The doctor stood up, checking his clipboard to make sure he hadn’t missed anything.
“Doctor, please tell me, what is the success rate of this kind of surgery?” My voice was a whisper. I was almost afraid to ask.
“Generally, we say eighty-five to ninety percent, but these last couple of years we’ve seen a higher success rate. So, you need not worry about that.”
“And, uh…how long does it generally take to recover?” I bit my lip.
“The average time before an athlete is given the okay to return to their sport is around six to nine months. Any other questions?”
A few moments passed. I stared at my fingers, saying nothing.
“Ms. Hall?” the doctor repeated.
I shook my head. What I wanted to ask was a question I knew the doctor could not answer. Would not.
Would my mom survive six months without the treatment she so badly needed? The treatment she couldn’t get now that I had made a complete mess of the match. The one match that could have turned everything around.
* * *
It took me fifteen minutes to finally accept that no, this was not all a bad dream. I was wide awake, lying in a hospital room in a foreign country, far away from home. I could hardly remember how I’d gotten there. Besides the pain in my knee. That, I wish I could wipe from my memory.
Best try to keep your mind occupied.
I glanced around the room. The place smelt faintly of disinfectant. The walls were bare and looked like they had been freshly painted in crisp white color. It was a little too bright for my liking, and the fluorescent beams above me were buzzing. A fan that stood in the far corner had a screechy hum to it, and occasionally I would hear feet passing by my door or chattering down the hall in what I presumed was the nurse’s station.
I turned my head to the bare bedside table. When I’d visited my mom at the hospital just a few months earlier, her table had groaned under the weight of dozens and dozens of bouquets and get-well-soon cards. My card had taken center stage, the little cartoon woodpecker on the front grinning lopsidedly with the words, “Get Well Soon!” in a cursive script across it.
But there was no one here to send me a card, and that thought made me realize something else—if there was no one here to send me a card, then there was no one but me to pay my bills, either.
What are you talking about, Elly?I thought.You have insurance!
Against the doctor’s orders, I reached into the drawer of the bedside table and retrieved my phone. Twenty missed calls and messages from both mom and Sarah. The knot in my stomach tightened. I couldn’t face them right then. Not till I had at least some good news to share.
Something.
I dialed my agent, my eyes landing on the empty table again. Surely, it was strange that Simone hadn’t sent anything or wasn’t here. We weren’t close, exactly, but she had taken such pains to organize every aspect of my life that I had just assumed that organizing a card would’ve been easy for her.
I stared at the bedside table, deep in thought that took me from one rabbit hole to another until, eventually, Simone answered. Another weird point. Simone usually answered her phone immediately.
Hmmm.
“Simone?” I asked. I needed to hear her voice to erase all the negative thoughts and fears beginning to grow in my ears.
“Who is this?” the voice on the other end sounded detached, as if they were bored of the conversation before it had even begun.
“It’s Elly.” Maybe my voice sounded different under all the painkillers?
“Oh hi, Elly,” Simone said offhandedly, almost swatting me like a fly away. “How are you doing?”
“Erm…not well. The doctors said I might need surgery…” I tried to explain but Simone interrupted me.
“Oh.”
“I was calling because I…I need to show the hospital my insurance coverage to pay for the surgery. I can’t pay for it otherwise.” I tried to keep my voice in check, but the worry was beginning to crack through the shield.
“What insurance?” Simone asked. I could imagine her staring at her fingernails, more concerned about fitting in her next manicure appointment than anything I might say. Her nonchalance started to bother me.
“The one you made me sign all the documents for just before we came here. Do you remember?” Why was she being so dismissive? Maybe I didn’t need a card, but a contact number for the insurance agencies would’ve been useful.