Free Left Neglected by Lisa Genova Page A

a minute, she folds my hand around the cup.
    “Okay, Sarah, keep sipping. I’ll be right back,” she says and leaves me alone.
    I sip the cold water. My cracked and dusty lips, mouth, and throat are grateful sponges, like earth soaking in rain after a long drought. I just had a breathing tube removed. I needed a tube to breathe. That’s not good. But I don’t need one now. Why did I need a breathing tube? How long have I been here? Where is Bob?
    My head feels strange, but I can’t identify the sensation at first. Then it comes to me in full Technicolor, the volume turned all the way up. My head is scorching hot. I let go of the cup of ice and touch my head. I’m stunned and horrified by the mental image drawn by what my fingers feel. A large portion of my scalp, about the size and shape of a slice of bread, is shaved, and within that bald space, my fingers discover about a dozen metal staples. Somewhere just below the staples, my brain is the temperature of volcanic magma.
    I grab the Dixie cup and pour the watery ice onto my stapled head. I actually expect to hear the water sizzle, but it doesn’t. The ice doesn’t lessen the fiery pain, and I’ve just used up all of my chips.
    I wait and breathe in and out without the help of a tube. Don’t panic. The nurse wouldn’t have left you alone without a breathing tube and holding a disposable cup of ice if your brain were melting. But maybe it is melting. Check to see if it works.
    Who are you?
I’m Sarah Nickerson.
Good. You know your name.
My husband is Bob. I have three kids—Charlie, Lucy, and Linus. I’m the VP of HR at Berkley. We live in Welmont. I’m thirty-seven years old
. Good. Sarah, you’re fine. I touch the staples and trace the shape of the bald patch.
They don’t shave your head and insert metal hardware into your scalp if you’re fine.
    Where is Bob? someone should tell Bob where I am and what’s happened. Oh God, someone should tell work where I am and what’s happened. How long have I been here? What happened?
    Other than during and following childbirth, I’ve never needed any medical attention beyond a few Motrin and a couple of Band-Aids. I stare at the fluorescent light. I don’t like this one bit. Where is the nurse? Please come back. Isn’t there a button somewhere I can push to call her? I look for a button, a phone, a speaker to yell into. I see the fluorescent light on the ceiling and an ugly beige curtain hanging next to me. Nothing else. No window, no TV, no phone, nothing. This room sucks.
    I wait. My head is too hot. I try to call out for the nurse, but my brutalized throat can manage only a raspy whisper.
    “Hello?”
    I wait.
    “Bob?”
    I wait. I wait forever as I picture my brain and everything I love melting away.
    T HE FLUORESCENT L IGHT AGAIN . I must’ve dozed off. My world is this fluorescent light. The light and the low, continuous, electronic whirring and beeping of whatever equipment might be monitoring me. Monitoring me and keeping me alive? God, I hope not. My world is meetings and deadlines, emails and airports, Bob and my kids. How did my world get reduced to this? How long have I been lying under this ugly light?
    I move my hand beneath the bedsheet and down to my leg. Oh no. I’m feeling at least a week’s worth of stubble. The hair on my legs is fair-colored, almost blond, but I have a ton of it, and I usually shave every day. I rub my hand up and down my thigh like I’m petting a goat at the zoo.
    Oh God, my chin. I have a cluster of five hairs on the left side of my chin. They’re coarse and wiry, like boar hair, and for the past couple of years, they’ve been my hideous secret and my sworn enemies. They sprout up every couple of days, and so I have to be vigilant. I keep my weapons—Revlon tweezers and a 10X magnifying mirror—at home, in my Sherpa bag, and in my desk drawer at work, so in theory, I can be anywhere, and if one of those evil little weeds pokes through the surface, I can yank it.