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Then I realize it’s a catheter. Gross. Screw that. I reach down under the covers and remove it, something inside me uncomfortable with pressure, then a strange pop feeling. A small amount of water pours out. I’m not peeing the bed. I can tell. There’s water coming out of me, but it’s over.
Done.
The tube isn’t in me. Nothing is in me. I toss the tube off the end of the bed. I can pee on my own.
I have to be allowed to control that.
I push the remote button to move the bed because I’m starting to die if I don’t get water in my mouth.
Maybe I press the wrong button because instead of feeling the bed move, the nurse’s assistant rushes into the room. She’s followed by two people in scrubs, a tall man with dark brown hair and kind eyes, and a short woman not much older than me who smells like peppermint tea.
“Hey there,” says the man, who reaches for my good arm, touching the biceps with a warm palm. “Look who’s getting feisty.”
The short woman frowns at him and gives me an eye roll. “That’s not patronizing at all.” She expects me to react. To smile. To join the joke.
I don’t.
I can’t.
I appreciate the attempt. They don’t understand. They’re trying to talk to Lindsay Bosworth. They’re trying to connect with someone they assume is a whole human being with a distinct self, with plans for the future and a rich inner life. Someone who has emotions and nightmares and memories of the horror she just experienced.
But that Lindsay doesn’t exist.
They’re interacting with a fictional character they’ve created in their well-meaning minds.
“Your parents will be here in two hours. Six a.m. sharp, we told your father. He’s been so worried,” Dr. Brown Hair says, his eyes showing he’s troubled by me.
“Your mother, too. We couldn’t get her to leave yesterday,” Dr. Short Woman says with a snappy tone. “She’s a stubborn one.” She looks to me for a reaction.
I just stare ahead, then close my eyes.
And wait for them to leave.
But no.
They’re not going anywhere.
Dr. Short Woman grabs the pitcher of water, pours some into a cup, and pops a straw in. “Here,” she says, tapping my good hand. I raise it and grasp the cup, slowly moving it to my mouth. Twice I miss.
Third time, bullseye.
The water is a relief. I swish it around, moistening everything, removing some of my suffering. As I swallow, they watch me. They expect me to react, to emote, to speak.
I just swallow and breathe.
I rest my head against the mattress and put the half-full cup on the stand.
“Higgs, take a look,” Dr. Short Woman says to Dr. Brown Hair, who I guess is actually Dr. Higgs. She’s pointing to the end of the bed. “She removed her catheter.”
He frowns. “Maybe it fell out?”
“A Foley catheter with a water-filled balloon? No.”
They look at me with a new level of interest.
Dr. Higgs smiles and shrugs. “I guess we can consider her ambulatory now. No more catheter. Lindsay can use the bathroom on her own.”
“Lindsay?” Dr. Short Woman says in a worried voice. “Can you speak?”
