​Last Tuesday Eric and I went to the hospital for a double appointment with the neurosurgeon and with the plastic surgeon. They wanted to examine my scalp to assess its condition for surgery: they needed to put back the bone plate that the neurosurgeon had taken out (see Adventure chapter). The neurosurgeon was concerned about the health of the skin because of the number of surgeries I’d undergone. That’s why he wanted discuss with a plastic surgeon the need for skin expansion. Our first appointment was with the neurosurgeon. Since it was in the morning, we had to leave early. Eric made my breakfast, and I ate it quickly. Then, we left for the city. We got to the hospital, put on our masks, went through several checks of vaccine shots and proof of negative tests, took the elevator to the neurosurgery department, and went inside the office to wait for him.
After lunch, we went to the plastic surgeon’s office. There, a resident saw me because the surgeon was performing an emergency surgery. The resident was new to the profession, as he told us over and over. So, he talked to me about methods and complications in such a way, that after hearing him I was convinced that I didn’t want to submit myself to this surgery. Fortunately, the surgeon came back. He examined my scalp and said it had already been expanded. Although he admitted that coplications might develop, he didn’t attach such significance to them. Then, he described the potential surgery step by step. In short, his attitude made me feel confident about having the operation (but my fear, though diminished, remained). After this appointment, it was time to go home.
When we got back, our conversation with the surgeons was fresh on our minds. We discussed the pros and cons of replacing the prosthesis: safety and quality of life (I would no longer have to lie down in bed all the time!), versus complications such as infection, bleeding, and clots. We promptly chose for having it. Yet I couldn’t but feel haunted by memories of my past coma, even if I was aware that this operation was fundamentally different.The next morning, when I talked to my older brother about it, he had no doubts about the need to replace the bone plate.
Then, in the evening Eric and I received a call from the neurosurgery nurse asking if I had made a decision regarding the surgery: was I going to go ahead with it? I said yes. After she hung up, I felt relieved and content. Today, several days later, the fear is still haunting me, but I think of myself without a helmet and going on the deck in my wheelchair, and I’m happy that Eric and I leaned toward the replacement.

​After the surgery, when I was transferred to the Recovery Room, Cy, the sweetest and most compassionate nurse, found a real bed for me. I could raise it by pressing a button, which I did promptly – I was concerned about not being able to swallow my post-nasal drip and saliva. Then, when I was transferred to the ICU, I asked the night nurse to help me sit up. When I woke up the next morning, my arm and hand looked very different from what I remembered prior to the surgery: they were bent at the elbow and the wrist, and my fingers were closed. What‘s more, both felt very weak. When I recovered and my sutures evolved as expected, I was discharged with a PICC line, an extension tube, and a vial of Oxacillin in order to finish the course of antibiotic. As time went by, I kept doing what I usually do: reading and writing, having lunch, doing my exercises, and resting. There were some changes, though, because Oxacillin is quite strong and it tired me, and because I had a PICC line in my left arm.
Gradually, my arm and hand got increasingly weaker; I couldn’t “feel” where my arm was; I had a hard time moving my leg and couldn’t balance; I couldn’t find the words to speak, either in Spanish or in English; I couldn’t distinguish left from right; and I lost vision with my left eye. At first I thought it was a setback caused by the surgery and it would go away soon. But it never went away: it just got worse. When Kelly, my occupational therapist came to work with me, she advised us to call my neurosurgeon’s office. Eric did so, and the nurse called him back to say that he should drive me to the ER.
We went there the next morning, and they did a CAT Scan to know if I’d had another hemorrhage. The image was clean. So, I had a brain MRI, and it showed no infection. It was 7:30 in the evening. The neurosurgeons came in and said that since there was no sign of a stroke, it was time for the neurologists to decide, but in the meantime they wanted to do an experiment. They asked me to lie down in the stretcher, and I agreed despite my discomfort and nervousness. The woman neurosurgeon lowered the back of the stretcher, and we waited for about fifteen minutes. When the fifteen minutes were over, my English became fluent. Eric and I were relieved, and the neurosurgeons had proved their hypothesis: taking out the bone plate had caused my brain to go up. So, when I sat up, the blood couldn’t reach it. That was the reason for my gradual loss of brain function. The nurse rolled me back to the ER “room,” and I stayed there lying down flat for the rest of the evening. Then, a neurologist came to tell me that the doctors had decided to discharge me. I’d never felt so happy in my life. Eric came to get me at 2:30 in the morning under pouring rain. We were home at 4:30 and went to bed at 5 AM. Eric said, “I’m happy you’re back home.” “Me, too,” I answered.
            Now my arm and wrist are stretched; I recovered my balance and the use of my leg; I can flex my foot; I can feel my hand and know where it is; my left vision is back; I know what’s left and what’s right; and best of all, I can speak fluently both in English and in Spanish! There’s only one throwback: I have to spend most of the day, and sleep, lying down. But that will be over once the neurosurgeon puts the bone plate back in its place. Although that’s a topic for another chapter…

​In the days I spent in the hospital, since the surgery until discharge, I met all kinds of people and learned to see life from multiple perspectives. Norma, the Jamaican nurse aid, taught me to face the challenges of immigration and foreignness, always confronting new obstacles with a smile. Isaiah, the hospital chaplain, taught me to throw away the arrogance of agnosticism and hear what religion has to talk about. I learned that we’re not independent but interdependent; someone’s always waiting to push us out of despondency into optimism.
And there were many more: Rosalba, the Latin American nurse aid; Karen and Yedbavni, the Jamaican nurse aids; and all the rest of the nurse aids who behaved toward me with compassion and understanding, and showed me how to treat a sick woman who can’t fend for herself and can’t even express her needs.
The ten days that seemed like a century gave me time to stop, step aside, and think. Yes, I spent ten days feeling lonely and helpless, and fear overwhelmed me. But these days gave me the opportunity to meet and chat with new people, and to reflect upon the questions life poses us. While I won’t find the answers, I will be different from the person who was admitted to the hospital a year ago.