a sweat and sick to my stomach—is how will Nick see me now?
For over two weeks, he’s slept alone. It’s been even more than that since we’ve had sex. Will he want to touch me now, or do I repulse him? He’s always here, taking care of me, but a person can take care of an animal out of obligation without even liking it. Does he feel obligated to stay?
“Morning, babe.”
“Jesus, Nick!” I shout, practically coming out of my skin. So lost in thought, I didn’t see him come down the stairs.
“I’m sorry. You okay?”
“Yeah…yeah,” I repeat, more for myself than him. “Just thinking. You sleep well?”
“Not really. Not the same without you. I need my spitfire to keep me warm. My ass gets cold.”
“Ha. Is that all I’m good for?” I laugh. “I may just stay on the couch forever,” I taunt.
“No damn way! As soon as you get the okay, your cute behind is coming back to bed with me. Even if I have to drag you,” he threatens.
“So chivalrous,” I counter.
“I was going to say by your hair, but you cut me off.” He winks.
“Caveman.”
“You bring out the best in me.” A broad smile lights up his face, reminding me of the man I fell in love with eight years ago. The time has flown by, but it still seems like yesterday that we had our third run in. It didn’t start out smoothly, but we found our groove and we haven’t been apart since.
“Look, your asshole friend is here,” I bark at Amy-Lynn, jerking my head in Nick’s direction. He’s further down the bar, waiting on drinks with his friends. For one second, I allow myself to stare at his profile, take in his chiseled features, and remember why I was attracted to him in the first place. Then the memories of him blowing me off our last two encounters and too many nights of me crying into my pillow invade my mind.
Fuck him and the horse he rode in on.
“Let’s go dance. It’s too crowded over here.”
Without waiting for a response, I walk off. Fire burns in my veins. Each step closer we get to Nick, I flash hotter. I don’t know who he thinks he is, but I know he’s a dick. Even if he wasn’t interested, he could still be polite. His friends didn’t have a problem.
Fucking Dick! Ugh! I want to kick him so hard in his junk, he’ll spit nuts for a year. Maybe that would get his attention. If only I was that kind of bitch.
“Hey! Slow down.” Amy-Lynn grabs my arm from behind and pulls. “Let’s say hi to Nick and the guys.”
Is she fucking crazy? I rail on her, giving her what I’m sure is a look of pure rage. “No thanks. Been there, been dismissed…twice, remember?” Venom drips from my question as I throw two fingers in her face. I feel bad for yelling at my best friend, but how can she think taking me to talk to that asshole is a good idea? “You want to say hi to Mr. I Don’t Use My Words, be my guest. Angela and Maegan are already on the dance floor, I’ll meet you there.”
Turning in a huff, I ram into a body, almost knocking myself over. Hands grasp my arms, helping to steady me.
“Shit! I’m sorry,” I rush out, not looking up. Embarrassment turns my cheeks pink, the heat burning through my skin. Why did I have to run into a guy? Just my luck tonight.
“It’s alright. You okay?”
The hair on the back of my neck rises as my eyes travel from his narrow waist to his chest, up his neck, past the lips I’ve fantasized kissing, and meet the eyes I wished would find contact with mine. No fucking way! Karma…what the hell did I do to you?
“Fine. Thank you,” I respond through clenched teeth, my body tightening beneath his fingers.
Amy-Lynn nudges me from behind, causing me to give her a scowl over my shoulder. I’m trying to say, “Bitch, get me away from him now,” but she just smiles and says hi to the person wreaking havoc on my life. I have the urge to throat punch my best friend. Twice in less than five minutes I’ve wanted to inflict bodily harm on people. This is not like me at all. I need to get away from this guy, but I’m trapped between him and the person who is supposed to be in my corner.
Nick turns his attention from Amy-Lynn to me. Before tonight, I would have waited, with bated breath, wondering what he would say, but every second I stand here, my irritation grows. At him. At Amy-Lynn. Her giggling and obvious enjoyment of my discomfort. He reaches his hand out to me and his words set off an explosion—unfortunately, not the kind I was hoping for when I first met him. “Hi. I’m Nic…”
BOOM!
“I know who you are, Nick!” I emphasize his name. “We’ve met—twice. So glad I made an impression, asshole.”
Heart crushed, I slam past him, forcing his hands to drop from my arms. I can feel Amy-Lynn on my tail, know she wants to talk, but right now, I can’t trust what I’ll say to her. Months…months, I’ve thought about him. I couldn’t get his smile out of my mind. I kept thinking I just needed to see him one more time. That he has been thinking of me this whole time. I’m a fucking fool. He wasn’t thinking of me, he doesn’t even know who I am.
“Bren,” Amy-Lynn starts.
“Don’t!” I shout, putting my hand up to stop whatever she thinks will make me feel better. I can’t hear it. It will make me cry and I refuse to give him the satisfaction. “Just don’t, okay? He’s not worth it,” I say, hoping my heart will get the message before it sinks further into m
y chest.
After several songs and lots of coaxing from my girls, I’m dancing and laughing. It would be easier if I didn’t feel Nick’s eyes on me every time I turned around. He hasn’t stopped watching me since I stormed away from him. Amy-Lynn tried talking to him, telling him he’s acting like a creeper, but he told her he genuinely feels bad. Now, each time she or any of the ladies goes to the bar, he asks about me. The fire burning in me earlier has been extinguished by how miserable he looks. His friends are partying hard, but he hasn’t left his bar stool.
“Go ask him to dance with us,” I yell to Amy-Lynn.
“Who?”
“Nick,” I breathe out, wondering if I’m making the right decision.
“Yes! I knew you liked him,” she says, shoving her shoulder into mine.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I retort. “Just can’t stand seeing a grown man look like a whipped puppy.”
Laughter trails behind her as she shakes her way through the crowd. Heads turn and I shake mine, knowing she wants to dance, not be hit on by some drunk ass. She approaches Nick and I see the hesitation on his face. Poor guy doesn’t know who he’s up against. My girl is persistent, with a capital “You’ll Do What I Fucking Say”. It doesn’t take long before I see her walking back our way with Nick in tow, a triumphant grin on her face.
Damn, I love that girl.
The rest of the night, Nick and his friends dance, laugh, and party with my little group of ladies. I wanted to be nice to Nick from the second he came over, but I had residual “you’re a dick” feelings toward him, so it took me a bit to warm up to him. When I did, I found we moved well together, fit into each other in all the ways that mattered. I liked having his arms around me and feeling his breath on my neck. Dancing with him made me feel like the sexy friend. It was a nice change.
“Thank you for finally talking to me,” I whisper.
“You say that like I had a choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” I reply, watching him walk toward me.
“Not when your heart has been stolen, Bren. One look at you and I knew mine no longer belonged to me. I only wish I wasn’t such a chicken shit in the beginning. So much wasted time.”
My heart starts to race as he kneels before me, his chest colliding with my knees. “I’ve always prided myself on being a smart man, but you left me tongue-tied. I saw you and my mind became a jumbled maze of nonsensical babble. All logic was gone. You turned everything I knew upside down, leaving me speechless and more awkward than I already was around women. You may not know this looking at the sexy beast before you, but some back then thought I was a geek.”
“No,” I tease.
“Yes,” he says, feigning seriousness. “I don’t know why a skinny, computer guy constitutes geek, but I kept getting passed by for the muscley guys.”
“You didn’t,” I gasp, trying not to laugh.
“I did. Can you believe it?”
“The nerve of those bitches.”
“Now, I’m all yours. You didn’t mind my geek ways.”
“You won me over when you said I was the Zelda to your Link.” Reaching out, I cup his cheek, needing to touch him.
“It’s all going to be okay today, Bren. You’ll see.”
Climbing onto the couch beside me, he pulls me into his arms. I don’t know how long we sit that way, but our rumbling stomachs finally pull us apart. The reality of the day intrudes on our moment. A little nod from each of us gets us moving, but no more words are said.
A couple hours later, we’re sitting in Dr. Wendell’s office, my legs bouncing uncontrollably. Nick leans in, placing a kiss on my cheek. His hand hasn’t left my thigh and I wonder if his arm is starting to hurt from my incessant movement. I want to calm down, but my nerves are running rampant. Dr. Wendell walks in, his usual smile stretching his skin. Normally, his happy demeanor calms me, but today there’s an anxiousness crawling through my nerves, eating through my bones, and threatening to burst through my words.
I sit silently through his examination, nodding and shaking my head when necessary. My body goes stiff when he asks if I’m ready for the bandage to come off. I knew this moment was coming, but now that it’s here, I want to run. Make Nick leave at the very least. I don’t want to know how he’ll look at me, how he’ll feel, seeing his scarred wife. Forcing back tears, I can only dip my head.
Dr. Wendell asks me to stand and turn. Fear courses through my body. Nick will see it before me. Will he run? My body starts to shake, and I’m unable to stop it.
“Take this.”
Dr. Wendell hands me a small mirror and I try to understand what the hell he wants me to do with it.
“That mirror, right there…” He points over my shoulder and I turn. I’ve seen this mirror at every visit and never paid it any attention. Maybe because it’s just an oval shape. It’s kind of large, but there’s nothing fancy about it. “…that’s for you to be able to see what I’m doing. If you want to. This is all under your control, Brenna.”
My control. Ha. None of this has been under my control.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” My voice wavers, but he ignores it, his small chuckle filling the room.
I hold the small mirror in front of my face, angled so I can see the back of my head and Nick. He moves to stand beside me, his face so serious. Dr. Wendell separates the bandage from my hair. Some parts peeled off easily, but a few places feel like they’ve melded into my skin. My teeth gnash together so tightly, I’m afraid I might crack a tooth. I remain quiet, gripping the handle on the mirror, wishing there was a way to speed this up. A few times, I catch a glimpse of the staples underneath and flinch. Dr. Wendell apologizes, thinking he’s causing me pain. How do I tell him the pain is seeing how much of a freak I look like? That I worry how my husband will react?
The bandage finally pulls away with more hair than I want to know about stuck to it. For the first time, I get a look at…oh, God, it’s awful. Inches of gleaming metal shine in the glass behind me. My shaved head showing off the red irritation and bruising. My hand goes to my mouth and it takes all my willpower not to make a noise. Nothing though, is worse than Nick’s reaction. His mouth drops, tears form in his eyes, and I see it—the disgust. His eyes find mine in the glass, and he tries to hide it behind a reassuring smile, but it’s too late.
“Now comes the easy part,” Dr. Wendell says, breaking through the tension.
“Easy part?” I ask.
“Oh yeah. I’ve been told it actually tickles when the staples come out.”
I’m sure the look I give him would cripple most men, but he looks amused. Nick surprises me when he asks if he can keep them. My gasp can probably be heard in the waiting room. He explains that I scrapbook and thinks I can make a pretty cool page with them. I try to argue, but I realize I’m the one who asked him to take pictures of this journey. After all, how many times do you have brain surgery in life? I don’t see myself using the staples if I ever get around to crafting these memories, but I humor him. Dr. Wendell tells Nick he’ll make sure a nurse gets them sparkly clean before we leave, and I see my husband smile, a real one, for the first time in weeks.
Who would have thought the doc was right? I laughed at several of the staples coming out, only twinging at one. With the staples out, I look like a pattern waiting to be stitched. The main seam and holes are all lined up. It’s weird—and gross. And so red. I ask Dr. Wendell how long the scar will be that color and hate when he tells me it varies by person. My scar isn’t anywhere as large as the pictures Dr. Wendell showed me before surgery to get me prepared. I should be relieved at how thin it is, but I’ve never had anything like this on my body.
My stomach roils and I worry I’ll be sick. Dropping the mirror to my waist, I breathe deeply.
“Why don’t you sit, Brenna, and tell me how you’ve been feeling.”
It’s time to expose my fears. My eyes go from Nick to Dr. Wendell. I wish I didn’t have to voice my concerns. I would love nothing more tha
n to heal, go on with my life with Nick and my son, and try to forget my head ever got cracked open. But there’s this niggling in my mind, pushing me to be honest.
“I have an ocean in my head,” I blurt out.
“Excuse me?” Dr. Wendell replies.
“The waves in her head,” Nick says, rolling his eyes. I know he thinks I’m worried about nothing, but they’ve been getting stronger, and it’s scaring me.
“Don’t laugh at what you can’t feel,” I reprimand Nick, and instantly feel bad. None of this is his fault, but I keep snapping at him. It never makes me feel better.
“How about you explain these waves to me,” Dr. Wendell coaxes, pulling my gaze from Nick.
Trying to pull my thoughts together, hoping I can explain this correctly, I begin. “I compare it to the ocean because it feels like waves rolling in. They start here,” I place my fingers to the crown of my head, “and they flow toward my forehead. It’s disorienting when it happens. Sometimes painful.”
“Explain what you mean when you say disorienting.”
“When the waves hit, I feel like I may pass out. It’s dizzying. I have to lie down because it’s almost like…” I’m explaining it all wrong. What I want to convey is just out of my grasp. He’s nodding his head in understanding, but I’m not telling him what’s really happening. It’s crippling. I feel like I’m drowning in my mind, unable to speak, or call for Nick’s help. I can’t stand or even move—paralyzed by the complete loss of feeling in my body. That’s wrong, too. I do feel something. I always feel the waves rolling in my head. No matter what, I feel them—each one bringing a new level of confusion, pain, dizziness, nausea, fear.
Why can’t I articulate to anyone what’s happening? I know so clearly what’s happening in my body, but like sand through my fingers, the words slip away when I try to speak.
“What you’re experiencing is very normal. It sounds like brain shifting.”
“Brain shifting,” I say, needing to hear his words from my own mouth. It sounds smart coming from him, even though he hasn’t explained what it means, and it soothes the crazy I’ve been living with.
