Breathing

   It all happened so fast. Of course, not really. Actually, fifteen year old Naomi Reiman had been waiting for this day for nearly her entire life. It’s just that it had all seemed so distant, like it would never really happen. Despite this, the day had arrived and now she’s sitting in her mom’s eons-old 2009 Toyota Matrix in a dark hospital parking lot two hours from her home at an ungodly hour on a July morning. She takes a deep breath before she opens the car door and steps onto the damp asphalt. She stands still and breathes in, taking a final moment outdoors before stepping through the large glass doors into the hospital. Naomi and her mom turn down a hallway, Naomi’s sneakers squeaking against a white tiled floor. They reach the end of the hallway and press the button for the elevator. As the two wait, Naomi contemplates the situation. The countless doctors appointments she’s had over the course of the year, the metal plates and screws soon to be drilled into her jaw, the three month long recovery ahead of her, the scars in her mouth that prove she’s no stranger to this process. All of it, so surreal. The elevator arrives, and Naomi glances up at her mom, trying her best to give her a reassuring smile, forcing down the nervous feeling in her gut. The last thing she wants is to give her mom another reason to worry about how Naomi will cope. Together, they step into the elevator. Her mom pushes the twelfth floor button and they barrel up towards Naomi’s fate. Naomi knows she’s lucky. She knows should be grateful, and she is. Hell, lots of kids like her die the day they’re born. And, even if they make it past that, end up with permanent brain damage and an inability to speak. She knows she’s lucky. Even so, it’s hard to be grateful all the time when her whole life, she’s been poked and prodded as doctor after doctor inspects her mouth and face, addressing the flaws Naomi already notices every day. As they reach the twelfth floor, Naomi takes a final look out through the glass onto the city, its lights so bright they burn their image into her mind. Satisfied, she turns and steps out of the elevator with her mom. They cross the hallway into a waiting room. The floor is covered in red carpeting, and the walls are adorned with dozens of children’s colorful handprints and posters of cartoon characters, a stark contrast to the towering ceilings and gleaming white walls of the rest of the hospital. Naomi and her mom check in with the receptionist, a middle-aged woman with chin-length silver hair and glasses with thick, red frames. She flashes Naomi a pleasant yet obviously tired smile, which she politely returns before sitting down in a waiting chair, sinking into its worn, squishy cushion. The waiting is excruciating and soon, the nerves creep in again, forcing her into a downward spiral of nervous thoughts. After what feels like ages, a young nurse in magenta scrubs opens the door to the clinic. “Naomi Reiman,” she says. Naomi stands, so does her mother who wraps her in a warm embrace. Naomi can smell her mom. She smells like the gardenia shampoo she’s been using all of Naomi’s life. She smells like home. “Alright, kiddo,” says her mom, before planting a kiss on Naomi’s forehead and drawing back. Naomi looks up at the nurse. “You can come with me” says the nurse, smiling and motioning towards the door. The nurse takes all of Naomi’s measurements, checking her height and weight one more time. Then, Naomi is led to another room where she is paid a final visit by the medical team, who walks her through the surgery process for what feels like the hundredth time. She is still unsure. She still won’t know exactly what will happen once she is asleep. Over an hour passes before she is handed a sterile hospital gown, and the providers leave the room to give her some privacy. She changes and hands her clothes to the nurse, who places them in a ziploc bag. She looks in the mirror to see a girl she barely recognizes. She looks frail, tired, paler than normal, like all the life has been drained out of her. Naomi follows the nurse in magenta scrubs to the operating room, reminding herself that nobody has ever died like this. She’s going to be okay. The nurse opens the door to the room. Naomi looks around. Nearly blinding lights and a few beeping machines fill the otherwise empty white room.  Just then, her surgeon, Dr. Reed, walks through the doors dressed in sterile scrubs and a surgical mask and cap. Dr. Reed gives some goodhearted final remarks, attempting to comfort Naomi as if she hasn’t heard those same words a hundred times before. Naomi lies down on the operating table, breathing shakily in and out. She begins counting down from one hundred as Dr. Reed places the mask over her face. The last thing she hears is the sound of her own voice. “ninety-eight…ninety-seven….ninety-six.” Then, just like that, she surrenders to the anesthesia, and her world goes dark.

    Rebecca Reiman pulls into a parking spot in the dark hospital lot. She turns the key and the car engine stops its steady hum. She looks over at her daughter, Naomi, clearly nervous. Rebecca sighs. If words existed that she thought would reassure Naomi, she would speak them a thousand times over. But she knows that nothing she can say will make her daughter less nervous. Instead, she just says “Alright!” in as cheery a tone she can muster and opens the car door. She steps out onto the wet pavement and shuts the door behind her. She turns to see Naomi and tries to read her puzzling, closed eyed expression. The two walk up to the hospital entrance. Upon entering, they are greeted by a tall, white, spacious area. They walk to the end of a hallway. As they wait for the elevator, Rebecca recalls the day Naomi was born: how the midwife tried desperately to get her to cry, how Rebecca watched helplessly as her newborn baby girl struggled to breathe, to live. Why can’t Naomi see that all the doctor’s appointments, all the poking and prodding, all the surgeries are worth it? What happened that day seemed like a miracle. This surgery was a small price to pay compared to what happened that day. The elevator dings, bringing Rebecca back. She and Naomi step into the elevator, flying up to the end of what before seemed to be an endless medical journey. They reach the twelfth floor and walk out and across the hall to the door of the waiting room. Rebecca turns the door handle, and she and Naomi step into the familiar room, decorated in its childlike chaos. Posters of various cartoon characters line the walls, interrupted by the occasional colorful handprint or germy booger stuck to the wall. Really, Rebecca finds it quite charming. They check in at the receptionist’s desk. A woman about her age with short grey hair and rectangular red glasses greets them and produces even more forms for Rebecca to sign. Finally, she signs the last lengthy piece of paperwork, and she and Naomi sit down on too-squishy, worn-down waiting room seats. Rebecca watches Naomi. She watches the gears turning in her daughter’s head and wonders what she is thinking. She doesn’t ask. Soon, a young nurse calls Naomi’s name. Rebecca stands up to hug her daughter. She wraps her arms around Naomi. She can feel her daughter’s heartbeat. She lets her go and watches Naomi follow the nurse through the door, which closes behind her as the two walk to the operating room where Naomi will go through her final surgery in this process. Maybe then, Rebecca thinks, her baby girl will finally be able to breathe.