"NEVER GIVE UP"

I must have slept at least a half a day, or a day and a half, after my double mastectomies. Probably the effects of morphine. As I was waking up, someone was breathing very close to my face, maybe checking to see if I was breathing.

"Angelina, is there someone you would like us to call? Do you have anyone, a man, you would like to come and visit you?"

"My noble knight." I was talking about my gentleman friend, telling the nurse how we met, and the operas, and what a wonderful cook he is, such a kind man, so witty, charming; but there was no one listening.

"Hello? Is anyone here?"

Intense pain, like someone had just shot an arrow through my chest. I could hardly breathe.

I was in the Surgical ICU. The room had an after-midnight stillness, but who could tell if it was day or night. A voice spoke from the corner opposite the door.

"Never give up, Angel. I want you around for the rest of my life. Be strong."

I recognized the blend of Old European accent, Italian and Hungarian. My noble knight was here! I could hardly keep myself from jumping the guard rail.

"Will you stay until I fall asleep?"

I waited for an answer. "Will you stay?" Still no answer.

I was completely awake now, my eyes were wide open. The room was very quiet. It was then I realized I had been talking to myself. Again. My breathing was more shallow and I was lightheaded, very dreamy, almost faint.

The brilliance of lights startled me. The monitors made a droning sound when the bodies of white burst through the room. They rushed around my bed, checking the IV lines, and the drains from my wounds. There were at least a half dozen from the Critical Care Team, and after the code, there were too many, so they waited outside.

My mind faded to a semi-conscious place where I kind of floated blindly around everyone. I could not see, but I could hear the urgency in their voices. I feared I was close to death.

"Please, call my son. Tell him I love him, I'm so sorry, and that he must believe this is what the Lord wants. Tell him to be strong." It was unbearable. My lips could not move to say these things and yet I felt tears on my face.

"BP 80 over 55. Pulse, wait, no pulse. O2 sat 86%."

"4 liters O2."

"BP 60."

"Come on, Angelina. Can you hear me? Angelina!"

"BP 50 over palp."

"Damn that PE. Flush the heparin again."

"Could be the Staph."

"Or both."

"Angelina!! Can you hear me?"

"BP 45, dropping, COME ON JOHN! WE'RE LOSING HER!

"Betty, call the OR. STAT."

"OK, put her into Trendelenburg, maybe that will help her pressure."

"Here's her chart."

"Let's go."

It seemed like a very long ride to the OR. I was nearly upside down in this Trendelenburg position, but my blood pressure rose a little.

We arrived: voices talking all at once, the smell of betadine and the sounds of metal behind me. My body was lifted onto the table, and my anatomy rearranged. The brilliance of light penetrated my eyelids, and for a brief moment, I opened my eyes to a slit.

"Angelina, the surgeons are scrubbing up. I'm the anesthesiologist. Soon you'll feel a stinging down your arm through the IV line."

"Angelina, dear, what's your son's number?"

".....Jim."

"His number. It's wrong in the chart."

"7...8...1...3....3......."

"Angelina, Angelina? What a shame. She's out, doctor."

I couldn't have been completely unconscious because a voice came close and said in his familiar accent, "Never give up, Angel."