Enough

“98.3° this morning.” The intake nurse’s printer whirled to life and she handed me a half sheet of stickers with my name and medical information barcode on it, as well as a Screened sticker to adhere to my shirt. “Go ahead and take a seat in the waiting room and a nurse will be out to get you shortly."

With that, I stood up from the guest chair in the check-in room and made my way back out to the waiting room at the MedicaOne GenitoUrinary Center. I was one of many, but I was much younger than the geriatric patients who were probably here for issues far worse than mine due to their advanced ages against my youth.

Life wasn’t fair.

One by one, as time ticked by, the waiting room cleared out; it was nearing closing time, and there I sat, alone and likely forgotten about.

“Brenna Davis?” A small nurse that looked like she could have been my younger sister came out of the automatic doors leading into the surgical wing of the building. Her blue eyes were reddening around the rims, and blond ponytail drooping, having lost some of its swish with the stress of the day. I couldn’t tell if she was smiling or not, the N95 mask on her face was firmly in place.

“That’s me,” I said, standing, gathering my purse and jacket.

“Follow me.” I followed her back into the bowels of the surgical center, heart beating double to my steps.

“You’re here for your one-week post-op with Dr. McClellan, right? How are you healing?”

What a loaded question. How was I healing? Inside, the sutures and stitches were likely healing...mentally, though, I doubted I would ever be whole again; financially, I was ruined.

“Just fine, thanks.”

She led me into an exam room, told me to undress, and put on the yellow paper gown. The doctor would be with me shortly, she assured me.

~

I hadn’t been trying to get pregnant; I wasn’t even seriously dating anyone, but these things happen. I wasn’t careful enough and the next thing I knew, I was throwing up in the morning, cramping by the afternoon, and passed out behind the bar at work in the middle of the evening rush.

When I came to, I was in a hospital room, hooked up to IVs and machines that were beeping and blinking, all alone. The alone part wasn’t new to me, but the hospital certainly was. I had no memory of what had caused me to end up here, but a cursory check of my limbs assured me nothing was missing.

I was lost. I was alone. I was broken.

“An ectopic pregnancy,” said the doctor, lifting the pages of my chart, “nothing you could have done to avoid it.”

A what?!

“Unfortunately, in cases like these, the fetus wasn’t viable. We fixed the bleeding, but we weren’t able to save the tube. You were about twelve weeks along. Is there someone we can call for you?”

Twelve weeks? I had been twelve weeks pregnant and hadn’t known until this moment? How was this even possible?

“Uh, no. There’s no one; it’s just me.”

“I’ll send a nurse in to help you dress. I’m discharging you. You’ll be on bed rest for the next week, and off work for at least the next two weeks. We will discuss that more after your next appointment.”

With that, the doctor left the room and I was left lying in the hospital bed, more confused than ever.

A nurse helped me dress in a pair of scrubs since my clothes had been cut off of me sometime after I passed out. She gave me a stack of paperwork to fill out with my address, insurance information, and told me that I wouldn't be released until I signed a financial responsibility form.

“I don’t have insurance,” I said, weakly. She continued talking to me, telling me about some grants, some charity programs, and other payment options. My head was buzzing so loud that I couldn't even make out her words; I don’t think I would have understood even if I could have.

“Let’s get you on your way home.” She pushed my wheelchair out of the room, down the hall, into a cramped elevator that smelled like bleach, and out into the fresh air where a cab was waiting for me.

“I don’t have any money.” I wasn’t even sure I had my purse. I felt around the plastic bag with my name on it, hoping it was in there.

“It’s taken care of.”

“Oh, thank you.”

She helped me into the back of the cab and off I went to face the consequences of a fast life and quick death.

By the time I made it home night had fallen. I made it to the couch and sat down. My insides were tender, and I felt like I had been stabbed. I started going through my bag from the hospital, read through my discharge instructions, and was dismayed at the gravity of it all. Bleeding, cramping, discharge...all the fun things I could look forward to as I healed. There was also depression, anxiety, feelings of inadequacy, all of which could describe my life before losing the pregnancy I didn’t know I had to begin with.

I sighed and propped my feet up, turned the television on, and spent the next six days doing some variation of the same, wallowing in self-pity, wishing I was living any other life than the one I was born with.

~

“Brenna, how are you feeling? Any more cramping or tenderness?” Dr. McClellan asked at my one-week post-op appointment, after unceremoniously knocking and coming into the exam room before I could respond. His bedside manner left something to be desired.

“I’m okay. Just sore and tired.”

“That is to be expected.” His hands pressed on my abdomen, eliciting a gasp of pain, but evidentially feeling nothing inside to be concerned about.

A quick ultrasound confirmed that things were healing as expected. He wanted to keep me off of work for another week and told me to follow up with my gynecologist to have her set a schedule for my return to full duty at work.

I was hemorrhaging money I didn’t even have and I’d yet to see an invoice for any of last week's emergency hospital care. Even on the best days during these times, I barely could scrape enough money together to pay my rent and bills, let alone emergency medical care and follow-up appointments, all while not working for at least another week.

When I checked my bank account this morning, I had two-hundred dollars to my name. Dr. McClellan left me to get dressed, and a nurse came in, giving me more after-care instructions which I unceremoniously stuffed into my bag. As I was walking out of the medical building, I could barely see through the haze of tears threatening to fall.

The next thing I knew, my shoulder clipped something and it sent my bag flying.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” a woman’s voice said as she bent down to help retrieve the contents of my purse.

“It’s not your fault,” I said, bending down slowly to pick up what was nearest to me. The woman looked to be about my age, and her blond hair cast a halo around her head when we stood back up, contents of my purse back where they belonged.

“Take care. Things will be better before you know it.” She gave me a beaming smile and squeezed my forearm with her soft hand before walking into the building. How did she know?

I got into my car and drove myself home. I wasn’t supposed to be driving, but what choice did I have? I pulled into the parking lot of my apartment complex, taking care while driving over the jarring speedbumps. I was on the verge of tears again while walking up the steps to the second floor. I was so tired, so sore, and so over everything.

I kicked off my shoes, dropped my purse on the table, its weight shifting, once more unceremoniously dumping the contents across the floor. I just couldn’t catch a break. I slowly dropped to my knees, picking up the contents of my purse for the second time today (I really should clean it out, but I couldn’t find a single care to give about it at this point), and noticed something that didn’t belong.

There was a little black notebook, pages held together by an elastic band. The notebook looked as if it had seen better days, but at this point, hadn’t we all? I stood, using the kitchen chair for support, and sat down, placing the notebook in front of me. I wonder if the woman had it in her hand when we bumped into each other and she accidentally put it into my bag instead of taking it with her.

I opened it up, and the first page had the words “In case of loss, please return to:” followed by printed lines. “As a reward: $” was printed below the lines. A smooth hand had filled in the blank lines:

In case of loss, please return to: Someone who needs this as much as you did.

As a reward: $ enough.

What on earth?

I started flipping through the pages, and in different hands were different notes, all signed by different women.

“This was the best thing that could have happened to me. Thank you. -Adrianna”

“I can’t believe it! My prayers have been answered. -Beth”

And the most recent,

“Before this book came into my life, I had given up. I hope I can give someone the peace that was given to me. Remember, this is enough. You are enough. -Grace”

There had to be more than a handful of small entries in here, each signed by a woman. I didn’t understand what I was looking at. I continued flipping through the pages, hoping there would be an entry with some explanation, but there was nothing until the back of the last page and the inside back cover. Written on that last page was a short passage, and written on what appeared to be a folder were varying monetary values, each in a different hand, much as the letters had been.

As this notebook passes from hand to hand, woman to woman, life to life, it will change yours as it has the ones who came before you. No loss is forever, and no life is unworthy. Here you will find just enough, not much more, but no less. Carry this with you until you encounter someone who could use this blessing as much as you. It is self-sustaining. Always remember; never forget.

I opened the flap, and inside was a folded check. I unfolded it and gasped. It was dated with today’s date, March 2, 2021, and it was made out to me – Pay to the order of Brenna Davis. My eyes teared up at the amount in the small box: $20,000.00. Twenty. Thousand. Dollars. The signature was an unidentifiable squiggle, and there was no name or address on the check. The memo box contained the words: Medical Expenses. This looked like a real check. I could feel the indentations from where someone held the pen as it pressed into the paper and had written my name.

I didn’t understand.

~

The elastic band was stretched out as if used as a handle to carry something much heavier than the weight of the ink on the paper. She didn’t understand now, but in time she would, just like all of the women that came before her. Always remember; never forget.