Lauren Sanders is struggling to rebuild her life with her aunt and cousin after her family's tragic death. But what no one knows is the truth about two things: how her parents really died and her battle with schizophrenia.
One day, Lauren stumbles...
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I waited patiently for mom and dad to exit the operation room after we had been outside, sitting and waiting for almost five hours. Jonathan was sleeping next to me as I observed the people across from me leaning on the person next to them for support while the other person beside them was nonchalantly reading a magazine.
In hospitals, time flies more slowly. I imagine the sole measurements of the day's length measured by vital signs being checked by attending doctors, constant changes of IV bags by nurses when it's almost running empty, medicine regimens, occasional diagnostics, mealtimes, short trips to the restroom, and hallway walks to stretch your legs while you could make out every beep of the monitor of each room you pass by.
I twisted and clenched my hands as I glanced down at them, hoping to contain the agitation I was feeling within. Distress was present and permeated the free spaces of the room we shared with strangers, releasing its fumes onto those inhaling—including myself—who worry and others who are trying to choke back the suffering that led them here.
When the doors slide open, revealing a surgeon stepping out of the room, his facial mask covering half of his face, making it difficult to recognize him. He approached us and I quickly shake Jonathan to wake up as I stood up almost immediately.
He removed the surgery cap on his head and said, "The surgery was a success," his eyes crinkled and I could tell he was smiling behind the mask that hid his mouth. Dr. Fhassan pats me on the shoulder, "The nurses will bring them to the recovery room. For now, why don't you two get home and rest? You won't be able to visit them until tomorrow."
Jonathan groans on the chair as he rubs his eyes. When he saw me, he immediately stood up and asked what happened. I filled him in on what Dr. Fhassan told me and he says, "But I want to see mom."
"I know," Dr. Fhassan says as he nods his head, "For now, we don't allow visitors after surgery. They both have to recover. So, I suggest you two get home first and you can visit first thing in the morning, okay?"
He pats Jonathan's shoulder and left before Jonathan could even say another word. Jonathan looks at me and didn't say anything and just left. I sighed defeatedly and followed him.
The circular nurses' stations and continuously branching passageways have a uniform appearance. I remember how I used to memorize the path from the lobby to Dr. Fhassan's office which took me close to a week or two.
With each step I made as I approached and passed by the emergency area, the mixed sound of the wailing family members, equipment, and devices being used in healthcare began to seem louder once again. I could make out the smell of sterilizer as I observed the nurses in white uniforms rushing to the patients, attending to their care.
Jonathan doesn't look back for more than a few seconds as he walks, and I continue to follow him in silence. He hasn't talked to me about anything else about himself since what happened almost three weeks ago over dinner at the Bluewater Grill. Even though I made an effort to ease the tension, everything is still awkward between us.
