Post-Midnight Reverie

The IV in my right arm is hurting. I hope they don't have to start it again. I can't see the drops in the little chamber but there's no beeping from the machine yet. It is dark in the room. There are no shadows: I measure time by them now. When the TV's shadow hits the corner of the room, it's time for dinner.

I can feel my husband's hand in mine. His breathing is slow and even, so I know he is finally asleep in the chair beside me. He can't be comfortable but he sleeps anyway.

Since the surgery I have slept only a little. I cannot get comfortable in this bed and there are so many strange sounds. Mostly though, I have a recurring dream about finding a perfect breast in a dresser drawer. I stand before a mirror and try it on but it keeps falling off. I awaken frustrated, sweating, and then feel the stinging ache in my left chest. To touch the flat, firm, vaguely rough tape makes reality worse than the dream.

The final results of the nodes they took from my underarm aren't back yet. Each time the doctor comes into my room, I can hardly bear to look at his face. I don't want to go through much more of this.

I don't want Jerry to have to deal with this either. He's really been quite sweet—much more affectionate than usual these last few days, almost like before we were married. He will pat me or kiss me absentmindedly almost hourly. We sit quietly and hold hands or talk. Ironically, we haven't communicated this well in a few years. We never seemed to have the time. I like all the attention but it scares me a little. Does he know something I don't? I know he's afraid for me and doesn't want to show it, but is he overcompensating in some other way for this wound, our wound? How important is my breast to him?

The IV is hurting. I certainly don't want a repeat of the scene from last night. I hate to see Jerry get that mad. He was really quite gallant though. I almost felt sorry for the poor intern but he deserved it. I know he was frustrated by not being able to start the IV. By the time he got it in, I was in tears and Jerry had that puffy, red-faced look that signals “Look out!”

Then the nurse discovered it wasn't working after all. My antibiotic wouldn't go in. When she saw the intern in the hall outside my room and told him, he exploded, started loudly complaining about how much work he had to do right then. I could feel Jerry stiffening up next to me. The intern said he didn't have time for my “_____ing IV.”

Jerry jumped right up and burst into the hall. I heard him say in a slow, strangely calm voice, “Please do not come back into my wife's room. I do not want you to have anything to do with her anymore. I can't believe you're going to be a doctor.”

After that things got very quiet. I was even afraid to say much. A nurse finally got this IV in. She said the intern had cried after Jerry spoke to him. She seemed satisfied with this. Nobody said anything more about it. I can tell Jerry is still mad, but I'm not. Disappointed is more like it. I actually feel sorry for the intern. He didn't seem to be that bad a person.

The IV in my arm is still hurting. I'm just waiting for the beeping to replace the rhythmic humming from the machine. I hope they don't have to start it again. I wonder who would come tonight.

copy right mark 1995 American College of Physicians

• Copyright ©2004 by the American College of Physicians