Chapter 6
The curtain didn't open so much as it was pulled aside like someone had decided not to ask permission. A woman in surgical scrubs stepped in with a nurse right behind her, both of them already looking at the monitor before they looked at me. The air still smelled faint and metallic from the antiseptic they'd used on my belly, and the fluorescent lights hummed overhead.
I was still in the same bed. Same white sheets, same damp spot drying cold on the pillow where the water had hit. The IV pole was on my right, the clear bag dripping steady. My mom stood on my left in her green top and jeans, her boots planted like she wasn't going to move. Her hand was on the bed rail, not quite touching me, like she was waiting to be told it was okay.
The surgeon introduced herself. Dr. Patel. Short hair, mask down around her neck, tablet in one hand. She didn't smile in a fake way. She just nodded at me and then at my mom.
"Maya, I'm one of the pediatric surgeons," she said. "Can I examine you again? I know it's been a lot of hands today."
I nodded and tried to breathe through my nose. She washed her hands at the little sink in the bay, the water running loud, then snapped on gloves. Her fingers were warm even through the latex. She pressed gently low on the right side and I couldn't help it — my whole body tightened and a sound came out of me before I could stop it.
She lifted her hands right away.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I know."
She stepped back and looked at my mom, then back at me. "Based on your exam, your labs, and what we saw on ultrasound, you have an acute surgical abdomen. We can't tell from this alone whether it's your appendix about to rupture or torsion of the ovary, but both cut off blood flow and both get worse quickly if we wait."
My mom's fingers tightened on the rail. "How quickly?"
Dr. Patel didn't sugarcoat it. "If it's appendix, the risk is perforation. That means infection through your whole abdomen, longer surgery, longer hospital stay. If it's torsion, we are talking about losing the ovary if the blood supply isn't restored soon. That's why I don't want to watch and wait. My recommendation is a CT with contrast right now to confirm exactly what we're dealing with, and then straight to the operating room."
The word operating room made my stomach drop in a different way than the pain. I stared at the ceiling tile with the little brown water stain near the light.
"How soon would you go?" my mom asked. Her voice was thin.
"As soon as CT confirms and OR is ready," Dr. Patel said. "Tonight. Within the hour if we can."
The nurse, the same one who'd stayed after security came, adjusted my IV line and checked the pump. She glanced at the curtain, where you could see the shadow of the security officer's shoes still planted outside.
That was when another woman stepped in. She wore navy pants and a hospital badge that said RISK MANAGEMENT, and she carried a clipboard but she didn't hold it like a shield. She spoke softly, like she'd done this a hundred times in this same kind of room.
"Mrs. Alvarez, I'm Karen from patient relations and risk management," she said to my mom. Everyone called her Lena, but she didn't correct her. "I wanted to clarify consent so you don't have to worry. In this state, when two parents share legal custody, either parent who is present and has decision-making capacity can consent for emergency care. You don't need both signatures. You don't need him in the room."
My mom exhaled, and I realized she'd been holding her breath. Her shoulders came down an inch.
"He's been saying —" she started, then stopped. "He said I couldn't authorize anything without him."
Karen shook her head just once. "For emergency treatment, you can. And Maya's assent matters too at her age. We document her understanding and her preference."
Dr. Patel turned her tablet toward my mom, then toward me. There were forms on the screen already pulled up, the consent for CT with IV contrast and the consent for diagnostic laparoscopy with possible appendectomy or ovarian detorsion.
Karen looked at me directly. "Maya, do you understand what Dr. Patel recommended and why? That waiting risks infection or losing the ovary?"
I swallowed. My throat was dry. "Yes," I said. My voice sounded smaller than I wanted. I cleared it. "Yes, I understand."
"And do you have questions before your mom signs?" she asked.
I looked at the curtain. I could hear faint voices in the hallway, one of them my dad's, lower now, controlled. I didn't want him to walk back in while they were explaining where they'd cut or what could go wrong. I didn't want to have to decide with him staring at me.
I took a breath that hurt. "Can I say —" I paused. My mom's eyes went to me. "I want my mom to sign. And I don't want him in here while we do it. I don't want him in the bay for the consent."
Nobody acted surprised. Karen just nodded and made a note on her clipboard. The nurse reached over and pulled the curtain the last six inches closed, the metal rings scraping. A small sound, but it felt like a door locking.
"That's your right," Karen said. "We'll document that. He will not re-enter the bay. Security will tell him directly. Your mom will consent at bedside with you, and you'll sign an assent where it says you agree and understand."
Dr. Patel knelt slightly so she was more at my eye level. "Maya, we will take care of you. You'll be asleep for the surgery and we'll have you meet anesthesia before we go. Okay?"
I nodded. The tears that had been there since the water hit the pillow finally spilled over, but quietly now.
My mom signed with the stylus, her hand shaking just at the end of her name. Then the nurse turned the tablet to me. The assent line was small. I signed Maya Alvarez in letters that slanted up.
Karen stepped to the curtain and spoke through the gap, not opening it. I heard her voice clear on the other side: "Mr. Alvarez, consent has been obtained from the present parent. You will not be re-entering the bay. CT is ordered and the team will transport your daughter when ready. You may wait in the waiting area with security and we will update you there."
There was a pause. I held my breath and listened for an answer, for the old sharp words. All I heard was the security officer's low confirmation and shoes shifting on the linoleum. The shadow didn't move closer.
May you like
The nurse squeezed my ankle over the blanket. "CT's coming to get you, sweetheart," she said. "We're going right down the hall."
My mom finally let her hand rest on mine, warm and steady, and I didn't have to look at the doorway anymore.
