“She’s awake,” Dr. Wong says.

My eyes shift side to side. Bright fluorescent lights blur into a cloud of whiteness above my head in the operating room of 999 Brain Hospital in Guangdong, China. Dr. Wong and Dr. Leung move back and forth at the sides of my gurney, securing a body cast that starts from my abdomen and ends at my feet. 

“How are you feeling?” Dr. Leung asks in broken Cantonese. He removes the surgery mask from his face.

“Pain,” I say.

After months of sleepless nights because of my Cerebral Palsy worsening, I have spent the last five hours getting my back and legs cut open to numb my nerves. Sharp, shooting pain radiates throughout the lower half of my body with every movement.

 I can feel the staples on the 12 inch incision on my back and smaller incisions on my feet rub against the grey paper mache-like body cast. Dr. Wong and Dr. Leung said that cutting certain nerves in my spine will reduce muscle tension in my legs and help me sleep and sit up properly.

“Don’t worry,” Dr. Leung says. “Your pain will subside. Your body is in shock right now.”

I nod and lick my lips. In my fourteen years of living, I have never been in this much pain. I need water for my dry mouth.

“You’ve been a really good girl,” Dr. Wong adds and squeezes my right hand. “We’re going to wheel you out now so you can see your mom.”

“She’ll be so happy to see you,” Dr. Leung says.

I smile, grimacing.

Two nurses in the operating room lift up the side rails of my gurney and push me out of the room. Dr. Wong and Dr. Leung follow behind in their blue and white scrubs. Dr. Leung’s scrub hat has a star pattern, while Dr. Wong’s scrub cap is plain white. As they wheel me out of the operating room and into the hallway, the tubed ceiling lights look like shooting stars. I close my eyes and try to keep from vomiting.

Two minutes later, the gurney slows down and I hear footsteps running towards me. I open my eyes and see Mom and my Eighth Uncle staring down at me. Mom takes a big slice of lemon out of her bag and sticks it under my nose.

 “Smell this,” Mom tells me. “It’ll help with your grogginess.”

The fresh and bright citrus scent awakens my senses. I lick the lemon. The acid’s sourness reduces my urge to throw up.

“Are you in a lot of pain?” Mom asks.

I nod and point at my mouth.

“I am thirsty,” I whisper.

Eighth Uncle turns and asks the nurses when I can drink water.

“She can have some ice chips when we get to the post-op room,” the nurse on my right replies.

“Don’t worry,” Eighth Uncle says. “You’ll get water soon.”

Eighth Uncle is Mom’s older brother and he helped organized this surgery. In Canada, multiple doctors and specialists refused to do the surgery. They said it was too risky. Eighth Uncle researched various hospitals in China, organized meetings with Dr. Wong and his team, and updated Mom before we decided to choose this one. Without Eight Uncle, I wouldn’t have been able to receive this surgery. He continues to help and support us even though his  right leg is partially paralyzed from the polio virus. It takes him double the time to get to the hospital because he can’t walk properly.

“Okay,” I say.

Dr. Wong and Dr. Leung greet Mom and Eighth Uncle.

“Everything went smoothly,” Dr. Wong says. “Your daughter is very strong.”

“Words cannot express how grateful I am for you guys helping her,” Mom says, her voice trembling.

“Don’t say that,” Dr. Leung tells Mom. “It is our responsibility.”

“I do have to ask though,” Dr. Wong asks Mom. “Does your daughter drink a lot of milk?”

“Yes,” Mom says. “Why?”

“Her bones are very strong,” Dr. Wong laughs. “We couldn’t get into her spine for the longest time.”

Mom and Eighth Uncle laugh.

“Anyway,” Dr. Leung says. “We’ll follow up with her in a few hours.”

“Okay.” Mom nods.

Dr. Leung and Dr. Wong walk towards one of the exits in the hallway and leave.

“I’ll let her get some rest too,” Eighth Uncle says to Mom.

“You go home and rest too,” Mom says.

Eighth Uncle limps his way to one of the elevators and waves goodbye.

Mom walks beside my rolling gurney and holds my hand. I gulp saliva down my throat, pretending like its water, as the nurses wheel me into the post-op room.

The post-op room is a nightmare. Patients scream over beeping heart monitors while their family members look on helplessly. The smell of cleaners and antiseptic linger in my nose. Nurses run around to two patients, calming them down from the pain they’re in. A male patient’s family members harass the nurses about his post-op care.

“How much money does your department want?” a man yells at one of the nurses. “I can give you lots of money as long as you treat my son well!”

Mom looks at him and shakes her head. 

“Mom,” I say. “I’m in so much pain.”

Eight incisions spread across my legs and back, feeling like pins jabbing at my flesh. I squirm.

“I know, sweetie,” Mom says and rubs my forehead. “I’ll ask the nurses if you can get more morphine.”

Mom gets up from her seat and waves at one of the nurses behind the station. A nurse with black square glasses walks over to my bed.

“What?” the nurse asks.

I glance at the nameplate on her pale white uniform. Her name is Shi Shi.

“My daughter’s in a lot of pain,” Mom says. “Can she be administered more morphine?”

“No,” Shi Shi says. “The doctors already gave her three pumps when she came out of the O.R.”

“Well, when can she have more?”

“In about two hours.”

“But she’s in a lot of pain.”

“All of the patients here are in a lot of pain.”

Shi Shi glares at Mom, turns her back, and walks out of the room. I tug on Mom’s hand.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I can manage.”

Mom rubs my forehead again.

I lick my lips. Another nurse comes into my area and hands Mom a cup of ice chips. Mom spoons it into my mouth. The ice coats and soothes my dry tongue. I motion Mom for more, but she stops after a few spoons.

“You can’t have too much,” Mom says. “It’ll make you pee.”

Right. I forgot about peeing. I’m hooked to a urine bag for the next few days and nurses have to come in and change it every few hours.

Mom places the cup of ice chips down on the table.

“You should get some sleep,” she says.

I close my eyes and pretend to sleep, but my incisions keep me awake. They feel like someone burning me with a torch.

A few hours later, Shi Shi comes in with cleansing tools. She pulls her mask over her mouth and nose, covering the big mole on her chin, and cleanses my vaginal region with some cotton buds and water. Debris from the body cast must’ve gotten into the area. Shi Shi picks up a cotton bud and jams it into my vaginal opening.

“Ow!” I flinch. 

Shi Shi looks at me and continues to wield the cotton bud as a weapon.

Mom jumps from her chair and pushes Shi Shi away from me.

“What is wrong with you?” Mom yells. “My daughter’s already in a lot of pain.”

“I’m caring for her like I do with all my patients,” Shi Shi replies. “Maybe her pain tolerance isn’t high.”

“She’s in pain because she has eight incisions on her spine and legs,” Mom says. “And you wouldn’t give her more morphine.”

“That’s not my problem,” Shi Shi says.

“What kind of nurse are you? I’m going to file a complaint about you abusing patients.”

Before Shi Shi responds, Dr. Leung comes in, grabs her by the arm, and pulls her out of the room. He comes back in and apologizes to Mom. His pale white face flushes red as he wipes away sweat from his forehead.  

“She definitely needs training on how to care for patients,” Mom says.

Dr. Leung nods and turns his attention to me. He pulls out a medical pen from his lab coat, turns it on, and examines my pupils for any abnormalities.

“Are you feeling better?” he asks.

“A little bit,” I say. “But I’m still in pain.”

“You can press the red button on the box next to your head,” Dr. Leung says. “It’ll numb your pain.”

I press the red button two times and feel relief.

 “You can pump it every hour and a half,” Dr. Leung says, adjusting his square framed glasses.

“The nurse told me she could only pump it every 2 hours,” Mom says and furrows her brows.

“That’s only true for the first few hours out of surgery,” Dr. Leung says. “But after four hours, she can pump it every hour and a half.”

Dr. Leung pats me on the head and checks on the other patients. He circles the room, heads back towards the nurse’s station, and signs off on his visitation log. Mom leaves my bed and goes to the washroom. I raise my hand, press the pump one more time, and close my eyes.

Published in Mindwaves.