De-portation Day by Natalya Bucuy
"The heart monitor beeps, and beeps, and beeps, the sound of me, alive."
The white spotlight shines from the fixture in the ceiling and makes me the star. Which I am, as two nurses and a doctor crowd around me. Sterile barriers surround the center stage—the area just below my collarbone.
There, last July, eight months ago, a little plastic piece with a tube for a tail went into my body. Sewn in place under the skin, the chemotherapy port provided easy access to my bloodstream. We went on an adventure, this craft gadget look-alike and I. Today, it is coming out.
“Look at your Bob Ross socks!” Nurse Smurf-Head says. She gave that name to herself, referring to the giant head bump her bunned hair created under her blue surgical cap.
“A gift from my boyfriend,” I say. “I will think of happy little trees as I lie here.”
I lie underneath a plastic barrier in the operating room. The nurse called it “a tent.” I search the corners of my mind for a campfire joke, but can’t find a good one. Making jokes is my favorite defense against feelings. I mention out loud that if there is a fire and the sprinklers come on, I’ll stay dry under my tent. I should just lie here and be scared. Nurse Smurf-Head will forever carry that name in my mind. I don’t want to stay as the Girl-With-Annoying-Jokes in hers. The Girl-with-Bob-Ross-Socks is fine.
Speaking of socks…
I mended a sock this morning. I figured I’d extend its life with a little love, care, and a gray thread, if only for a couple more wears. While I can’t feel the poking of the sharp needle the surgeon is moving along the edges of my numbed skin, I can feel the vibration from the medical thread. I feel like the gray sock. Being mended.
I close my eyes, growing weary from the lights and the action. The heart monitor beeps, and beeps, and beeps, the sound of me, alive. I’ve heard many hospital beeps over the past year. For cancer patients in active treatment, life happens between beeps.
A persistent, sharp one of the timer that sounds at the end of a medication infusion cycle. It starts the countdown to the aftermath side effects—three hours, maybe four. The ding of the elevator that always goes to the same floor, week after week. The warning sounds of a snow plow backing up in the hospital parking lot as the white powder crunches underfoot—a snowstorm means nothing to the treatment schedule.
As the journey from diagnosis to the last doctor’s visit moves through unfamiliar landscapes, details like the beeps, sights, sounds, and smells hop into the cozy coach cars of the memory. I take them along to recovery and beyond…
The exact Bayern blue shade of a truck parked in front of me. After a nurse called with the results of the biopsy at 4:48 pm on a Thursday (do they save the bad news for the end of the day?), I stopped driving to breathe, cry, and call my dad. The color of that truck will forever serve as a thumbtack of that moment in time.
Smells are the strongest memory keepers. The chemo room has a distinct scent of sterility and medication, with a hint of despair. It tickles a newcomer’s nostrils, offering a first glimpse into the new world. It agitates a seasoned patient, foreshadowing what’s to come. It stops existing toward the end of the treatment cycle as if one gives a damn at that point. On a return follow-up visit, it hits as a surprise, a strange nostalgia dancing in the fumes.
And I can’t forget Henry’s shoes. Henry, a man in his seventies showed up to his radiation treatments early. So early that he would always be in his seat in the waiting room already when I came rushing for my appointment, which was scheduled before his. Every day, as I ran into the locker room, I saw Henry’s shoes peeking from around the corner where he sat. Once changed, I joined Henry in the waiting room and we engaged in our daily conversation about the weather, the parking situation outside, or the silliness of the television show that happened to be playing. Henry told me about his childhood in New Orleans, the rural farm he bought in the sixties, and his career as a theater set designer. I only got to speak to him for two minutes each day before I had to face the terrifying metal teeth of the radiation machine moving above me. But every morning I looked for his shoes peeking from behind the wall, a sight of comfort.
On my last day of chemo, a few weeks before Christmas, I brought a December cactus for the room. I hoped the pink flowers offered some light to all those who came after me. I knew well that at times when we felt broken, remembering the light felt like an impossible task. Pink flowers are exactly what we need in the midst of dark December.
The hard things in life gift us the ability to look at our weakest moments and see our incredible strength. And when we can’t, perhaps a pair of shoes from behind the corner or the beeping of your own heart can carry us through.
“Happy De-portation Day!” Nurse Smurf-Head smiles as she wheels me out of the operating room. I’m kind of mad I didn’t think of that one.
I leave the hospital with a fresh bandage where a piece of plastic used to protrude from under my skin. Yellow daffodils sprinkle bright colors across the black mulch of the gardens along the hospital walls, swaying in the breeze. A Russian superstition says that yellow flowers signify departure. My love for yellow flowers always led me to dismiss the old saying. Today, I welcome it. The daffodils honor my goodbye to this place. Their blossoms stand strong atop delicate stems, celebrating their own growth from a dormant bulb, through the soil and towards the light. “We’ve survived the winter!” they sing.
“Yes, we did,” I say.
Natalya Bucuy is a Siberian human. She was born at the top of the world and after moving around a bit, she has settled in Bucks County, amidst Pennsylvania’s rolling green hills, inspiring art scene, and never-boring seasons. She’s been a writer since the day she was born, but did not truly write until Journalism school. (Temple Univ proud!) Over the years, she has dipped into various forms of writing and publishing. Her short stories have been published in Dandelion Revolution Press’s anthologies, Not Quite As You Were Told and Every Breath Alight.
Natalya’s one rule in life is to say “yes” to new experiences since she believes they sculpt the inspiration for good writing. Non-fiction and memoirs bring her joy in life!
“I feel like the gray sock. Being mended.” 💕 What a tender and beautiful moment full of your characteristic wit and charm. Full of light and life in the smallest details.
Such a beatifully-written story, full of touching, tender and witty moments, Natalya! Xoxo