Chapter Forty-One

Abuela and Lily meet us at the only hospital in town. Though Abuela thanks Isaiah profusely when she arrives and assures him he can head home, he doesn’t. Not even when the emergency room is full. Not even when the staff says it could be a while before I’m seen. Not even when Abuela goes on a rant about the health care system in the US.

While we wait, I take advantage of a reprieve from the pain and head to the bathroom so I can change my pad and tampon. I’m met with so much blood that my underwear is ruined. Between waves of nausea, I clean up as best I can.

When I exit the bathroom, the hospital staff is finally ready for me. I turn to Isaiah. “You should take off. You can’t give up your entire night for me.”

“Of course I can.” He meets my gaze. “I can wait here until there’s news. I don’t mind.”

“But I do. Go home, rest, and I’ll text you,” I say. “You’ve already done so much. Thank you.”

He looks as if he wants to protest. But with a sigh, he says, “Just . . . please let me know how you’re doing, all right?”

“I promise, Zay.”

Isaiah gives me a small smile. “See you soon, Whitney.”

Add the hospital with its sterile, blinding fluorescents to the list of places with terrible lighting. I get that surgeons and nurses need to be able to see what they’re doing, but at what cost?

In case you couldn’t tell, humor is my brand of coping, and it’s exactly what I rely on once I’ve been given enough pain relief medication that I can finally think again.

Between tests they run on me, Abuela and Lily distract me by playing Heads Up!, that word- guessing game you put on your forehead, and M.A.S.H., the game that decides your future: where you’ll live, who you’ll marry, and how many kids you’ll have.

Abuela is all too triumphant when we tell her she’ll be a millionaire living in Puerto Rico with Pedro Pascal and their seventy-five k ids.

Finally, after hours of waiting and plenty of casual fatphobia

(“Losing weight would be really good for you,” one of the tech nurses suggests all too cheerfully), we get a diagnosis: one of my ovarian cysts has ruptured.

The doctor surmises that, due to my PCOS, the egg likely didn’t release from the ovary during ovulation, resulting in a functional cyst. Though the cysts don’t often rupture, it does happen, she explains.

“Lucky me,” I mutter.

“Call Dr. Delgado,” Abuela tells the attending physician. “She’ll help.” But the doctor explains that that’s not how that works, it’s far too late in the evening, and I’ll just have to make a follow-up appointment.

Though I don’t need surgery, the on- cal l doctor says she’d like to monitor me overnight just to ensure everything is okay. I try to say I’m fine to go home, unable to shake the guilt over the hospital bill that I know is creeping up by the second, but Abuela hushes me.

She waits until the doctor leaves before unleashing a stream of curse words in Spanish, especially when I get moved to my room and she realizes I have a roommate. There won’t be enough space for all three of us to stay here overnight, Abuela argues; we need a private room.

The attendant gently explains that the hospital is at maximum capacity, and Abuela huffs and calls Titi Mariana to arrange pickup for Lily. I can hear Titi Mariana’s voice heavy with concern as they speak.

When Abuela hangs up with her sister, she turns to me. “¿Y tu? ¿Qué quieres?”

“I’m good,” I say. Between what the hospital offers, the near pharmacy Abuela carries around in her purse, and my work bag, I should have plenty to get me through the night, right down to an extra phone charger. “You staying with me is plenty.”

But Abuela, who I think just needs to busy herself after the scare of her eldest being rushed to the hospital, excuses herself to hunt down some extra pillows and blankets.

It’s just me and Lily.

“Sorry to ruin your whole night,” I say to her.

“Yeah, I’m so mad at you.” She rolls her eyes. “How dare you be in so much pain you needed to go to the hospital.”

I laugh. “You’re right. I’m being silly.”

“Obviously.” She huffs. “But I do have something that might help.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Lily reaches into her backpack and pulls out her tattered, wel l-loved stuffed giraffe, Stretch, which she’s had since she was a kid. “Abuela gave me exactly six seconds to grab anything I needed before we left the house. I panicked, so I grabbed my Switch and Stretch. I thought it would help calm my nerves. She was acting like you were dying!” Lily shakes her head. “Anyway, now that you’re okay, I was thinking you might need Stretch more than I do.”

“Really?” I ask.

She holds the giraffe out to me. “Really. He’s good company. Promise.”

I reach for Stretch, stroking his soft belly with my thumb. “Thank you, Lily. I promise to take good care of him.”

“You better. If you lose him, I’ll never talk to you again.”

I grin at her. “I promise he won’t leave my sight. Right, Stretch?” I hold him up and make him talk in a silly voice. “We’ll be good, Lily!”

“That’s not what his voice sounds like,” Lily chides, and I laugh.

Abuela whisks back in, arms loaded with linens and pillows. “Okay, this should be enough.” She starts to situate some under and around my head, then tucks another blanket around my legs even though I’m not cold. “There.”

Lily holds up her phone. “Titi Mariana’s here.”

Abuela eyes me. “I’ll only be a second. If I come back and you’ve gotten out of your bed, you’re in trouble.” I attempt to move my legs in a dramatic show of just how tightly she’s tucked me in.

“Even if I wanted to move, I couldn’t,” I say.

“Bien,” Abuela says. To Lily, she nods toward the door. “Okay. Vámanos.”

Lily gives me a fist bump, then the two disappear down the hall. Alone, I text Marisol and Sophie to give them an update on how I’m doing. I can practically feel the relief in their responses as they promise to come first thing tomorrow to check on me.

Then I pull up my messages with Zay. It’s late now, but I need to update him, especially after all he did for me tonight.

Me: Sorry it took so long for me to text. Abuela has been nex t-level extra (in her adorable way). But I’m finally settled. I’m fine now

Zay: thank god. are you on your way home?

Me: I wish. They’re keeping me overnight just for observation

Zay: do you need anything? i can drop it off if so. or run to your house if it’s something there

Me: No, no, I’m good. I swear. Thank you

Zay: what did they say happened?

Zay: i mean

Zay: if you want to share

Zay: no pressure

Me: It’s okay. One of my ovarian cysts ruptured [crying face]

Me: Thankfully, I don’t need surgery or anything, just rest

Zay: fuck, that’s scary. i’m so sorry

Me: Thanks. I don’t know what kind of fate made you decide to pick up your pumpkin cheesecake cookies tonight, of all nights, but I’m so grateful you did

Me: Thank you, Zay. Truly.

Zay: of course. you would’ve done the same for me. like the time i almost fell at the apple orchard and you, lemme check, doubled over in laughter

Me: NOT THE ORCHARD

Me: I laughed because I knew you were fine!!!

Zay: okay, sadist

Zay: can i come see you tomorrow? even if it’s at the hospital?

Me: I’m not sure how long I’ll be here

Zay: oh okay

Me: But yes. Come

Zay: good. i will. now rest and i’ll see you tomorrow.

Me: Please