rupture,â which means that part of my aorta, the largest vein in my body, was almost ripped from my heart in the collision. They talk about the fact that most people die pretty quickly from this. My usual love of stats fails when they start talking about how eighty percent of people who have this happen in a car accident die before reaching the hospital. When they move on to âcoronary artery dissectionâ and âmassive myocardial infarctionâ I tune out and donât even ask them to explain what those mean. All I catch is that Iâm âlucky that Iâm youngâ and âlucky that Iâm in good shape.â
I donât know how they can use that word. âLuckyâ is the very last thing I feel.
My parents have been pretty much living at the hospital. Weâve met with doctors and social workers, nutritionists and physical therapists. Itâs the most Iâve seen Mom and Dad since I was in elementary school. And to think, all I had to do was almost die.
The hospital team drills me over and over about what my life will be like. Everything will revolve around exercise, healthy food, routines. It sounds a lot like my in-season regime, until they review the anti-rejection medications Iâll need to take for the rest of my life so that my body doesnât think of the heart like the foreign object that it is.
They tell me Iâll be on steroids for a year. That on its own means the death of my baseball career in the short term, but I also find out that contact sports could kill me. As a varsity shortstop, there is no guarantee that someone isnât going to slide into me. That Iâm not going to have a mid-field collision.
Finding out thereâs no chance of playing real ball should depress the hell out of me, but I donât feel much of anything. Compared to Lizzie being dead, nothing seems important.
There are visitors in and out of my room: some guys from the team, a few teachers, Spencer, his parents, my parents. I have nothing to say to any of them. I donât know why theyâre bothering. Itâs like they wonât admit what Iâve done. I donât deserve their friendship, or their concern, or their love. But still, they parade through my room like spectators at the zoo.
All the time I try to keep a fake smile pasted on my face. I wait for the door to open and for a police officer to walk in and drag me off to jail for killing one of my best friends. It never happens and I donât understand why.
And then thereâs the voice.
It doesnât tell me to hurt anyone else or myself. Itâs more like a sarcastic running commentary to whatâs going on. Sometimes I catch myself laughing in response, which gets me the kind of looks youâd imagine.
It doesnât matter what I do, I canât get it to stop. I even tried not taking my pain meds one day to see if that helped, but all it made me do was cry like a little girl. I canât tell anyone. Theyâll think Iâve gone nuts on top of everything.
Maybe I have.
On my last day in the hospital, Dr. Collins says he has a surprise for me. Iâm expecting him to say that maybe my medical record has been mixed up with someone elseâs and I can go back to living my life. Or that Lizzie was found alive somewhere and has been playing a really sick joke on all of us.
Instead, he opens the door to my room and waves a girl in. Sheâs a few years older than me, with pale red rings around her eyes and the look of someone whoâs been through hell. Sheâs pretty in the same way that Lizzie was. The way that makes you sit up and take notice not because sheâs so overly beautiful, but because itâs clear that she isnât taking any shit from anybody.
I try to cover myself up because Iâm lying here in only a stupid hospital gown. Meeting a girl is the last thing on my mind, but still Iâd rather not look like some invalid kid.
Youâd
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