mean girl thoughts

It’s really difficult to care for someone who handles pain differently than you.

She whines, sighs, hisses, moans, grumbles, and with every breath there is voice, partially a ‘Jessica Rabbit’ throatiness, but mostly it’s like a half-emptied sentient balloon that’s slowly being manipulated to release its air. There is a near constant barrage of sounds emanating from this woman.

She had bones removed from her ribcage and I have no doubt that it hurts like hell. I don’t know how it feels, and I haven’t felt the sensation of having both sides of my sternum ripped apart and re-spackled together with god-knows what done by a doc who gave off the vibe of a ‘gamblin’ ramblin’ man more than a trained surgeon. It hurts, I understand.

I also understand that she flew me here to take care of her after this surgery. I prepared myself, I told my job about it, I purchased CBD’s and gummies and tinctures to try to help her since none of that is legal in West Virginia: I understood the assignment. I was going to be Florence Fucking Nightingale, swooping in with my expert medical know-how to help bridge the gap between Amber and wellness. Maybe I could even impart some of my new wisdom in how I now handle my chronic pain with ‘Radical Acceptance,’ Reiki, sound therapy, and overall stubbornly moving on with my life despite discomfort, under the guise that I’m fine and I refuse to ever contribute to an online support group again.*

[*It just got too tragic, and I’m too young. I’m considering a trademark of ‘willful living.’ Or maybe ‘chronic & disobedient’ or ‘someday you’ll die anyway so why burden your life by your own griping.’ I’d like to think I’m just that tough; it’s probably just trauma from my youth making me a stone-cold bitch.]

Day two into the trip, only one sleep under us in the hotel room and midday I pause from working on my laptop, swivel my lil business chair and look at her with some aggressive eye contact: “ARE YOU OKAY.”

The words formed in my head faster than the tone caught up for its delivery, and what might have initially been perceived as a concerned question came out more like an irritated demand or statement. She fumbled the answer, because the tone had ‘dickhead’ written all over it. 

I tried to gently clarify, despite feeling my blood pressure rising. 

‘You’re squeaking and ouching and moaning, do you need some Advil or some tincture or anything at all to make you comfortable??’

She settled into the question in a breathy, almost smug way. “No..” she sighed deeply. “I’m just trying so hard to get comfortable..”

I watched her for a moment unable to comprehend just what that had to do with every voiced gasp that toddled out of her every fifteen seconds. I tried to measure out my anger to an imperceptible level, and lowered my voice.

“You can see where I would be concerned though, right? You’re making every noise in the book to suggest you’re in agony, and I even keep thinking you’re trying to get my attention. So, should you need something.. please tell me.”

She hunkered down into the bed, a round fluffy neck pillow draped behind her shoulders, four queen-size pillows surround her, fleeced hoodie up and enrobing her like a Hot Pocket, her vibe an homage to any seasoned king on a throne.

She closed her eyes and nestled down… “MMMmmmNooo.. I’m okay… (yawnsqueakwincegasp).. I’m fine.“

This was two days before surgery. Shit. I blinked once.. twice.

I should’ve known when I agreed to this, the same overly-dramatic super soft friend hasn’t changed even after birthing two children naturally and having one other rib surgery previous to this. My angelic look-after fantasy burned up. I tried to tug at the strings of other positive emotions I could plug in since I wouldn’t be able to count on my well of ‘patient grace’ or ‘transcendent healing.’ There would clearly be no ‘pulling up of the boot straps’ on her end, inspirations of might, or probably even ‘admirable strength.’ I was not in her Facebook rib-slipping support group and therefore not one of the dozens screaming ‘YOU’VE GOT THIS! PRAYERS!!’ for every trip to a gas station or supermarket she made. Instead, I just blinked.

I smiled apologetically and turned back to face my laptop and went back to working, bitterly pulling a namaste-inspired, peaceful vibration straight from my ass that I told myself to adopt for the next ten days. I glanced down at my phone. Just ten days. And you’re doing a nice thing for your friend.

My kind and loving patience returned once I saw her post-surgery, laying back in a hospital bed; her eyes closed and the corners of her mouth downturned in a sad grimace. Even asleep she looked uncomfortable. The nurse followed me in and explained her aftercare instructions, and that we could get her dressed and get her IV’s out. The driver she had hired was downstairs and the nurse slowly took her down in a wheelchair. My heart broke watching her; her head bobbing slowly, her expression contorting with the pain each rhythmic bump the tiled floor was inflicting.

Once back at the hotel, I sprung into action getting a sheet on the standing/reclining chair she’s renting for the week, pulling blankets, pouring water, reheating the tea I made her earlier, checking instructions on all her pill bottles. As I heard her sucking in her breath (‘TTSSssttsssssssHHHEEEEeee’) and murmuring curse words I felt bad for the girl. Nurse Alena was back in business and reporting for duty! I helped her to the bathroom, gave her the nighttime meds, set up beverages, fed her a warm meal, gave her the chair remote, pillows and blankets galore and left her to open-mouth snore. I crawled into my own bed and hit the light, I couldn’t believe how tired I was. 

DAY ONE POST-OP

I heard a squeak. Then my name. She was awake, asking for something. I looked at my watch and it was just after four am. I pulled my sleep mask off and got up, attended to her and then laid back down. Two minutes later she stood up on her own and asked me if I minded the light coming on, which is not unlike the intensity of the sun in brightness. ‘Sure..’ I breathed, seconds from going back to sleep.

“I can’t sit in the chair anymore,” she starts telling me, “I’m going to make a coffee.” I sat up and pulled my mask off again and looked at her. “You’re going… to make a coffee. A coffee.. now?” 

“Yeah, I can’t go back to sleep now.”

She wasn’t referring to the room’s sweet little one-cup coffee pot, with a quiet one-touch button. She had brought her cheap Amazon espresso machine, which beeped and whirled and sputtered loudly enough to be heard two doors down. I sat dumbfounded while she made a latte with vanilla creamer for her ‘milk.’ She, also, heeeeee-ing in and owwwwwwwwww-ing the whole time. It felt comical. Not yet five am.

“You can go back to sleep,” she said, “I’m good.” I was more awake than I’d been in days.