Pain. Hot. Blinding. Horrid pain. There was heat and wetness. But all I knew was pain. Over and over the waves of agony swelled inside me. I opened my eyes but could barely see the twisted mound of metal that was once my car. Panic rose inside me. I looked as far as my head would pivot, but I saw little but blurriness. Sharp needles screamed inside my head when I moved. I knew to try and stay awake. But I lost the battle. I looked up at the moon, wondering if I would ever see it again as the world faded to black.
**
I work in a hospital. More to the point, I volunteer at a hospital. I found that volunteering in the neo-natal ICU allows me to help without causing any harm. Premature babies need so much attention. Sometimes just being held, rocked gently in the warm, caring arms of someone is all that they need to help get them through the days. So I volunteer my time with those babies that were born without parents who cared, addicted to some substance from the mother, or so sick, that they just needed that extra help. I come to the hospital at night where only the hospital staff could see me. I stay from shortly after visiting hours end until the wee hours of the morning when those who do have families, are allowed to come into the ICU.
It is better this way, that I do this at night. I walk along the corridors of the hospital, ever weary of coming across some grieving family or some innocent who may be lost. On those times, I hide myself from view quickly, not wanting to add to the stress of their days. When the night is over, I return to my home, to read, listen to music, teach myself to cook, or any of the other activities I have taught myself in the past few years. And when I am exhausted, tired beyond my strength, I collapse against my bed and pray that sleep will visit without being riddled with images from the past.
It had been a long day at the hospital. I was exhausted. More so from lack of sleep than anything I had done in the previous twelve hours. I spent the night holding a little girl, born so early and so addicted to whatever drug its mother had been using. All I could do was hold the baby close, absorbing its cries into my flesh, rubbing gently the aches and screaming pain of withdrawal. When 5:00AM arrived, before the next shift came on, I bid goodnight to Ruth, the night charge nurse, and started making my journey through the corridors, heading out into the night sky. But as I was heading towards the East entrance, there was a grieving family huddled around a room that looked as if there had been a code blue, the universal words signaling heart attack or cardiac arrest. I backed away from that hall, turning down a deserted corridor, silently adding my prayers to those of the grieving family's. As I moved down my new path, just before I turned a corner that would lead me to the parking lot, I passed a room in which the occupant made me pause. I knew roughly what types of patient's were kept in each area of the hospital. The area I had just passed was for trauma patients. This area was for patients in comas. I stepped inside the room, drawn by some force I still cannot recognize. I stood by the bed in the cold, sterile room. I looked down at its occupant and felt my heart quicken.
He was a big man. His head reached the edge of the slightly inclined bed. His feet brushed just past the far end of the bed. Which would make him roughly my height. He was strong, built sturdy and muscular, also not unlike myself. He hadn't been there too long. His beard stubble, which was thick and dark, was maybe two days old. For some reason they had shaved his chest and it also was stubbly. His face was wrapped in bandages, from the bridge of his nose to the crown of his head. His ears were free, but his eyes covered with thick pads. His chin, lips, and jaw were badly bruised, disfigured and discolored. His chest had a large bandage covering most of his left pectoral muscle and the sheets covered him from about mid stomach down, but I could still see the bandages. His leg was in a pressure cast. His hands and forearms were covered in bandages as well.
A respirator was breathing for him and there were tubes coming out of almost everywhere. Just looking at him made me tear up. It was probably best that he was unconscious; unable to feel the agony his body must be in. His thick chest moved rhythmically with the respirator and a heart monitor kept up its steady vigilance. My breathing quickened as I crept forward. I didn't know who this man was or what had happened to him, but I was drawn to him. I stood by his side, looking down at his chest, powerful and strong. I placed my hand on his arm, unable to do otherwise. I was assailed by his heat, the man was an inferno, but not feverish. He was alive, bristling with it, defying death.
My hand gripped his arm more firmly, molding my fingers and palm to the thick muscles and warm, smooth skin of his bicep. I heard the heart monitor slow, not beep as erratically as it had been. The respirator became smooth, less jerky. I looked at the monitor; his pulse had slowed from 60 to 50 beats per minute. My anxiety rose a bit and I made a motion to leave, but then I saw his body relax. For that could be the only word for it. It was as if he was resting easier.
Sometime later, a nurse came into the room and flipped on the lights and I jumped. I dropped my hand from his arm and bolted. I rushed out of the hospital, amazed that the sun had already raised. When I looked at my dash clock, almost three hours had passed from when I normally leave the hospital. I drove home, my hands shaking from adrenaline and some unnamed factor that I didn't want to examine too closely. I got home and rushed inside, cursing myself for deviating from my schedule, upset that I had to cross the street so late when there were so many people about. I walked into my apartment and collapsed on my easy chair. I sat immobile for hours, just staring off into space, unable to get that man out of my mind. Somehow I fell asleep. I awoke to find my house dark. Tonight is a night I normally don't go to the hospital. I didn't plan on going at all. But I just couldn't get him out of my head. An hour later I was walking through the corridors of the hospital, finding his room. I walked into the darkness, hearing the machines make their noises. I walked right up to him and placed my hand on his arm. Warm, just like this morning. And then it happened again. His pulse slowed, his breathing evened, his body relaxed.
I stood by his side for hours. I never took my eyes away from his lips, his mouth, his rhythmically rising and falling chest. I just stood in place, watching him breathe, feeling the warmth of his arm. I was entranced. I was dazed. I felt my own body calm in a way it hadn't in many years. It was only the flickering change of his heart monitor, barely seen through my peripheral vision that had me look up. On the machine was the time, almost four in the morning. I had come to the hospital at a little after eight. I noticed that my feet hurt and my back was stiff and my arm trembled from staying in one place so long. But the most amazing thing was that his pulse had risen. I looked back down into his face, seeing if there was a change in the breathing in his chest. Then his arm flexed under my fingers and his body shook. He raised his hand to his mouth and I felt more than heard him scream.
**
I swam in blackness. My mind wanted concentration. But each time I came close, the pain was there, waiting, swatting at me like a caged animal. And each time it did, I retreated back, behind the wall of darkness where it couldn't get to me. All that existed was the endless night. And then I felt a presence. Someone was there, as if calling to me. I moved towards the presence, fighting my way through layers of black, being beaten by the pain. I worked so hard to get to the presence; that touch. There was compassion waiting for me; warmth and kindness. I tried so hard. But the pain won and I sank back into the dark night. I drifted back a couple of times; wanting to see if the warmth was there. But the pain beat me each time.
