LEN BIAS: CROSSOVER
A novel
By: Michael D. McClellan | September 19, 2010
He pulls a small light from his jacket pocket and shines it into my eyes. We're inches apart. He stares intently into each eye for several long seconds. It feels as if he's hoping to catch a glimpse of my soul. I want to blink but can't...want to pull away but can't.
"Are you keeping a journal?"
"Yes," Emily says. "I've got it with me."
"Good," he replies, standing up. He turns to her, pulling sheets of film from the large envelope he carried into the room. He holds them up to her. "He's progressing nicely - the pressures are way down, and the results from the CT scan are very favorable. Still, we have to be cautious. As you know, this is going to be a process."
"I understand, Doctor Smithson. But his eyes are open now, and I think he hears us - how long will it be before he talks? You said his Glasgow numbers had improved. You said that an eight was big step in the right direction."
"On the scale, an eight is the threshold between severe and moderate. That is a very big step in the right direction. Combining the motor response, verbal response and eye opening response gives you that total number, so he still has a ways to go. There are still steps to be made. The good news is that he's making them more rapidly than anticipated."
"Three days? A week? A month?"
"That's hard to say - the next step I'm looking for would be spontaneous movement. When the brain identifies a source of pain and sends a signal to his hand to reach it. A quick test is pinching the patient just below the collarbone, like this."
The doctor reaches for me, pinches and twists. I feel a burst of pain. I try to scream but can't.
"A motor response to pain is the next step." He holds up the film again, making circular motions around a small area. "This is the base of the brain. The area that we focus on is right here, because if there's a lot of swelling the brain sort of crunches in. And these black areas here are spinal fluid - if you don't see it very well, that means there's a lot of swelling. But in this case, I'm seeing an improvement in the amount of spacing for spinal fluid. That's a very good sign."
"So if the pressures stay down-"
"If the pressures stay down, that means less swelling. Less swelling means more spinal fluid. And between those two things you have the potential for a more rapid and complete recovery."
The room goes quiet, save for the sound of the medical machines connected to me. The nurse continues to work away on her tablet. Emily's expression teeters between relieved, worried and exhausted. She looks at me, then at Dr. Smithson, and then fiddles with the copy paper she'd taped to the wall. June 19th.
"So, what next?"
"We continue to monitor, and we continue to wait. I know that's not easy on you, but that's where we are at this point. There are different stages of consciousness. He's made some very positive strides."
Dr. Smithson speaks to the nurse about medications, dosing levels, IV fluids, physical therapy, additional testing and follow-up. Emily jumps in with an occasional question, nods her approval at the end and watches them leave. We're alone again. She walks over to the window, and now I can only see her in my periphery. Ever so softly she begins to cry.
~ ~ ~
I don't remember falling back into the haze, I just feel my strength drain away and everything fade to black, just like in the movies. There are periods of pain, but nothing like before. There are periods of awareness. These come with greater frequency, and everything that I see and hear registers with crystal clarity. Except that I can't retain a shred of it. Conversations between Emily and the doctors, visitors who come and sit with me, the chaplain who stops by every afternoon to pray. The only constant is the changing copy paper on the wall across from me. June 20th. June 21st. June 22nd. June 23rd. For some reason I'm able to orient myself to the dates on the wall. And I'm able to remember Emily. She talks to me constantly, and everything she says has a dramatic impact - her words shock, frighten and anger me. And then they're gone. I'm left with a clean slate, left alone to wonder what had just been said.
"Hi, it's me, Emily."
She repeats her name and holds up the copy paper - June 24th - and then tapes it to the wall. She repeats the date four times. And then she reaches into a large bag and pulls out a homemade banner. She pins it to the wall beside the date. The words WAYNEDALE HIGH SCHOOL are written in bright blue, all caps. Underneath this are the words GOLDEN BEARS, written in canary yellow and outlined with blue marker. WE MISS YOU COACH, and GET WELL SOON are written vertically on each side of the headline. A collection of autographs are scrawled at all angles in the white space.
"This is from the team," Emily says. "We're planning a trip up here for them so that they can visit you. Ben said to tell you hello - he wants you back on your feet so you can coach him his senior year. Donald wants to know how we're going to beat Dover with two transfers coming in. Oh, and David and Josh said that all this doesn't get you out of taking the team bowling before school starts back."
