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Chapter 17-2

I hate hospitals. I hadn’t set foot in a hospital for eighteen years, so it’s not all that surprising that I had to lose consciousness to find myself in one again. Lying on an examination table staring up at icy fluorescent lights, I realized where I was and tried to explain that I didn’t belong there, that I was actually just fine and would be on my way now. Big surprise that didn’t fly. I have a vague recollection of making a nuisance of myself, flailing and shouting, and yet they still wouldn’t let me leave. Another big surprise.

The subsequent hours are a collage of metallic smells, the strobe effect of passing overhead lights as I was wheeled around for tests, and interminable questions about what had happened. I was exhausted. I wasn’t aware of specific pain, just an overall feeling of rawness and pressure in my skull that blacked out everything else. I just wanted to be left alone to sleep. While tending to my feet, they asked where my shoes were. I didn’t know. Then they asked what kind of shoes I’d been wearing. I didn’t know. In fact, I couldn’t think of a single pair of shoes I owned, now or ever. Apparently that’s when I began sobbing uncontrollably.

Eventually I was taken to a room of my own, and the pestering decreased from non-stop harassment to periodic pokes and prods. These pokes and prods were scheduled to occur any time I fell asleep. After several of these intervals, I began to come out of my haze. My thoughts were less jumbled, and I recognized the purpose and logic of actions around me. The world had edges again, and so did my body. The pain helped clear my mind.

The head of my bed was slightly raised, and I fumbled for a button to raise it further. I grunted when my right hand bumped against the bedrail, which only made my head hurt worse. When my vision cleared, I lifted my hand slowly to look at it. There was a bandage covering the fleshy portion all around, leaving only my thumb and fingers protruding. My fingers were thick and discolored, like sausage gone bad, and I had to suppress an involuntary gag. It was enough to make you a vegetarian. My thumbnail was intact, but most of my other nails had been torn or broken and showed evidence of bleeding.

A nurse came in before I could catalogue the rest of my injuries, or inflict any more attempting to get comfortable. I tried to speak, but my mouth wouldn’t cooperate. She anticipated me, offering a sippy cup of water and the admonishment to “drink slowly.” The suction made my head hurt more, and I felt a twinge at my cheek, but no champagne could have tasted sweeter than that tap water. She held the cup for me, and after a few sips she set it on a stand beside my bed.

“Thanks,” I managed. It felt like I hadn’t spoken in years.

She smiled. “I’m Marie. I know you’re probably used to this by now, but I’m going to check you out real quick.” She demonstrated by checking my eyes and my pulse, and doing several other things that might not have made sense to me even if I hadn’t been knocked on the head. “Are you in pain?”

“Some,” I answered. She waited for elaboration, but I gave none. “Describe your pain for me.”

I closed my eyes and started at the top, picking my words carefully. My goal was to demonstrate with my articulateness that I really was hunky dory and they could let me out right now. “I know you’ve heard this before, but I’m afraid I can’t manage any fresh metaphors right now. My head feels like it’s in a vise, and if I do anything out of the ordinary, like breathing or blinking, things tend to cloud over at the edges. My hand is throbbing—” It was then that I opened my eyes to look at my left hand. There was an IV line taped to the top.

Marie followed my gaze. “You were a little dehydrated. There are some antibiotics in there as well.”

“Ah, I guess that brings me to my feet. They feel like they’re on fire, or they’ve been beaten by a two-by-four. Make that both.”

“Were they?”

I paused to consider, but I didn’t want to force it. “No, I don’t think so. The rest of my body just feels like a big bruise.”

“That’s a pretty accurate assessment.”

“When can I get out of here?”

Marie grinned. She looked to be in her early forties, with short brown hair done daily with curlers or an iron, but her grin was much younger than her hairstyle. Almost mischievous. “I’ll see if I can get Dr. McCauley to stop in.”

Dr. McCauley was attractive in a generic doctor right out of central casting kind of way. Close-cut respectable hair, long angular face, white coat and stethoscope. Without the white coat or in a non-hospital context outside, I probably wouldn’t recognize him again. The Hollywood actor association led me to expect someone a bit more… malleable? Someone with a soft touch in his bedside manner. Within moments he shattered that illusion, and I began to suspect that Marie’s grin had been at the prospect of the good doctor putting another challenging patient in her place.

He stood over me and repeated many of the tests Marie had performed. The metal legs of an institutional chair screeched on the floor as he pulled it toward my head and settled in. He sighed, leaned back and rubbed his eyes, then crossed his legs widely, ankle to knee.

“You have a closed head injury, a concussion. Basically you, or someone on your behalf, slammed your brain against the inside of your skull. If he’d done it again with that kind of force, you’d most likely be dead or a vegetable. Either way we wouldn’t be having this conversation. There doesn’t appear to be any major bleeding, but rather than have you drop dead in the parking lot, we’re going to monitor you for a while. At least for tonight, probably longer. You may experience post concussion syndrome—we can talk about that later—but I don’t think you’re going to have any permanent brain damage. Not that I can make any guarantees.”

He pointed toward my arm. “You have a stress fracture in your left ulna. Your right hand is such a gnarly mess that we won’t be able to tell the extent of the damage until the swelling goes down. Lacerations and contusions, a sprain or possibly more serious ligament damage. You have lacerations and contusions all over your body, but your feet are the worst. Not quite shredded, but pretty close. The cuts are superficial, but it took us a while to get all the foreign matter out of your feet, and we have to watch for infection.”

He leaned over and carefully removed a large bandage from my forehead. The tape didn’t pull, but it still hurt. Then he produced a round mirror from one of his voluminous pockets and placed it in my left hand. I gripped it gingerly, afraid of disturbing the IV on the other side. I’m not crazy about needles. I didn’t want to look in the mirror, but part of me couldn’t resist, and the doctor was watching.

When I was a sophomore in high school, I caught an elbow playing pick-up basketball after school and ended up with a hell of a shiner. It was centered on my cheekbone, but the swelling and discoloration extended to my eye socket. It was beyond make-up, even if had owned any and known how to use it. Instead I wore a brand-new skirt to school, a cute black and white checked thing with a wide black waistband that really popped. I never wore skirts or dresses in high school, and I don’t know what had possessed me to buy that one, but I was glad I had. The next day I kept hearing compliments from behind me or from my “good side,” and when I’d turn to thank my unsuspecting classmate she (or he) would gasp. I was uncomfortable at first, but somehow the two things that drew attention to me seemed to cancel each other out.

An Oscar gown would not mitigate the damage to my face this time.

My forehead was split and swollen, all the better to show off a color wheel of red and blue make purple. It had a nasty wet look. One cheek (right or left? I couldn’t make sense of the mirror image) was similarly accented. My nose was pink and had a slightly crusty look around the nostrils, as if some of the fluids dried there had been stubborn to remove. My lips were dry and cracked, bits of skin sticking off at right angles. Topping it off was a tapestry of angry red scratches scattered all over my face.

The face in the mirror that could not be my own was mesmerizing. I knew I’d stared too long when I saw tears leaking from the inside corner of one eye, the eye above the most bruised cheek. I could feel the moist drops creeping, itching my face, but I still couldn’t figure out which cheek it was. I set the mirror face down on my sheet-covered lap.

“Could I get some lip balm?” I was proud and amazed that my voice only cracked a little bit, no more than could be explained by my parched throat. I shouldn’t have spoken.

“I don’t know if you remember this, but after you were brought in you had… an episode. Despite your head injury, I took the risk of giving you something because I was afraid you would do yourself more damage. That’s something not uncommon with head injuries, and some people experience it for weeks or even months afterward. Unprovoked irritability or anger, mood swings and loss of emotional control.” He scrutinized my face, and I broke eye contact first. I remembered, and I also remembered what he didn’t say, that among other things I begged him not to tell anyone I cried. “You are incapable of taking care of yourself right now.”

I felt like I was about to lose that precious control again. I don’t cry, and crying twice in one day was unacceptable, even for a shitty day like this. But I couldn’t help it. Emotion and the smell of strong cleaning agents made my chest constrict; after eighteen years it smelled the same. This time when I spoke I couldn’t look at him, and my voice was barely above a whisper.

“I hate hospitals.”

“I know.” Something in his voice made me look up. I wondered what else I’d said. His eyes were almost sympathetic. He started to say something, then abruptly changed his mind, sliding his implacable manner back into place. “Just do what I tell you and we’ll have you out of here in no time.”

He scooted the chair noisily to its original position and turned to leave. In the open doorway he fired a final shot. “And don’t do anything stupid to get yourself in here again. I might not be so nice the next time.”