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And then I’m not there.
Chapter 11
One day later...
Lindsay
The nurse’s assistant comes in at four a.m. to take my temperature. She flips on the lights. Fluorescent lights suck. I don’t say a word. She comes to me with the thermometer, sticks it under my tongue, pushes something on the handheld machine, then waits. She hums a jazz tune. I’m an obedient patient.
She records the results and leaves, turning off the lights.
I shift in the hospital bed, my mouth dry. I swallow, then gag. I need water. I look at the pitcher on the table-tray above my thighs.
Might as well be on the moon.
My one good arm has a million tubes in it, covered with so much surgical tape I look like a mummy. But if I don’t drink, I’ll keep gagging, and when I gag or cough, my shoulder screams out in heated pain.
So I have two choices.
Suffer or suffer more.
Not really a choice.
Like an inch worm, I move to my back, then feel for the bed controls, my good hand fumbling. They’re tangled in the sheets, but I get them eventually. Pushing the button to raise my head is an art form, one I haven’t mastered.
Because this is the first time I’ve done it.
I woke up around midnight, groggy and unreal, with no one here. Someone noticed. I think I’m in ICU because of a sign I read. The doctors called my name, flashed lights in my eyes, asked me to nod and squeeze their hands. I did everything they wanted.
Except speak.
I can’t.
Okay, I probably can. But I can’t. My voice is broken.
Just like my soul.
It’s not raw or injured. The mechanics of verbalizing are present.
But the part of my brain that connects to my mouth to interact with other people is gone.
Poof.
I have no will to speak. I have no will to speak because that requires looking at people and being looked at and emotional demands and processing and I just can’t.
I won’t.
My body is naked under a thin hospital gown, covered with a sheet and a few of these warm white woven blankets. I have a tube sticking between my thighs and I jolt as I move up. It’s in me.
In me.
I freeze.
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.
