Acceptance by Emi Nietfeld

Author:Emi Nietfeld [Nietfeld, Emi]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2022-08-02T00:00:00+00:00

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Scar removal surgery was supposed to be a minor procedure under light sedation. (My mom suggested I see Dr. Woods right after.) Only Annette had misgivings. “A minor surgery is still surgery, Emi,” she chided. But when else could I get it and have insurance pay? She didn’t have an answer. She questioned if a friend’s house was really going to be the right environment to help me recover, but I had nowhere else to go and she’d be out of town.

The day before my appointment, my mom snuck me into her office so I could scrub my legs with Betadine. (She hadn’t showered at home in years; there was nowhere to put the stuff overflowing the tub.) That night, at dusk, I washed again in the backyard with a hose. I told my mom I was staying with a friend, but I slept in the Corolla, never leaving the alley.

The next day, I waited in a paper gown, plotting how I’d start editing my essays as soon as I woke up. The surgeon came in wearing green scrubs under his white coat, a little cap covering his blond hair. “Hello, Margaret.” I blushed, too shy to tell him no one called me by my legal name. “May I?”

He extracted an extra-thick Sharpie from his pocket and pulled up the hem of my gown. From behind his glasses, he studied the red ropy scars. He circled the biggest and initialed it, then repeated the process for five on each side.

He took my hand. Goose bumps scurried up my arms. He held my fingers, delicately, as if about to kiss my hand or propose. Then he scribbled something on my skin and initialed that, too.

Covered in the surgeon’s marks, I felt claimed. Soon, I would be changed, restored to the way I was before, my mistakes undone.

Then it occurred to me. “What will I do for the pain?” The surgeon was still holding my hand. The bite of Sharpie ink cut through the air.

“Don’t worry. I’ll give you something.” The surgeon looked into my eyes. “You’re very brave.”

I couldn’t help but smile, though I was scared: brave was often adjacent to stupid, but the type of stupid adults praised because it made their lives easier. In a flash, I sensed that any procedure requiring bravery or prescription narcotics was not a good idea at the moment.

The surgeon stood up and wished me luck in recovering. Almost immediately, a nurse anesthetist took his place and swapped the saline flowing into my IV with something else.

“Count backward from ten,” she instructed, sounding jolly, “but you’re not going to make it all the way.”

I gritted my teeth, dizzy with regret. I was out by the time I said “six.”

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