Read Online Lily and the Octopus by Steven Rowley - Free Book Online
Authors: Steven Rowley
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share the added stress of having to attend a wedding, but I keep
Meredith’s confidence intact.
Meredith is wholly supportive. “We’ll change your flights, have you on standby, get you a return flight home right after the ceremony—whatever you need us to do. And, of
course, we’ll cover any costs.” Hearing Meredith’s voice makes it easier. “But if you think you can, please come.”
I pick at some General Tso’s chicken and poke at a steamed dumpling, but I don’t have much of an appetite for anything other than vodka. We are supposed to be at a party thrown by
our neighbors in the unit of our duplex above us; I send Jeffrey upstairs to give our regrets. The dull roar of the party is constant, and at times laughter bubbles over, reminding us that life is
continuing outside of our anxiety, that seconds are ticking off the clock, marking the end of an old year and the start of a new one.
But in our apartment, time has stopped. There’s maybe something playing on HBO. Even it seems to unspool in slow motion.
Until the phone rings.
I’m not even aware I’ve answered it until the doctor’s voice is in my ear. “Lily came through surgery fine.” I dry heave my relief. “The myelogram revealed
compression of the spinal cord over the tenth through twelfth thoracic vertebrae. We took her directly into surgery and performed a hemilaminectomy over this area.”
I’m nodding as if I understand exactly what this means. I’m nodding for someone who can’t see me, trying to listen but also play back in my head the confirmation that all this
went fine. I try to repeat
hemilaminectomy
in my head and it sounds like a child trying to pronounce aluminum: alumi-numi-numi-num.
“Basically, we make an incision that creates a window into the vertebral bodies and exposes the spinal cord so we can retrieve the herniated disc material.”
Retrieve it and do
what with it?
“Lily’s procedure went without complication and she recovered from the anesthesia uneventfully.”
Uneventfully
. Like being put under and myelograms and spine windows and alumi-numi-numi-num surgeries are everyday phenomena in life.
“Is she able to . . . Was the surgery a success?”
I am suddenly aware that I’m standing, as if the doctor has walked into our living room. I have no memory of getting up, and now that I am up, I’m unsure of where to look or what to
do with my hand that is not holding the phone. The news is what I want to hear, but somehow I’m ice-cold, the warmth of the vodka having drained out of my limbs.
“Animals that suffer this type of injury make most of their neurologic improvement over the first three months postoperatively. You’ll notice some immediate improvement, but
don’t be discouraged if Lily’s progress is initially slow. But I’m cautiously optimistic.”
“Cautiously optimistic that . . .” There’s a hiccup of laughter from upstairs and I give a death-stare at the ceiling.
“Cautiously optimistic. That she will recover.”
“Fully?”
“Cautiously optimistic.”
Stop saying that. Will she walk?
“We need to board her here for the next seventy-two hours to monitor her initial recovery and watch for any signs of complications. Our offices are closed tomorrow for New Year’s
Day, which means you can visit her the day after if you want to. But only briefly. It’s not good for her to get too excited. Otherwise, you can take her home the day after that.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“It was our pleasure working with Lily.”
She’s not getting what I’m trying to say.
“No.” I say it with import. “
Thank you
.”
I hang up the phone and collapse on the couch and relay to Jeffrey what I was told and when we can see her and when we can bring her home.
He looks at me, not quite knowing what to say. “I guess we have a wedding to attend.”
I’m Afraid There’s No Denyin’/I’m Just a Dandy-Lion
EIGHT TIMES I WAS COWARDLY
1 When I was five and my father
Meredith’s confidence intact.
Meredith is wholly supportive. “We’ll change your flights, have you on standby, get you a return flight home right after the ceremony—whatever you need us to do. And, of
course, we’ll cover any costs.” Hearing Meredith’s voice makes it easier. “But if you think you can, please come.”
I pick at some General Tso’s chicken and poke at a steamed dumpling, but I don’t have much of an appetite for anything other than vodka. We are supposed to be at a party thrown by
our neighbors in the unit of our duplex above us; I send Jeffrey upstairs to give our regrets. The dull roar of the party is constant, and at times laughter bubbles over, reminding us that life is
continuing outside of our anxiety, that seconds are ticking off the clock, marking the end of an old year and the start of a new one.
But in our apartment, time has stopped. There’s maybe something playing on HBO. Even it seems to unspool in slow motion.
Until the phone rings.
I’m not even aware I’ve answered it until the doctor’s voice is in my ear. “Lily came through surgery fine.” I dry heave my relief. “The myelogram revealed
compression of the spinal cord over the tenth through twelfth thoracic vertebrae. We took her directly into surgery and performed a hemilaminectomy over this area.”
I’m nodding as if I understand exactly what this means. I’m nodding for someone who can’t see me, trying to listen but also play back in my head the confirmation that all this
went fine. I try to repeat
hemilaminectomy
in my head and it sounds like a child trying to pronounce aluminum: alumi-numi-numi-num.
“Basically, we make an incision that creates a window into the vertebral bodies and exposes the spinal cord so we can retrieve the herniated disc material.”
Retrieve it and do
what with it?
“Lily’s procedure went without complication and she recovered from the anesthesia uneventfully.”
Uneventfully
. Like being put under and myelograms and spine windows and alumi-numi-numi-num surgeries are everyday phenomena in life.
“Is she able to . . . Was the surgery a success?”
I am suddenly aware that I’m standing, as if the doctor has walked into our living room. I have no memory of getting up, and now that I am up, I’m unsure of where to look or what to
do with my hand that is not holding the phone. The news is what I want to hear, but somehow I’m ice-cold, the warmth of the vodka having drained out of my limbs.
“Animals that suffer this type of injury make most of their neurologic improvement over the first three months postoperatively. You’ll notice some immediate improvement, but
don’t be discouraged if Lily’s progress is initially slow. But I’m cautiously optimistic.”
“Cautiously optimistic that . . .” There’s a hiccup of laughter from upstairs and I give a death-stare at the ceiling.
“Cautiously optimistic. That she will recover.”
“Fully?”
“Cautiously optimistic.”
Stop saying that. Will she walk?
“We need to board her here for the next seventy-two hours to monitor her initial recovery and watch for any signs of complications. Our offices are closed tomorrow for New Year’s
Day, which means you can visit her the day after if you want to. But only briefly. It’s not good for her to get too excited. Otherwise, you can take her home the day after that.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“It was our pleasure working with Lily.”
She’s not getting what I’m trying to say.
“No.” I say it with import. “
Thank you
.”
I hang up the phone and collapse on the couch and relay to Jeffrey what I was told and when we can see her and when we can bring her home.
He looks at me, not quite knowing what to say. “I guess we have a wedding to attend.”
I’m Afraid There’s No Denyin’/I’m Just a Dandy-Lion
EIGHT TIMES I WAS COWARDLY
1 When I was five and my father
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