We were making love when the pain hit. It had been two weeks since he'd come back from the tour and it was the first time I'd seen him. He'd called me a few times and even sent me flowers, but this was the first opportunity we'd had to spend time together.
It was supposed to be our reunion after being apart and I'd been looking forward to it but the pain was an unwelcome intruder. I hoped he didn't notice, but he did.
"What's wrong, Dacy?" he asked and stopped. He pulled out of me though I didn't want him to.
"It's nothing, just be careful," I said, but he wasn't buying it. Inwardly I was thinking, oh no, not again, please god, not again.
I almost died a couple of years ago from a pelvic infection. I have a scar on my bikini line that's about four inches long that I'm very self-conscious about. Rick asked about it once and then never mentioned it again.
"Did I hurt you?" he asked, "Come on, you have to tell me."
"It wasn't you, it was me. It's like the time I had surgery, only the pain isn't as bad. Okay, I hurt, but I don't know where it's coming from."
"Do you think you're having a miscarriage? Or cramps?" He's asking questions only a married, or as good as married, man might ask his partner. He knows I don't use anything and we made a pact to decide what to do if I get pregnant. Personally, I plan on getting an abortion, I'm definitely not ready for motherhood.
"No, I'm not pregnant and it's too soon to have my period. Rick, I'm kind of scared that something bad might be happening and I'm going to wind up having surgery again." I know something is wrong, I can feel it. The last thing I want to do is go under the knife, but I may not have a choice.
"You go to the doctor, tomorrow, you hear me? And call in sick, none of this 'I'll be okay' bullshit. If you won't do it for yourself, do it for me."
"Yes, okay I will," I say meekly. I know he's right, I'd try to pretend it's nothing though I know better.
He does something he's only done once; he traces my scar with a gentle finger. "If you have to have surgery, that's okay. I'd rather see you with another scar than have to attend your funeral. Your life is half mine now, I want you to take care of yourself." He gets up and gets dressed. I don't want him to leave but I understand. He kisses me goodbye then says, "Go to the doctor."
At nine o'clock I call and make a doctor's appointment. Then I make a pot of coffee and call in sick to work. The last time I went through this I was still living in Seattle and working at a different phone company. I tell Dorothy, the world's greatest clerk, the whole ugly story and that I hope I'm not going to see a repeat of the past.
She tells me to take care of myself and asks if I've heard from Rick. Well, yes I have, I tell her, but I don't tell her about last night. I promise to rest and I'll get back to her and let her know what's going on.
I'm sitting in the doctor's office, hurting like hell. Excedrin isn't even touching this. I'm glad when my name is called and I go into the room. After the nurse does her thing Doc Amundsen comes in and looks at me over his half-glasses and asks where I hurt.
I point to my right side—where it all began—and his fingers probe my abdomen and he tells me he's going to have to do a pelvic, he can feel a mass there.
Yech, hate those, but I dutifully undress from the waist down and let him do his thing. He confirms that he has found something and has the nurse take some blood. I tell him about the pain, how bad it is, and can he give me something because over-the-counter medication isn't doing a thing. And please don't give me codeine.
I'm not a meds seeker and he knows it. He also knows my history and how scared I am. He's one of those older doctors with a kindly, no-nonsense manner. He pats my hand and says he'll give me some Percodan if it's that bad. And take it easy for a few days until the pain starts subsiding. He'll have the nurse call and tell me what course of action he's going to take.
I drop the scrip off at the pharmacy and go and eat a big breakfast. Narcotics are hard on my stomach, but food helps. I'd rather be a little sick than be in pain like I am now. I'm looking forward to catching up on the sleep I missed because the pain was too bad.
I pick up my drugs when I finish and go straight home. It's too early to call Gina and too early to hear from Rick. I put a jazz album on the turntable to mellow me out and take the perc. I also smoke half a joint, then cuddle under a blanket and let the Percodan work its magic.
I don't know when I fell asleep, but the album had finished and the clock on my wall read three o'clock. I was going to pull the album off the turntable when the phone rang. I sat up and wrapped the blanket more tightly around me then lifted the receiver and said a tenuous "hello?"
"What did the doctor say?" Wow, he probably hasn't been up for very long and he's calling.
"He doesn't know for sure but did some bloodwork. There's a mass there, he said, and his nurse is going to call me and let me know what he's going to do. Whatever it is, I wish he'd just cut it out. He gave me Percodan and it's helping some but I wish it would help more."
"Well, if the pain gets too bad and he doesn't offer to help you let me know."
"Thanks," I say but think no thanks. I never mentioned that little packet that he left behind and I still don't know what it is. That's the thing that scares me about him, the alcohol and drugs. They're so normal in the music business and I don't want to get wrapped up in that.
What I don't admit to myself is that he's probably an addict, or maybe more than probably. If I asked he'd get me something with the best of intentions. People want to hang around with musicians so they bring drugs, all kinds of drugs. I don't ask him what he's into and he doesn't offer to tell.
"I'll come over in a couple of days to see how you're doing. I guess sex is going to be out of the picture for a while, huh?"
"Unfortunately, yes, but maybe I'll feel better in a few days. Maybe this is no more than a lot of nothing," I say with false hope.
"And maybe it's not. I want you to take care of yourself. You're my girl, remember? I love you."
"I love you too," I answer and we both mean it.
Gina should be awake so I call to let her know what's going on. I'd rather help someone out than ask for it, but I'm going to need her for a few days.
"What?" she asks when I tell her what happened, "Are you all right?" I can hear the concern in her voice.
"Yes, it's like what happened to me when I lived in Seattle, only the pain is different this time. I should hear from the nurse tomorrow about how the doctor plans to treat it. I'm just not up to moving around much, and I'm wondering if you'd mind running an errand for me if I need it, or picking up some food. I can't ask Rick..."
"Oh, so Rick knows, how did he find out?"
"We were making love when the pain hit. I promised him I'd go to the doctor so I did. I'm living on Percodan at the moment, so I really shouldn't be driving."
I heard her exhale into the receiver, "Are you sure you're going to be okay?"
I don't even try to lie to 'Mama Gina". "Look, I don't know what's going on. Maybe it's nothing and I'll be better in a few days. Rick's worrying about me and now I have you worrying. I just need help for a few days, I'll try not to ask for much."
"Just let me know what's going on, okay? Dacy, I don't think you're willing to admit this might be more serious than you think."
"Don't say that, don't even think it. I don't want to wind up going under the knife again. I hate hospitals."
"Okay," Gina cajoles, "Just be careful for crying out loud."
A few hours later a huge flower arrangement arrives for me. The card reads, "Take care of yourself", I would have preferred something more personal but I get the point. Gina will be impressed.
The doctor is trying to treat this with antibiotics but I don't feel like it's helping. Some days I seem better and on one of them Rick and I make love. The next day I'm hurting again and I call in sick to work. This is going on too long and the doc insists on continuing the antibiotics though I'm feeling no better. I try working whenever I can and I'm on the borderline with my attendance, but my boss knows what's going on. I've only been here a couple of years but I'm popular with management.
I finally consult a new doctor and he thinks there may be a better course of action. He's not ready to put me in the hospital yet, but we both agree that may be coming. He changes my pain meds to Demerol and tells me to call him the minute I get worse.
That happens the night Rick comes over. I've been in pain all day, reluctant to call the doctor. Rick takes one look at me and tells me to pack a bag because he's taking me to the emergency room. He'll call Gina for me and ask her to look after my cats.
He puts his arms around me and I burst into tears, I'm so exhausted from the pain and lack of sleep that I'm an emotional wreck. He doesn't just drop me off, he comes in and gets me signed in, and tells the attending nurse what's been going on. After that, he has to say goodbye and let them do their job. I want him to stay, I need him to stay but he has to leave.
I'm in surgery by nine o'clock. I wake up in pain, my throat sore and I can't move or talk, or go back to sleep. It seems like forever before they move me out of the damn recovery room and put me in a room in the ICU. I spend the day making the nurses' lives miserable because I feel miserable.
The next day I feel better and make my apologies to the nurses—it's the least I can do. The doctor is being generous with the pain meds and it helps, especially since I'm expected to get up and walk today. A huge flower arrangement is delivered to my room--the band has signed the card which I think is sweet. It lifts my spirits and for the moment I don't fret about when I'll see Rick.
In the afternoon my IV stand and I go for a walk. A nurse walks with me and I'm proud that I'm doing this, though the Demerol is probably helping. I make up my mind to walk as much as I can. Tomorrow I get to take a shower and wash my hair—if Rick shows up I will at least look presentable.
I'm alone in my room, for now, my roommate checked out and no one has been moved in. It's better to be alone unless you have the right roommate. I don't have to put up with noise from the television, or visitors because right now I'm kind of depressed even though Gina is coming this afternoon, and I've had a few calls from people at work.
I fall asleep after my walk and a terrible hospital lunch. The painkillers take the edge off the pain but having surgery makes you tired. My bed is comfortable and though there is noise in the hall my room is quiet. I'll be awake when Gina shows up and we can have a good chat.
I'm not really dreaming, but images are flitting through my mind. I imagine that I hear footsteps come into my room, not the quiet cross trainers the nurses wear but whoever it is wears shoes with heels that make clicking sounds on the floor.
In spite of the half state of dreaming I'm in I become aware that someone is standing at the foot of my bed. I open my eyes and look up and a woman is staring at me, saying, "Who are you?"
"Go away," I answer and pick up the remote that controls the television and the nurse's call button. I look straight at her and push the button.
She gets a look of panic on her face and turns and hurries out of my room. It wasn't my imagination or a dream, it was real.
One of the nurses comes into my room and asks me if I'm all right.
"Someone was here who didn't belong here and I don't know why. I was afraid she wouldn't leave so I called."
"Well, I didn't see anyone, maybe she was just in the wrong room." She fluffs my pillows and pulls up my blanket. "How about something to drink? You can have a coke if you like."
I nod, and she leaves to fetch my coke. I don't believe the woman was here by accident and I have to tell Rick what happened. We may have been found out.