“ARRGHH!” I scream on the ground, looking at my ankle twisted in the weirdest angle. Ouch! I try to move my foot, but I cannot command anything. My foot does not respond. A woman helps me to get up. I try to put my foot down, but yikes! No way, I can’t. “I work at Notre-Dame Hospital,” says the kind helping lady. ‘‘We were just heading there. Do you want to come with us?” Ah, yes thank you. I am saved. Here we go, straight to the hospital.
At the hospital, I am scared. I hold my tibia against my chest. There is no position in which I may relax my leg and feel comfortable. The pain is horrible and my emotional nature makes me cry and shake in despair. How quickly did I slip on ice and find myself here!
After three or four hours of waiting with fluctuating anxiety, I get to see a doctor.
-Well, tu t’es pas manquée!*
I want him to touch my ankle, to send it some reassuring love. I want him to put the bones in the right place where they belong, but he barely dares to touch them as it is as large as my knee.
I get scanned. I am told that I have a very bad fracture and will need an operation the next day. This is all happening so fast!
Can I at least go on the Internet and do some research to find another solution first, an alternative one? Girl, this time, it’s out of your hands, you need help and you’ll get it.
I keep crying as I am so afraid of such a thing as an operation. I ask to see the scan. The doc asks me if it’ll make me cry more and I say, yes, probably, but I still prefer to face reality.
I look at it. I am in pieces. I call my brother to come and pick me up and he arrives super quickly. He is my hero, he is so reassuring. We get in a cab and go to my place, he helps me go up the three floors. He brings me some water, makes me some calendula tea, rolls a joint. We smoke. I cry.
The next morning, I am finally peaceful. I have been in pain for 24 hours because I did not want to swallow any drug yet, expecting to get the total trip during the surgery. I am reassured that I will be taken care of.
I am to be operated at Hospital Hôtel-Dieu, a beautiful hospital in downtown Montreal with white walls and tall windows.
The employees have great charisma. Some who will be working on my ankle even come and introduce themselves to me prior to the operation. This change in atmosphere from my experience the day before at the emergency room is a world apart. I am smiling, almost excited for this adventure to start ahead. And oh, as I am there, about to be operated, the first thing I ask is for strong painkillers.
It is my turn, yahoo! I am taken to the operating block. The room is big, well-lit, and the equipment looks pretty high-tech. I wasn’t expecting a set worthy of the latest TV show. What a luxury treatment. I may now sit back, relax and just enjoy.
But I’m curious, so I keep asking questions about this indicator, this number. They answer politely and smile. Then, I see the surgeon in charge: damn, he’s young and hot. Maybe early thirties? I wasn’t asking for that much.
Well, I hope he won’t be too weirded out by my end-of-winter hairy legs. I don’t like waxing my legs in the winter because when I shiver, the goosebumps hurt as there is no hair to raise. I wonder if he’s used to straight platinum-haired chicks with a Brazilian wax.
I’m getting anaesthetics for my lower body, which means that I’ll be conscious throughout. As they start opening me, I go, “Woah, I can still feel everything!”
This 24-hour pain ride was sufficient for me. I don’t feel the need to experience all of the stuff that they’ll be moving around in there. I only have enough time to finish my sentence that they’ve added something in my solution and I fall completely asleep.
The operation is soon over, so a lady wakes me up. I go “already?” and laugh. I touch my legs. I can feel nothing and since that’s the weirdest thing that ever happened to me, I laugh even more!
They can do such freaky things with their meds these sorcerers…
The personnel kind of awkwardly laughs with me. It could be a sign that I’m starting to freak out. I guess they stated in their papers: “Well, she woke up laughing”.
I thank everyone, still laughing a bit (maybe the drugs helped). I am taken away to spend the rest of the day in another room.
When the anaesthetics’ effect wears off, I am not laughing anymore.
I feel like 14 knives are squeezed inside of my leg. I am tortured. My dad wants to take me to the parental house but I refuse. Going for a long car ride is the last thing that I want in that instant, the pain is too intense.
I say that I need some sleep before I go anywhere. My body just can’t handle it anymore, so I spend a lovely night at the hospital and wake up the next day feeling ready to head to my apartment.
It turns out I get all of these follow-up appointments with the hot doctor. He’s the kind of surgeon with a lot a charisma that all lady patients must be enamoured with.
He always asks about my weird job (I was working in a hair loss prevention place at the time) and if I eat meat again or not. I love his little teasing, it makes me feel special (which he also said about me ^ . ^). I look at his curly dark hair that I want to twirl in my fingers.
In my convalescence I hardly feel like I look hot but always make an effort to feel ‘‘okay’’ when I go to my appointments.
We fill in papers to set an operation to remove the metal that was put in my leg.
“We’ll have lots of fun,” he says. Oh yes we will. On the operation day, I am super calm and excited. It feels like such a step forward after such a crazy year.
The doc warmly welcomes me. The scene is perfect. He is washing his hands in the corridor besides the waiting area where I’m sitting and a male nurse comes in to ask him a bunch of questions about his knee, of which he is specialized.
I try not to smile too much as I look at his muscular arms. He looks tan as if he was just back from a sunny trip and I wonder whether or not he’s a gym dude. Well, he looks very healthy and energetic regardless. Oh, it’s my turn to lie on the table.
Lord, his assistant is also hot. With a mystical and serious face.The hot doc starts working on me and I feel tickled and laugh. I guess my body completely accepts his touch.
He can’t believe that I’m laughing, he’s like, “you’re a very special one”. There I am, conscious this time, looking at these two hot guys open up my ankle.
Sometimes the way he holds my foot feels so nice that I could moan. Then the not-so-fun part starts. They pull the screws out and it feels awful. I twitch and tremble and scream a bit, transitioning to singing when it becomes uncomfortable.
In between painful moments I feel embarrassed, way too aware of the resemblance between sexual pleasure and pain. Thankfully I am wearing panties. What if the sheet under me had gotten moist?!
He keeps wanting to talk to distract myself from what’s going on and I alternate between telling him that I don’t want to talk or simply not answering and shooting quick answers as if we were speed dating – even absorbed in my pain, I still want him to get to know me (sigh).
It’s over. I sit up. I’ve been crying for a while now. The doc says he doesn’t like to make girls cry. The others laugh, as if they know about his Don Juan qualities. I ask if he’s married and he negates with his head.
My recovery is going well, although I get a really bad infection so two weeks after the operation and after a 12-and-a-half-hour wait at the emergency, I am lucky to see my doc again.
He warmly shakes my hand, his tall body super close to mine, and asks me how I’m doing. I say “hmm, not so good…” He looks at my ankle and doesn’t understand why my body is reacting like that. I tell him that one day I’ll write a novel about the reasons why and that if he wants to, he’ll be able to read it. He may first think that I’m crazy before thinking that maybe I’ve got a point after all.
We have this nice eye contact. He has the light turquoise iris of a really healthy fella, according to naturopaths. He prescribes some antibiotics and introduces another doctor to me to for a follow-up appointment the next week, as he’ll be travelling during that time. He leaves the office, saying in his cute theatrical way: “Dr S. will be taking good care of you during my absence!”
I answer with my eyes bat-lashing and a cute head pose. I love when I make him smile, which he’s not shy to do. He goes out to wash his hands but comes back to say, “You’re right, nutrition can’t be the only thing that matters” and compares some cases he knows. I’m happy that I’ve installed a little spark in his mind.
Now I know why I find him so cute: he’s healthy, has a tall and strong lean body, has clear eyes which prove his head is just as clear. He’s already penetrated me through my ankle and… he’s a doctor. For what I understood that I really seek in my man is that I want to find the one who will be my healer and for whom I’ll be the healer. I am very much interested in health, but through ancient knowledge and alternative holistic approaches. He comes from the academic background, so it is somewhat in the opposite camp that is not that opposite. Both groups want the same thing: to help and heal people.
So I can’t wait for my next and, if all goes well, last appointment. I feel ridiculous about imagining scenarios, but don’t even feel like holding back. Will I dare to say with my eyes “Will you be my own personal healer?” Will I ask him out for dinner aloud?
*Translates as ”you didn’t miss your shot”.
Vanessa Serhan is a brunette multi-disciplinary artist working and designing in Montreal.