At the pinnacle of her career, orthopedic surgeon Ava King conquers the lucrative medical field of London.
A wild and intimate night with competitive Formula One driver James Ellis ends with Ava being stood up. The rejection leads her straight into...
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My clothes feel weird; scratchy and irritating as though ants are crawling up and down my skin.
I've been in a hospital gown, flashing my pale African ass at heaven knows who for the past few days and it's the first time since Monday that I'm wearing actual clothes. I tug uncomfortably at the knitted grey sweatpants and sweater combo my sister packed for my big day out, as I inspect myself.
The bruises on my face have discoloured a bit, but I still have a significant shiner and a few splintered cuts along my lip and cheek.
My torso and back looks like the map of Europe during the Cold War.
My arm is still fucked, the cast will be on for another 6 weeks and I sigh while securing the sling around my neck; I can say goodbye to surgery for a while.
The drain in my chest was removed after a few days, as was the godforsaken catheter; I insisted that be taken out the second I was up and walking.
Saul, my physio decided to compliment the bruised skin of my torso and back with some purple sports tape which helps a shit load when I breathe, laugh, or sneeze. Fractured ribs takes ages to heal.
I still have some staples in my head and a rather dashing bald spot around the wound.
Oh and I'm temporarily deaf in my one ear. How fantastic is that? The audiology test came back showing partial deafness thanks to the swelling around my one cranial nerve so that's another blow to my ever deflating ego. I've been told to wait until tomorrow for my hearing aid to be fitted and tested but that's tomorrow's problem. I'm going home today, come hell or high water.
Anyway, because the doctor's weren't sure about the cause of my internal bleeding when I came in, they performed a laparotomy, so it's the routine six weeks of recovery with extra precaution because I'm still with child.
With child.
What the actual fuck?
James refuses to do a paternity test. He said it's his either way around and no DNA test will prove otherwise. But I'm pretty certain about my calculations. Jamie and I have never been responsible adults around each other. And even with a faulty IUD, me and... the other guy... used protection, especially in the early days.
Oh and don't worry, I will eventually say his name again. He's not fucking Voldemort.
I turn this way and that to make sure my hideous maternity pads aren't visible; I can expect bleeding and spotting for the next few days thanks to the surgery and the other thing that happened. Everything down south is still pretty sore and tender.
Nappies, bald spots, hearing aids?? Maybe I should just ask Jamie to drop me off at the closest retirement village, thanks.
_____________________
It's been six days.
Six days of being the patient and not the doctor and much to everyone's dissatisfaction I've requested an early discharge, threatening to sign an RHT if they don't send me home today. It's Sunday and I want Jamie to be home to watch the race. It's not fair that he's put his entire life on hold for me.
