Under It All: A True Story

“I’ll talk to you a little when we’re in there, but you probably won’t remember it.” The man said. He was wearing blue scrubs, a scrub cap and his eyes were gentle.

I simply nodded, smiling. “Okay, sounds good.” I had said back.

“I’ll make sure you never even see the scar.” He reassured.

“But I want the scar.” I joked. I was doing anything to ease the nerves rushing through me, or to distract myself from the burn of the IV in my hand.

“Sure, sure.” He replied. “Are you ready?”

“No.” I replied instantly, shaking my head, but my smile said otherwise.

He laughed, as did the nurses around me. “No? We’ll take care of you, you’ll be okay.”

“Well, I know, but,” I stop talking there. Push the nerves down.

A nurse next to me smiles, pushing something into my IV line. “This is just something to help you relax, you probably won’t remember anything else.” She said. Lies. I’ll remember it. I’ll force myself to.

I hear the clicking of things being moved, other items being shut off so they can be unhooked and I can be moved. My mother stands and walks over, kissing the top of my head.

“Alright, I love you, kiddo. I’ll see you in a bit.” She says, giving me a side hug. I don’t want her to go. I’m scared.

“See you on the other side.” I say.

Then just like that, I’m being wheeled out. They take me down a hall. It’s long and bright. The nurse behind me makes a comment on it and I laugh, responding that I can see that. I make a joke about something and she laughs. The farther we go down the hall, the colder it gets. I don’t like it.

Doctors are walking around, the ceiling is high up. Lights shine on one single side and there’s an emergency exit door at the end. The room they had me in was just next to this turn. I make another comment.

“Can I keep the hospital gown when I leave?” I ask, intending to make another joke.

“Unfortunately not.” The nurse replies.

I sigh. “Shame. This would make such a good dress for my winter ball coming up.”

She laughs. I was successful yet again. “I don’t think people would like to see you half naked.” She says. I let myself smile.

“Ohh, I’ve seen worse.” I say back.

“I don’t doubt it.” She replies.

We take a right and the hallway is darker, the ceiling shorter. We pass a desk with a few people and they smile. “How ya doing?” One lady asks quickly.

“Not dead yet.” I replied. She laughs.

We take another right into a much darker room. Then the walls become bright and tall, blue shining everywhere. From above, there's a few windows, but I don’t take the time to look at them. The bed I’m on is locked and then pushed up. There are several nurses here, 5 maybe? None of them are the familiar face of the anesthesiologist that I met previously. 

One lowers the rails, another takes the blankets off. A third is behind me, moving my IV, a fourth is next to the operation table, holding something down. I smile, wanting to make another joke but I can’t. I can’t speak now.

“What’s your name?” I remember being asked. I don’t remember the lady's name, but I know she introduced herself to me.

“Uh,” I say my name, but I also say my nickname. A piece of panic, but something familiar. It’s what I always tell people I first meet.

My name is being echoed around, the ladies repeating it over and over again like parrots. I try to shove down the feeling of dread that’s starting to swell in my chest. I lift myself, placing myself onto the operating table and suddenly, there’s dozens of hands grabbing me. I feel overwhelmed.

One grabs my arms, pulling them out. Another reaches for my legs, adjusting me, a third is messing with machines. I hear a buzzing. I can’t see their faces. I don’t know these people.

“This is supposed to smell like vanilla, but I personally think it smells like beach balls,” the lady who asked for my name says.

A mask is placed over my face. It feels soft around the edges. I’m scared. I’m scared. There’s too many hands.

“Do you agree?” She asks.

“Yeah, it does.” I say back. I start coughing. The mask feels cold, my lungs feel light. I cough again. She lets go of the mask.

I hear her movement as she messes with a machine. It whirrs and then her gloved hand returns to my face. She presses the mask back into place.

“Deep breaths.” She says.

I take one and the room goes black.

My thoughts are so quiet, my brain is nothing. I feel nothing. I know nothing. I don’t exist. There is no talking. No voices. No visions. It is quiet. It is quiet. I am quiet. I am . . .

It’s a void. It’s cold. I’m cold. I want to go home. I’m scared. I’m overwhelmed. I’m . . .

The weight of a guitar settles in my hands and I’m suddenly looking out at a crowd. The lights are blue and pink. There’s a microphone in front of me. I look back and see my band's bass player. The percussionist. The singer. . .

I look back at the crowd. They’re cheering. I hear the continuous drone of a note. The bass guitar. I look back at her.

“Come on, Toast. Give ‘em what they want.” She says. I take a deep breath.

I turn to face the crowd. They go quiet. I look at my hand, the pick. I lift. I slam my hand down to strum, but the guitar disappears, the pick is gone, the stage fades. I’m falling. Void. Quiet. Dark. I don’t exist. Nothing. There is nothing.

There is wood under my feet. Whatever I’m standing on is swaying. I look up. I see my ex boyfriend, my ex best friend, my coworker, a girl I dislike and my current best friend. We’re on a ship. There is water everywhere.

I lean over the edge, looking out at the water around us. There is no land. Just blue. Just water. My ex boyfriend stops next to me. His hand rests on mine.

“We need food.” He says. I shift, looking up at him. His blonde hair, his blue eyes. I can smell his cologne. I miss it.

“Don’t we have any below?” I say.

My best friend steps up behind me. “No. Our barrels are empty.”

“Okay, then we keep searching.” I responded.

I move away from my ex. My coworker is sitting on the opposite railing. His hair is in dreads, his skin dark and shining against the sun. He says nothing. I turn around and my ex best friend is gone. I spin to look back at him and suddenly he’s gone too.

I don’t comment on it. I move around. I reach into my pocket and I lift up a dial. I seem to already know what to do because I’m twisting the center. There are four recognizable signs on it. McDonald’s, Wendy’s, Taco Bell, and one that I don’t recognize at all. I center the dial on the first and second ones.

Suddenly, the ocean parts and several buildings show up. Most are shredded and in ruins. They are nothing. We argue briefly about which ones we want, and I just settle for selecting all of them.

We travel for several moments. We pass building after building, but all of them are empty and hold nothing. We pass a sea of wires. A sea of dolphins, one of octopi, another of something else. I wanted to swim. I wanted to be cold. I don’t want to be here.

“LAND!” My best friend yells. Before anything can be done, our ship is colliding with concrete. One of each of the restaurants are around us and . . . Why does our ship have wheels?

We park in one of the spots and the ship changes into a car. I stand with my ex’s hand in mine. I sigh. We all argue again about where we want to go. I want to go to Wendy’s, so we go there. My best friend goes into the McDonald’s that we are parked at, and the girl I don’t like starts to run to Taco Bell.

My ex walks with me into Wendy's. He sits and I pace around. A TV is playing. I don’t remember what it’s playing. The two men at the counter don’t look real. They’re AI. They eat something as I pace. I don’t know what I want.

My ex sits down, guiding me to sit, too. “I’ll handle it, don’t worry.”

“I don’t know what I want.” I say back.

“I do.” He replies.

My leg bounces. I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what I want.

He was only gone for a second. He’s setting chicken tenders down in front of me. His hand rests on my thigh.

“Relax,” he hums.

I pick at the chicken. I eat a little. Then I look away.

“I don’t know what I want.” I say again.

He nods. “I do,” he repeated.

I look back at the red tray. My chicken is a sandwich now. I pick at it.

“I miss you.” I say.

“I know.”

“Why did you leave?” I ask.

“You’re the one who let go.” He says back. His hand squeezes on my bouncing thigh.

“I didn’t want you to touch me.”

“I know.”

“I miss you.”

“I know.”

I stand, ignoring the food before me.

“I don’t know what I want.” I repeat.

“I do.” He says again.

I’m cold, I’m quiet, I’m alone. I’m cold, I’m quiet, I’m alone. I’m cold, I’m quiet, I’m alone.I’m cold, I’m . . .

He’s in front of me, his arms wrapping around my waist. “Relax. Just breathe. I got you.” He says.

His cologne smells familiar. My arms wrap around his neck, my head rests on his shoulders. He squeezes. I miss him.

“Don’t leave me.” I beg.

“I’m here.” He replies.

We sway. He takes small steps, walking us in circles. Slow. Just like I asked him to do during our freshman year homecoming in high school. I just wanted to be held. I wanted him to walk in slow circles.

“I’m sorry.” I say. I repeat it. Again and again. My back hurts.

“It’s okay.” His head rests in the nook between my neck and shoulder. His lips are soft. “I’m here, I got you. Just relax.”

I let my eyes close. The muscles in my spine tense. My thighs tremble and ache, pain shoots up my leg. I bite back a cry. It hurts. It hurts. My muscles are fighting me, tensing and spasming.

“Deep breathes. I know. I know, it’s okay. I got you…” He whispers into my ear. “Don’t let your legs drop, just hold on. Stay standing.”

I want to cry, I don’t want to let go. I hold on. My hand tangles into his blonde hair. Don’t let go… don’t leave me.

I can smell his cologne. I feel safe. I . . .

Black swells around me again. My legs are shaking. I’m going to be late for school, I need to go to school, I need to move. To get up. I’m late.

I turn, rolling over. I can’t open my eyes. Why won’t they open? A cold hand presses down on my shoulder.

“Hey, just relax. Lay down, you’re okay.” A woman says. Who is she?

I force my eyes to work. They won’t open. I make them. I catch the sight of a hospital railing before they close again. I’m in the hospital? Why? Is it over already? Black spins and I let my hands relax. Where am I?

The library I stand in is dark, lit by candles. It looks like something out of Hogwarts. I turn. I’m alone.

I walk through to the desk at the front. The woman tells me something, but I can’t remember what. I move, seeming to already know where I’m going.

I look at the books. The place looks old but new. The shelves are dark and glossy. I look at each of the books, some of the titles I recognize, some I don’t.

There’s a grand piano nearby and I sit at it. When I open the lid, it echoes through the halls. Suddenly, I’m on the 3rd floor of the library, the spiral staircase nearby glossy. The railing is made of metal and it spirals. The piano sits on an awning, peering down at the other two floors. People are around. It doesn’t stop me.

My hands rest on the keys. 2nd octave. I press the keys slowly. E. Then B. Then F sharp. Then E flat.

My left hand settles on the lower end. Two C’s, an octave apart from each other. My right hand goes down an octave and plays something similar. E, F sharp, G, B, G, F sharp, and repeat. My left hand moves up. E. Then B. Then C. I repeat it.

The music echoes and swells. I don’t need a sheet of notes to know this song, I have it memorized. Solas. I love Solas. So pretty . . . So calming. Music is calming.

As I play, I don’t feel overwhelmed. I don’t feel scared. I don’t feel alone. I hit the last note of the song and my hands slowly raise, letting it echo. So pretty. . . Darkness swells again, taking my piano away from me.

“She’s still asleep?” A voice says. My surgeon.

“Yes, but she should be awake soon.” My mother replies. I miss her voice.

There’s a pause. Then, “okay, I’ll come back later then.”

The sounds fade. I’m on a stage again, my hands plucking at my strings. There’s a crowd in front of me. They are silent.

“Mother always said, watch where you’re goin’.” My voice echoes into the microphone. I seem to already know the song, but I don’t recognize it. “Father always said, be careful who you trust.”

The singer behind me hums a note. I keep going.

“But, I don’t want to let go. It’s my life. If I want to run, then I’ll find a way. You don’t have to stay. You aren’t mine.”

The bass guitar’s beat sends vibrations through the stage. The percussionist is keeping the tempo steady. I look back and see their faces. My people. My band. I look into the crowd again and see the familiar faces of people. I’ve never seen what they look like, but I know their names and my brain seems to be making up for my lack of identification. I smile and wave. They jump up and down, screaming my name. ‘Toast’. A chant. But just before I can respond, the black takes me away.

“She’s a musician.” My mother’s voice says.

“Oh, really?” A lady next to me says.

“She was so scared for this. She’d play the piano everyday while she waited.” My mother replies.

The lady chuckles softly. “Was it a nerve thing?” The lady asked.

“No, she just . . . She’s my rockstar. She plays 5 instruments.”

10. I play 10. My thoughts echoed.

“Ohh, that’s so cool!” The nurse says. “You must be proud.”

“It’s the one thing she enjoys and is good at.”

The nurse hums. “I’m sure there’s other things she can do.”

“She writes. Been trying to get her to write about her life before.”

“An autobiography?”

“I guess. She’s been hesitant, but she’s the only one of her siblings who can bring true awareness to kids like her.” My mom replies. I’m barely focusing.

Flute, French Horn, Piano, Guitar, I list off. Recorder, Harmonica, Saxophone, Trombone, Mellophone, Trumpet.

She’s wrong. 10. I play 10 instruments. My attitude is strong. I’m so glad my throat is sore and I can’t talk.

They talk longer. About what? I can’t remember. My legs are trembling. My leg hurts. My leg hurts. It hurts. It’s throbbing . . .

Every breath I take feels automatic. Like something is doing it for me. My lungs fill with air. It’s cold. When they deflate, they remove everything. I can feel my ribs, my sternum pushing to remove all air. My lungs feel like they are crushing themselves. I am not breathing on my own. I can feel my heart throbbing, my chest seizing to force all the oxygen out, only to refill.

A hand on my shoulder is light, but it shakes me, sending pain shooting from my knee up to my hip. She says something. Probably telling me to wake up. I groan.

I move, trying to roll onto my back. My body fights me. My head falls back, my neck has no strength to keep it up. The constant beeping is annoying. I want it to stop.

“How are you feeling?” The nurse says. I can’t open my eyes.

“My leg hurts.” I say. My throat feels like knives.

“Your leg hurts?”

“My leg hurts.” I repeat.

“On a scale of 1 to 10—”

“9.” I say instantly. It hurts. It’s throbbing and it burns. My legs won’t stop shaking. I’m cold.

“Okay.” She says lightly. She types something in, then tinkers with my IV line.

She moves around the table and I slowly manage to get my eyes open. I know where I am now. I know where I am.

She sets up a small cup of water. It has ice. I see my mother sitting in a corner. She looks bored.

“Let’s get some fluid in you.” The nurse says. I want to hold the cup myself but I can’t move my hands. She brings it to me instead. The liquid is refreshing. It makes my throat feel better. She sets the cup down, moving to set up a plate. “You get to have some gourmet crackers. We need to get some food into you.”

I don’t reply. That beeping is giving me a headache. It’s so consistent. The nurse pushes the little side table closer and she helps me sit up more. I can’t move my fingers on my left hand. The IV burns. I pick up a cracker and pick at it. I’m not hungry. I eat it anyway. She lied to me. This is just a graham cracker, I think to myself. I don’t say it out loud.

My mother sighs. “You took a longer nap than we thought.” She says. “We could’ve been out of here by noon, but you slept for an extra hour.”

I hum. “I feel like a cloud.” I replied. She tilts her head.

“I’m sorry, a what?”

“A cloud. I feel like I’m on a cloud.” I say again. She laughs.

“Okay, kid.”

My movements feel sluggish and light. Slow but fast. Every time I turn my head, I feel like I get whiplash. My nerves won’t work. I pick up another cracker. It’s just a saltine.

“My legs won’t stop trembling.” I say. The nurse nods.

“Yeah, we’ll get that fixed for you.”

My mom smiles. “It’s just the trauma. It’s normal.”

I hum again. A few minutes later, the nurse sets a small cup down next to me. Two pills sit inside.

“Take that when you’re ready. It’s just a muscle relaxer.” She says.

I glance at it. “Right now?” I ask.

“Whenever.” She says.

I pick the cup up, quickly toss the pills into my mouth and swallow. They taste like nothing. I continue to eat my crackers. The nurse disappears for a moment and I look at my mother.

“What’s beeping?” I ask.

“You. You got a little monitor there.” She says.

I turn and look up. Sure enough, there’s a monitor that’s counting each beat of my heart. I’m starting to regain control over my lungs. That’s good too.

I look at my mom again. “I want it to stop.”

“What?”

“The beeping. It’s loud.”

“Girl, I thought you were saying you wanted your heart to stop.”

“I mean, it’d save you money.” I joke. She laughs.

“They had more on you when I first came in.”

I don’t reply. Something is squeezing my right leg. It’s warm and the tension feels nice.

“They said you have really good oxygen levels. Your lungs are the best they’ve seen.” She says. She looks at her phone. “I told them it’s because you're a musician.”

“Playing the French Horn does that to you.” I say, picking a cracker apart.

“They were surprised when I told them how many instruments you play. They were also surprised that you weigh what you do despite being so healthy.” She says.

“If I didn’t have leg problems, I’d be skinnier and prettier.” I say, looking over at her.

She smiles. “Yeah, well, your condition is the best they’ve seen in a patient your age.”

I smile back. “That’s great.”

“The nurse said they had a bunch of people in there looking at the camera. That’s the biggest cyst they’ve seen. 22cc’s were drained.”

I scoff. “Jeez. And people thought I was faking it.”

She nods. “Yeah, well, problem solved.”

“Will I be able to run? To march?”

“He said he got all of it out; you’ll be all good.”

“So, Carle is gone?” I ask.

“Carle is gone.” My mother confirms.

“Aw. . . I didn’t get to keep him. Man. . .”

My mother laughs. The nurse returns and reaches for my chest. She starts taking off the different pads attached to me and I watch. It’s silent. When she’s done with that, she moves to the other side and begins to remove the wire and cap taped to my middle finger. Then she removes my IV.

She directs me to hold a small pad over my hand as she starts to wrap my hand. She tells me that I’ll be able to take it off when I’m home. Then she hands me my clothes back.

I’m fully set on trying to get dressed by myself, so I yank my blanket off. But then I just stare at my feet.

“I’m missing a sock.” I say. My mom nods.

“Yeah.” She says.

“I want my sock.” I say, staring at her. “Where’s my sock?”

She laughs again, pulling the said sock off of my other foot. Confusion rushes through me.

“I was doubled socked.” I say.

My mother helps me move to the side of the bed. I want to stand, but when I do, my leg just gives out. So my mother helps keep me upright while I get dressed. I like my socks. Grippy socks. I wanted yellow. I got gray. It’s fine.

As I get dressed, my mother hands me my phone back. My notifications are empty. Shame.

A nurse comes in and helps me settle into a wheelchair. My mom left to go pull the Cadillac around to the front. As the nurse wheels me out, the same lady from before at the receptionist desk smiles.

“How ya doin?” She asks again.

“Not dead yet.” I replied.

She laughs. “You said that last time.”

“Well, I’m not lying, am I? I’m still alive! Still breathin’!” I say. A few nurses mumble in agreement.

My mother helps me get into the truck, where we start to drive. My movements are still slow and I feel weird.

“Your surgeon said he would call sometime this weekend.” She says. I nod.

“Okay . . . I want Apple Bee’s.” I say, my mind reminding me of that one add she showed me before my surgery.

“Let’s try Wienerschnitzel first.” She says with a chuckle.

I only nod, leaning my head against the window. I’m tired. That’s all I can think. So the rest of the day flies past and I spend most of it lying in my bed, staring at my ceiling or writing poetry and songs. I try to think of the melody to the song I heard, but all I can remember is that opening verse. Oh well. It’s fine.

Eventually, it gets dark again. And I think one more time about how today went. I won’t forget it. I can’t. I still remember everything as clear as day. I let a few tears fall. I’m free. I can run, I can march. I can walk without pain. I’ll be okay. I’m free.

I’m. . . healthy.