Jeff came back with a blanket and held me. One of the maintenance guys called 911. A neighbor brought another blanket, and an aspirin. The police came, and we all waited for the ambulance. Finally it came, and I began to wonder if these slight, fit paramedics could lift my substantial self onto the gurney. I hardly had time to wonder about it before I felt Jeff lift me and place me there himself as they guided my legs. I screamed when they took off my shoe and when I was set on the stretcher. Inside the ambulance, I finally began to shiver and chatter my teeth, and they piled on blankets. I had been on the ground for perhaps 20 minutes, and early hypothermia had set in, dipping my heart rate. And they had begun to try to start an IV, which is nearly impossible - my veins are not a jungle or a forest, but a twiggy thicket. Tiny, hard to tap, and liable to collapse. After four attempts (one of which left a butterfly-shaped bruise still visible five days later), they gave up, shot me full of morphine, and we set off for the University hospital.

Once the morphine kicked in, I began to babble and couldn’t shut up. Do I have hypothermia? What are the symptoms of hypothermia? I have no veins. My name is Krista. What’s yours? Yes, I know my Social Security number. Yes, I know my address. Yes, I know my phone number. Can I have more blankets? How much further? Is Jeff following us? Oh, here we are. It’s cold on my toes. This kept up through ER admissions and amused Jeff to no end. He said, "I saw hints of this before and knew it was possible, but I’ve never actually seen you go on like this." And, "You are so bullheaded. You know I love you for that."

Hours went by. Three nurses came to try to start the IV, and finally they gave up and got The Mystic, the final nurse who is always summoned from another part of the hospital and who can tap any vein. She was wonderful, and slipped the needle right in. More morphine. The floor doctor came. More morphine. Then X-rays, and then more morphine. I was still in denial, thinking that these things don’t happen to me, except when they obviously do, so surely they’ll just be able to pop it back in place and send me home. The orthopedic specialist came, and nicely informed me that I had broken the fibula, the tibia, and another crucial bone. Ironically, I had managed to accomplish the very same break that Jeff had experienced three and a half years ago, before we met. Surgery would be required. But first, my ankle had to be reduced and so we talked about reducing - the process of pulling the ankle back into something resembling its original shape so as to reduce the swelling and then splinting it to await surgery. From the look on everyone’s faces, I could tell it wouldn’t be pleasant. They promised to render me unconscious before doing it. After everyone left to prep, Jeff told me that reducing was the worst part, and that everything would be downhill from there. He had been fully conscious for his, not even offered the choice of anesthesia. I figured the only way out was through.

The nurses came back to prep me. As they cut away my wet clothes and began to attach me to the various monitors, I became quietly angry, and then suddenly very clearly understood what subjectivity means, and that it was what I was angry about. All the signifiers of infirm and patient were being attached to me, a person who was being forced to give up her conviction that this was not happening to her. And then I wondered what sort of geek has blinding flashes about Lacan when being prepped for unpleasant medical procedures. Probably better to stay in the moment.

When everything was arranged, they began to give me shots of anesthetic. After a few minutes, the floor doctor tapped my forehead and said, "Can you hear me?" Yes, I could. Another dose. And another. And another as I chatted away, until we were up to six times the original dose. It became clear that I would be very much awake for the procedure. Everyone was as pleasant and concerned as they could be, and a nurse held my hand as I screamed through every twist, crackle, and pop. Jeff, down the hall and around the corner, heard me and moved his chair to the hall outside my room. As soon as they finished, he came in to hold my hand. More morphine.

And then I was situated in my hospital room, waiting to be worked into the OR schedule for the next day. I was still convinced that this was not happening to me, that it was a very vivid dream that I would wake from shortly. I fell asleep around one in the morning, and dreamed vibrant morphine dreams until dawn. The next day was the waiting day, waiting to be scheduled and then waiting for my 5 pm surgery. I hadn’t been unconscious in ten years and had never had anything approaching major surgery; my only previous experiences had been having tubes put in my ears as a child and having my wisdom teeth out as a teenager. My nurse that day was Bintou, from Mali. She was incredibly patient with me, doling out the morphine and chatting. Jeff was in and out throughout the day, reassuring me that the surgery was minor compared to reducing, and that I wouldn’t remember a thing about it. As the day passed the pain and the fear grew worse, and by the time pre-op rolled around I was heavily sedated, wide awake, and trying very hard not to cry. Meeting the surgeons, anesthesiologist, and nurses beforehand helped. The last thing I remember is looking at the blue-on-white tile design of the OR and noticing how everyone looked like folks loitering around waiting to start their shift, not that different from any other workplace. Thankfully, the anesthesia worked much better this time around. I remember nothing of the procedure, which lasted more than two hours. (Jeff has written about how it felt from his side.) They said later that I asked for him in the middle of the procedure.

When I woke up the first thing I felt was an overwhelming urge to pee, and I hopped down off the recovery table to the bedside commode. The surprised nurses let me, and wanted to know if I needed any help. I said, "No. Shoo" and they pulled the curtains and stood outside. While taking care of things I apologized for being rude, and they said, "Oh, you weren’t. It’s just that we’re not used to independent people." I thought it was odd that they put it that way and climbed back up on the table, unaware that I would be very unhappy about getting out of bed for any reason in the next days, and asked where Jeff was. Turned out that no Mister Boyfriends are allowed in recovery. After an hour or so of observation they let me go back to my room, where I slept until morning. The next three days were full of sleep, physical therapy, flowers, phone calls, and much fiddling with narcotics as we tried to figure out what worked for me. Vicodin caused vivid nightmares. Tylenol with codeine wasn’t strong enough. Darvocet with Vistaril turned out to be the ticket.

And now I am home, whiny, propped up in bed. I have the bestest, hairiest nursemaid in the world - not least because he knows exactly what it’s like to go through this particular process. And, re-reading, I notice two things. First, that it’s the first part of all this where time stretches out, where the memories are sharpest. Part of that is the lack of narcotics early on, but it’s remarkable the clarity that shock, pain, and adrenaline can bring. The other realization is that this is a love story, one more traumatic than might be wished for, but also one that removes any doubt.