“I’m okay,” I say, slightly winded and agonizingly sore. It’s been a busy morning. I glance at the whiteboard posted near the TV, where the morning nurse scribbled today’s goals.

Shower Power (full-body cleanse with anti-bacterial soap, done)

Power Walk (the hall to the nurse’s station and back, done)

Eat Like You Mean It (Eat something)

Get Things Moving (making sure my bowels function properly)

Ease off the Good Stuff (lessen my narcotics)

The nurse, Ivy, has a cute sense of humor, and who doesn’t love a chipper bedside manner, especially considering the overall misery of a hospital stay? I’ve never been so poked, prodded, or explored. Ivy didn’t hide her fascination with my hip bruise when she assisted me in the shower. It is massive, a ginormous red blotch with blueish twinges covering my left side from kidney to thigh. It resembles a giant jellyfish with a big head and many stringy tentacles. Giant Jelly—that’s what everyone calls it now. Our power walk felt the opposite—I could hardly do it. My insides feel like they’ve been extracted, shuffled, like a deck of cards, and stuffed back in me like I’m a Thanksgiving turkey.

Ivy might be the first person in history to wear me out.

And I’m still not hungry.

Ashe settles into the visitor’s chair after a short kiss. “Brought you coffee.”

“I see. Thanks.”

“You okay?”

“Getting there,” I smile. I edge the rolling IV aside, staving off nausea with measured breaths. Ivy and I have only just returned from our power (no power) walk. The movement mixed with the meds has turned my stomach.

“Here you go, hon.” Ivy bounds into the room with an icy ginger ale.

I take a small sip through the crooked straw that immediately disappoints her.

“Come on. You can do better than that. You got this.”

My head spins with the hundreds of times I’ve said that to Sunny’s employees, always with the same encouraging smile and upbeat tenor. Though it’s my job to inspire excellent customer service, I see now, with Ivy’s persistence, how it may come across as annoying.

No, she’s not annoying. She’s motivating.

I take another small sip. “Thanks, Ivy. This is Ashe, my fiancé.”

“Nice to see you. Marnie could use the company,” she says, checking my IV and updating her tablet.

“Ashe, could you get my cardigan and fuzzy socks from the suitcase?” I ask, my voice weak. I’m the textbook definition of miserable—chilly, in agony, nauseous, and wondering how I’ll feel better when it hurts so badly now. I’m not my usual Marnie self and need my little comforts.