CHAPTER 7: Post Surgery

When I woke up, the first thing I saw was Mom and Seth standing beside the bed. "Hi, sweetie," Seth smiled.

"Your surgery is over, you did very well," Mom said, stroking my hair.

I opened my mouth to say something, but Brian stopped me. "No, don't try to talk, honey," he said, handing me a notepad and a pen. "If you have something to say, just write it down."

I put my glasses on, wrote something on the pad, and held it up. "'Am I alive?'" Mom repeated. I won't lie to you—I was more than a little surprised that she could read what I'd written, considering how loopy I was from the anesthesia. (I'm just glad I didn't have back surgery, because if I'd heard the doctor talking about flank, I'd probably be quoting from History of the World—Part I.)

"Yes, honey," Mom answered.

I underlined what I'd written and wrote Thank God!, and held it up. Mom and Seth smiled, then I flipped to the next sheet on the pad.

"Karen, I promise that you're going to be as good as new," Seth said. "You'll get your voice back within a week, tops. Maybe even before that."

A week? I wrote. If I couldn't talk until then, what was I going to do, besides get a bad case of writer's cramp? Oh well, at least I'd be able to see and hear everybody.

The next thing I wrote was, Where's Jason? Then I flipped to the next sheet on the pad.

"He's still in the waiting room," Mom answered. "Do you want me to get him?" I nodded. "Okay, I'm sure he'll be glad to see that you're all right."

Just then, the nurse came back and took the electrodes off my chest. She had platinum-blond hair, like me, and a name tag that read "Debbie".

"We're taking Karen back to her room now," she said. I couldn't help noticing that she had an Australian accent, like the Hobarts.

"Okay," Mom said. When we got out into the hall, I heard her say, "I'll get Jason, and you go with Karen back to her room."

"No problem," Seth said.

When we returned to my room, Seth and the nurse helped me back into bed. "I'll be back later this afternoon, and we'll see about taking a walk," the nurse said.

I leaned back against the pillow as Mom and Jason returned. "Hi, Karen," Jason said, putting my glasses on the tray. "How are you feeling?"

I picked up the pad and pen and wrote, I'm fine, considering the fact that I can't talk.

"Poor kid," he said sympathetically, taking my hand.

"How about some ice cream?" the nurse suggested. I nodded ecstatically, and the nurse returned a few minutes later. I took a bite, and reacted when the cold hit my sore throat. Worst of all, it was cherry vanilla, one of my favorite flavors.

I managed a few bites, then set the bowl aside. Can I have a potato patty? I wrote. Charlotte Johanssen once told me that when she had her tonsils out, after a failed attempt to eat the first one, she practically lived off them.

"I'll see what I can do," the nurse said. Within minutes, she returned with one, which I had an even harder time eating.

"That's all right," she said. "We'll try again later."

As I leaned back against the pillow, Jason handed me my mp3 player and laid my book on the tray. "Now, don't go back to sleep until after I've left," he said.

I managed a weak smile, remembering that I'd told him the same thing when we'd visited him at the hospital in Washington.

As the sounds of "Let It Go" blared from my mp3, I couldn't wait to get home, and better yet, I couldn't wait to get my voice back.