It's My Life - Stacie Ramey Page 0,81

do is deal with Julian. But I think I can make that quick.

You know how I said I believe in magic?

Yeah.

I believe in my heart that I can fix this. I can find the person I used to be. Is that stupid?

Nope.

Thanks for reminding me.

Red heart emoji.

Red? You skipped over purple and yellow and pink!

Happens.

Smiley face emoji. And all the other applicable emojis.

Which are?

Use your imagination.

Thirty-One

Three weeks after the pneumonia incident, I’m back in the hospital, this time for my baclofen pump. As they wheel me into the operating room, I think about all the times Mom took care of me when I was sick or hurt. I think about how she would always lay her hand on my forehead, checking me. And how my overly torqued muscles relaxed just at her touch because my body knew that I’d be okay as long as she was there with me.

There are already four people in the OR, all wearing scrubs and masks. “On three,” a masked face says, and I’m transferred to the operating table. The door opens, and a nurse walks in. I know it won’t be Gary this time. He doesn’t do surgery. My body tenses.

Hands go on my head. “It’s okay, Jenna. We’re just getting started.”

I think about my fantasy Garden of Eden. I think about all the Trees of Life I imagine are planted there. How they’d all be shaped by that person’s life choices and experiences. I think that if I had a Tree of Life, it would be bent in ways tree bend, and that would be cool because everyone’s trunks would show a little wear and tear. We’d all be leaning toward whatever sun we worshipped. My tree would be bent toward a certain hockey player’s.

The oxygen mask goes over my face. “You comfortable, Jenna?”

I hate the feeling when your head is below your neck and you feel like you’re choking, and I start to get panicky. I move my head.

A hand falls on my shoulder. “Can we get you something?”

The air feels tight and I want to tell them to scrap the whole thing, but instead I say, “My neck. Can we lift my neck?”

“Of course,” the voice behind the mask says, and I feel my neck being lifted and something being placed under it. I feel the medicine they’ve given me in my IV loosen me, and I close my eyes. The sounds around me fade until I’m left alone with my thoughts.

Thoughts like how I’m more than my body, more than I ever gave myself credit for. If I am a tree in the Forest of Life, then I am here. I am eternal. These are the thoughts that swirl through my head as the doctor in front of me adjusts the straps on my oxygen mask and says, “Just a little gas to make you sleepy.” A needle slips into the arm that’s tied down to the bed.

“You’re doing great, Jenna,” my nurse encourages.

And I believe her. Soon her face blurs and then disappears, and I’m lifting out of my body. I hear a beeping, steady and strong, as my heart beats a different rhythm. I close my eyes all the way, and I pretend I’m floating higher and higher, until I am floating to the ceiling. I can look down on everyone and see all the people from up high. I want to reach out to them, but my arms are held down so I just watch. I am here, I think. I am here and you are there and suddenly everything seems to make sense. Everything fits together in a puzzle and I’m not sad about my body or what could have or should have been. I am just me. And that’s enough.

My mind goes over everything that’s happened in the last few weeks. It’s a sad little montage, but from this distance it feel less awful and more inevitable. Maybe even forgivable.

“This is real.” Jennifer’s voice comes to me. “You are real. You are here. You are her. You are me.”

And I think, I am her. I always have been.

I hear the sounds of waves crashing. I feel a breeze. Suddenly I’m back in Florida with Eric and Rena and Dad, and I’m crashing through the waves like his little Wonder Woman. I am flying like a mermaid.

“It’s so easy…” Jennifer’s voice is back. “You just have to be.”

Soon I land on the beach and feel the sun warm my face. I open my eyes and see