Sneak Peek!

The release of Bow Ties, Butterflies & Band-Aids is pending in the next couple months. Stay tuned for more details on the exact release date, locations to buy, and my grand scheme to benefit peds cancer patients everywhere. To entice you, I have arranged for a short preview:


NOTICE: Copyright © 2010 by Lindsey VanDyke. No part of this work may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. 

     I stared up at the ceiling into the soft, greenish glow of the fluorescent lights, wondering if I would have time to count all the little dots in the acoustic ceiling tiles. They sure are taking their sweet time, I thought. As the minutes ticked by my mind wandered, pondering the gravity of what was about to happen to me. I’d never had surgery before. Suddenly, it hit me. M*A*S*H. I’d just seen it a couple weeks ago: the episode where the supply lines had been cut, and they were running out of anesthesia, so they had to lower everyone’s doses. One guy woke up in the middle of surgery. Oh. My. God. What if they ran out of anesthesia in the middle of my surgery? How were we supposed to know if the anesthesia man made his delivery this morning?
    As my hysteria over this completely irrational thought built, Mom and Dad were allowed in. It looked as though I had been bumped for an emergency surgery, and that’s why we had been in pre-op so long. I didn’t want them to think I was crazy, so I didn’t mention what I had seen on M*A*S*H or that the same thing was totally going to happen today. Because, you know. The Korean War front lines are exactly the same as a prestigious hospital in Portland, Oregon, in 1991.
The three of us chatted about various things while we waited, but much of the time was spent in silent anticipation, wondering how we all ended up here. In the last seventy-two hours our lives made a total 180. I’d become very ill very quickly, and here we were in Doernbecher Children’s Hospital awaiting confirmation of what my new team of doctors suspected was a very advanced cancer.
    After a while, a pack of white-coats entered our curtained cubicle. They always travel in packs, I thought. Later I found out why: one or two of them were teachers, and the rest were still in training. This hospital was a school, but it didn’t look anything like any school I’d ever seen. A middle-aged man, who introduced himself as Dr. Henricks, was in charge. “Do you have any questions?” he asked. I shook my head. “All right then. It’ll be about ten minutes while we all go get ready, OK?”
    “OK.” Seriously. What was I supposed to say? No, it’s not OK. If you please, I’d rather just go home now and pretend none of this has happened. Yeah. That would fly with Mama Linda.
    My mom disappeared for a while, asking the doctor some questions. It was just Dad and me. I was becoming increasingly internally restless. Finally, I could stand it no longer. My one irrational fear had snowballed.
“Dad! What if they run out of anesthesia while I’m in there?”
He looked at me blandly, either shocked by my stupidity or afraid that I was thinking too hard about it. I hoped it was the latter. “They won’t run out.”
    “But I saw it on M*A*S*H! They ran out, and this guy woke up in the middle and started screaming!”
    “That’s just a TV show; it’s not real. Besides, this is the best kids’ hospital in Oregon, not a mobile army hospital in the Korean War. They don’t ever let that kind of thing happen in real life.”
    “But what if the power goes out or something? And all the lights go out and they can’t see what they’re doing?”
    “It won’t happen. I’m sure they have backup generators just in case.”
    “OK.” I thought for a minute, trying to cover all the horrible possibilities. “But what if there’s an earthquake or something?”
    “There won’t be an earthquake. Even if there was one, this building is probably the safest in the whole city. It’s built very, very strong.”
    I didn’t have time to query further. Someone was back to get me. I couldn’t tell if it was one of the white-coats I’d seen before or someone else. He—or she—had a mask on and one of those puffy paper hairnets. It made me think of a mushroom. Mom had returned, too, and so away we went, me on the gurney, Mom and Dad walking next to me. When we got to the double doors marked, “Sterile Area: Authorized Hospital Personnel Only,” Dad squeezed my hands and said, “We’ll see you when you’re out. Just count back from one hundred and it’ll be over in no time.” Mom kissed me on the head as I rolled through the automatic double doors into surgery and out of childhood.