One More Wave

My eyes burned in protest as I forced them open to get my bearings. Under the surface of the angry sea, I could not distinguish murky bottom from slate grey sky. Another wave tumbled me sideways and then my hip scraped into the sand and shells below. I quickly sunk my hands into the sand and pushed up, my head finally emerging from the surf. The tight Velcro strap tugged on my ankle as my surfboard retreated with the last wave. I pulled in the line and hauled the board up the beach.  

Sitting on my soggy towel, I checked my phone. Already ten minutes late. I was supposed to be meeting my longtime boyfriend at the seaside diner to finalize our packing lists and tie up loose ends before we left on Monday. We were both undergraduate students, hoping to get into medical school next fall. This summer we would not be cleaning tables at that seaside diner as we had every summer since high school. Instead, we were flying to Costa Rica. An opportunity for students in pre-med programs to go down and work in a remote village medical facility.  

The dark sky above rolled and boomed its warnings to those few left on the beach. My inner thoughts mirrored the sky above. I am a constant over thinker, always agonizing over the correct decisions. I had spent long nights awake recorrecting essays and papers. The buzz of cicadas and my seemingly nocturnal cat keeping me company. I frequently awoke long before dawn to contemplate applications to med schools, adjust plans for time out with friends, rethink my hours studying versus working. Every big decision was made only after I had hashed and rehashed every possible outcome.  

The decision to forgo a paycheck for an entire summer and travel to a country far away from everything familiar was my biggest internal battle to date. The number of scenarios I played in my head could have filled the stack of journals on my desk that were supposed to be filled with my short stories. In a way, I suppose I was drafting stories, just in my head and not very entertaining ones. I had been out of practice with writing since freshman year of college when I abandoned my dream of studying English, literature, and writing; and instead, chose pre-med at my parents not so subtle urging. That decision easily took second place for most agonized over.  

So, is it any surprise that at this moment of my life I was at my limit for decision making? Is it a surprise that my brain quieted down and I just did what I felt like doing? Besides, what is one more wave when you are already late? And what is a downpour when you are already wet?  

# 

I reemerged into consciousness slowly. Like waking up as a child on a Saturday. No rush, no worry. The first sensations were the coolness of the sheets covering me. The quiet of the room around me. Except, no, it was not quiet. Beeping was coming from near my head, and I could hear someone talking quietly, muffled. I opened my eyes and was shocked to find that I was not familiar with my surroundings. Actually, they were familiar. Familiar in the way that looked like any generic hospital room everyone has seen a hundred times in movies and on television.  

The beeping sped up as my body responded to the panic in my brain. Why was I here? I searched the bed and found a cream-colored remote control tethered by a matching cord. I pressed the red button and fell back against the stiff pillows, searching my memory for anything that came before this morning. The beach, the storm, Greg sitting at a corner table alone. But no, that last one was not a memory, that was how I had pictured him as I strapped my surfboard back to my ankle. What after that? I had no memory of going back into the surf, and absolutely no clue as to what had happened to put me in my current location.  

Just then a nurse knocked and entered my room, a bright smile on her pretty, plump face. “Hello darling, I am so happy to see you awake finally. Let’s see how you are healing.”  

She finished washing her hands and walked over to my bedside. I watched in quiet fascination as she checked my vitals and made notes on a laptop sitting on a rolling cart near my bed. I was anxious to ask her details of what brought me here but now that I had the opportunity, I hesitated as if not ready to know. She quickly typed on the computer, her name badge rattling against the pens clipped to it. I couldn’t make out her name from this angle, so I started with that, “What’s your name?” I asked in a voice that sounded cracked and dry like it had not been used in a long time.  

Without looking up she said, “My name is Glory, I’ve been your nurse during the day since you came in Saturday. I will be here until seven.” 

The way she said Saturday sent up a red flag in my mind. “Saturday? Is it not Saturday now?” This bought me a pause in the typing and hesitant glance.  

“Honey today is Monday. You came in Saturday afternoon and went straight to the operating room. You were unconscious from a hit on the head and blood loss. After surgery, your brain needed a little more time to heal than your body and so it kept you out of it for a couple of days.” 

I felt sick inside and thought for a moment that I might throw up. Glory was obviously a great nurse, saw this and brought me a comma shaped bowl and held it near for a few minutes. How could I have been unconscious for days? Monday? I was supposed to be on a plane right now. Did she say blood loss? 

My face must have shown my confusion because Glory sat down with a soft sigh and told me the story that was now my own. I had gone in for one more wave. The surf had gotten even rougher, and I was knocked off my board. The board, still tethered to me, had tumbled in the current and hit me on the back of the head. Luckily, someone else had been braving the storm and saw the scene play out. But the scene was not over. An opportunistic hunter had been using the strong currents as a tool to find a meal, and I was just the injured animal he was looking for.  

One clean bite, just above my knee. A frantic ride to the hospital with my own surfboard as a stretcher. Just over an hour in surgery, it really was a nice clean bite. Two days unconscious. One missed flight. Twelve days healing in the hospital. These are the details that changed my entire trajectory in life. 

Greg waited for an hour before he got a call from my phone that was not from me. He was there when they wheeled me into recovery. He cried, holding my hand as he asked my father what he should do. They both agreed that I would have wanted him to stick to the plan. I always wanted to stick to the plan I so carefully laid out. So, he left. He spent two and a half months in the humid jungle village learning as much as he could. He came back and was accepted into medical school. We stayed connected but decided our lives were on different paths. He is a doctor at a big hospital further inland. An orthopedic surgeon coincidentally. Or not.  

I came home to a disgruntled cat and a half-packed suitcase. Over the next months, I spent hours in therapy learning to walk on a new carbon fiber leg. I cried over the loss. Loss of limb. Of boyfriend. Of medical school in the fall. Of my precious plans. But what I also lost was my ability or need to worry about any future plans. I did not plan out my outfits or my breakfast. I dropped my final semesters of science classes and filled my schedule with literary and writing. I wrote whenever I could, which was often because my leg bothered me more days than I liked to admit to my doctors. That pile of journals was soon filled, and then added to.  

Soon I was submitting short stories and poems on online writing forums. By graduation, I had applied to graduate school, I had won enough money from submissions to cover my textbooks and have a bit left over. I was contacted by a publisher. And then another.  

At forty, I live in a cozy, oceanfront cottage just a mile from where I sat on my soggy towel that fateful day. I frequently walk my dog right by the beach access where my blood stained the weather worn boards for months after. I have published seven short story collections, four books of poetry, and am working on my twelfth novel.  

I pull my shoulders back and stretch my neck. I have written all this in one sitting and every inch of my body protests the lack of movement. Well, except for my nice shiny leg. What was once the most painful part of me, is now the most content part of me.  

I get up and grab the dog’s leash and check my phone. Darn, ten minutes late. Greg is waiting for me at the diner. Today we are catching up after so many years on different paths. I hurry out the door and into the grey, windy day. Thunder makes its threat in the distance.  

# 

A crack of thunder jolted me out of the scenario in my head. What a funny world that would have been. I stood up and shook the sand out of my towel, folded it over the edge of my board, and headed for beach access. I climbed the weather worn steps and looked back over the nearly deserted beach. A few brave souls had chosen to head back out one more time before the storm hit. I smiled and turned towards the diner.  

When I walk out of the downpour and into the diner, he is sitting at a corner table, staring out at the storm. When I sit down across from him, Greg smiles and slides his hot cup of coffee over to me. “You look like you need this more than I do.” he says as I wrap my hands around the mug, trying to absorb the warmth. He gives me a soft smile, and taking in my disheveled appearance, asks, “You haven’t been worrying too much about travel plans, have you?”  

I think back to my daydream on the beach and almost laugh. “No, I think what we have planned is perfect. I’ll save my worrying for medical school.” “I was just enjoying some of the storm surf before we head out.” I added. He laughed and we got down to our lists and preparations.  

# 

After our summer in Costa Rica, Greg and I both finished out our undergraduate programs with top marks. We were accepted into multiple med schools and chose to attend the same one, the closest one to our oceanfront hometown. During the grueling and exhausting years, we managed to stay close and remained a strong couple, leaning on each other for support. The picture of the two of us in cap and gown, smiling like we were on top of the world, is still displayed on our mantle beside frames of sticky toddlers holding popsicles on the beach and teenagers dressed up for proms.  

We followed our plan and found our calling within the medical field. He accepted a position as a pediatrician just twenty minutes from our seaside cottage. I chose something more specialized and commute about an hour each way. But the drive does not bother me. I use talk to text to write drafts of my poetry and short stories. Someday I hope to write a novel. Someday when my days are filled with fewer surgeries healing the bones of critically injured patients and more strolls along the beach.  

I put my car in park and save my notes in a file filled with other drafts. In my notifications is a text from my daughter asking if we are still having family dinner this evening. She will fill the house with the giggles of our grandchildren and the barking of their little dog. Before I can respond, a shrill chime reserved for notifications from work blasts through my speaker. An urgent message that I am needed in the operating room as soon as I get into the building. A helicopter is currently on route with a critical patient. A shark bite victim off one of the nearby beaches. I glance out at the churning sky, probably a surfer just trying to catch one more wave before the storm hits.  

#