In the OR, I don’t know where I went. Some kids say they floated on the ceiling or took a brief tour of heaven but opted not to put down roots. I simply woke up, informing a nurse that I never threw up. Followed by immediate post-surgical ralphing.
I lay in a place called Recovery, with the same kinds of bright light and echoey laughter as the OR. I yelled, “Keep it down, I’m trying to sleep!” but my voice was a dry whisper and besides, my surgery arm was on fire. When I managed to focus long enough, I saw bandages from the tip of my thumb to my armpit. My fingers were giant purple hot dogs, every heartbeat making them throb and jerk.
I wanted to scream.
Each nurse—white dress, white shoes, white hat—had a better way to prop my arm on pillows. But the hats looked like wings and the shoes squeaked. And no matter what, my splint kept falling off the pillows.
It was almost four when I got back to the Big Girls’ Ward. My fingers throbbed like a bass drum, boom boom boom.
I couldn’t stop moaning. Nurse Horn asked if I wanted a pain shot, and I said no. Somehow, a needle jab was too much, no matter the reward. I begged Jesus to come quick. My white bible wasn’t under my pillow anymore, and I was too tired to reach into my nightstand. I clenched my teeth, and tried to sing a hymn Grams taught me.
I croaked off-key that I was washed in the blood of the lamb. Nurse Horn fast-walked over and checked the sheets. There was no blood, of course. But my hot dog fingers got her attention.
She clucked like I’d just stomped on her last nerve and yanked my arm onto the pillows. “I said, keep your arm above your heart.” Before I could answer, she was gone. I shut my eyes.
I woke up again, waves of pain crashing over me. I couldn’t stop rolling side to side and my arm had fallen off the pillows again. The throbbing pounded, and it was getting harder to keep from crying.
Nurse Horn saw it all.
She pointed at my splint and narrowed her eyes the way Mom did whenever she was God Almighty mad. “You must keep your arm elevated,” Nurse said, pulling the pillows out from under me. She squeaked away, pillows under her arm.
Then she was back, carrying a long cloth strap and an IV pole. Nurse Horn set the pole near the bed’s head. Through my bedrails I saw girls coming back from hospital school down the hall. Most sped past me, looking straight ahead, as if the Dead Bed might strike them dead. Who could blame them?
But several girls did stop. They stared as Nurse Horn fastened one end of the strap to my splint and then tied the other end to the top of the IV pole. As my arm sailed upward, I thought it might break right off.
But it was finally above my heart and dangling over just about everybody’s head. Before Nurse Horn got back to her station, she muttered, “Keep it elevated.” The girls who’d stopped hightailed it to their beds.
For ages, I lay there with my hot-dog-fingered splint suspended in midair like the Statue of Liberty. My armpit ached and I could barely move without a searing stab. Nobody except Jesus came near me but after a while, I wasn’t the same.
With my arm suspended, my heart had grown. In the midst of a really bad day, I understood a little about what others suffered.
Kids like Lillian and Caroline, in their full-body casts, needed help just to turn over in bed. Sharon and Patsy, with severe cerebral palsy, couldn’t walk or hold a book or a barf pan. Even Ellen, who had only one damaged arm like me, needed surgery because her own grandpa had pushed her out of a car doing sixty.
My blessings had felt small until they were stripped away. Now I was in the Dead Bed, tied to a pole, unable to tell anyone but God that I was in great pain and also terrified. Yet from that day on, I promised I’d help those who needed it. By helping others, I’d help myself.
I stayed strung up to the IV pole for ages, or at least until the shift changed. When the night nurse came on, I begged to be freed and vowed to keep my arm above my heart. The nurse smiled and asked if I wanted something for pain. “No needles!” I said, fear rising in my dry throat yet again.
She laughed. “How about a pain pill?” Stunned, I nodded and even my hot dog fingers relaxed a little. If the Dead Bed had taught me anything, it was that everybody needs a helping hand sometimes. When the nurse untied me, I was sure I could fly.