LEN BIAS: CROSSOVER
A novel
By: Michael D. McClellan | September 19, 2010
chapter 5
"Jason, my name is Dr. Sonjay Ghajar. How are you feeling today?"
"...my leg..."
"You're going to feel a lot of pain down there - we've lowered the dosage of morphine because we want you to be more alert, and also make you more aware of your surroundings."
"It hurts..."
"Can you open your eyes?"
The storm-cloud of pain makes it impossible to satisfy Dr. Ghajar. I can only bear down against it, like a pregnant woman fighting her way through contractions, hoping for the pain to pass. In the haze I had been only vaguely aware of how badly I hurt, but now the pain is much more focused, much more intense. It screams for my attention. Demands it. I grit my teeth and beg for mercy. Please...make it stop. I try to shift my weight but can't; my right leg is elevated and stabilized, and I'm too weak to even lift my head from the pillow.
Please...
"Jason honey, can you open your eyes?"
This time the request comes from Emily, and for an instant my mind is able to focus on something else. I visualize bits and fragments of past conversations with her, of stories that I've been spun into, of people I've never met, places I've never been. I
somehow manage to pry open my eyes, the simple act of which seems equivalent to bench pressing the world, but the room's unforgiving fluorescent light snaps them tight again. Dr. Ghajar instructs the nurse to darken the room. I hear feet shuffling across the carpet-less floor, and then the click of the wall switch. The pain, which had taken a backseat to this flurry of activity, is suddenly front and center all over again, coming at me full bore.
"Can you try again?" Dr. Ghajar asks.
"My leg..."
"Your leg is broken. We had to operate on it, and you are going to feel some discomfort for the next twenty-four hours. The good news is that the worst part is over. Tomorrow you will start to feel much better."
"What happened to me?"
"You were in an automobile accident. There was a significant impact, causing head trauma. You were in a a coma for ten days."
"No, you've got it wrong..."
"You are going to be confused and disoriented for a period of time," Dr. Ghajar continues. His voice is thick, Indian. "That is a natural effect of what you have been through. Putting the pieces back together will be part of your recovery. Don't worry, Jason, you will have plenty of help."
That name again - Jason. Jason Schuler. I open my eyes, and I'm in a different hospital room than before. Dr. Ghajar is sitting on a stool beside me. Emily is standing beside him. She's wearing a pair of faded jeans and a navy T-shirt with the words COLLEGE OF WOOSTER printed on the front in old gold lettering. I can see my leg, which is wrapped from knee to toes and suspended in front of me. The contraption is part science fiction, part medieval torture chamber. My eyes lock onto the top of my foot and those toes - those bruised but otherwise creamy white toes - and a shock goes through me. Jolts me to the bone. Any preoccupation with the severity of my pain vanishes. I look down at my arms, which are bruised from all of the needles and IVs but are otherwise creamy white to match.
"This isn't right...what have you done to me?"
"I'm going to ask you to follow some simple commands," Dr. Ghajar says, ignoring me. He holds up a finger. "I'm going to move my finger, and I want you to try and keep your eyes on it. Can you do that for me?"
I don't answer but I try my best to focus on his bony index finger. He moves it slowly to the left, then to the right, then up, then down.
"Very good. Now, I'm going to move my finger and I want you to try to turn your head. It doesn't have to be much. Just try to do your very best. Ready?"
He moves the finger to the left. I put everything I have into it, straining hard, my neck producing only the slightest of movements.
"Very good, Jason." He moves his finger to the right. Same result. "Good. Now, can you move the fingers on your left hand?"
This hurts in more ways than one - muscles, tendons, joints, bone - but I'm able to satisfy his request. I think of Grandma Newkirk, her fingers misshapen from the passage of time and the effects of rheumatoid arthritis. I remember how badly those hands hurt her, and how she needed help with the almost everything, from opening jars to picking up small items around her house. I'm still thinking about my late grandmother when Dr. Ghajar asks me repeat this exercise with my right hand. I flex my fingers, then tighten them into a fist, all to the excitement of everyone in the room. You would have thought I had just dunked backwards on Michael Jordan.
"Outstanding," Dr. Ghajar says, patting my arm. He turns to Emily. "Your husband has made significant progress in a very short amount of time, but there are significant milestones ahead. I want to be as aggressive as possible in this regard."
"What type of milestones?" Emily asks.
"I refer to them as a the big three," he replies. "The first is removing the ventilator, which we have already done, followed by removal of the feeding tube. The longer the tubes are in place the greater the risk of infection. So we don't have major concerns there. The second is getting your husband into a sitting position as quickly as possible. The lungs can't fully inflate while laying prone, and over time this increases the chance for pneumonia. The procedure on his leg will allow us to start moving in this direction. The third goal is getting him out of ICU and into a regular room. There is a high risk of infection in ICU - a significantly elevated risk, especially with his leg injury - so we will target moving him as soon as his condition allows. Until then, greatly limited visitation - no children, immediate family members only. Vigilant use of the hand sanitizer on the wall. Hospital masks should be worn during visitations."
The pain in my leg roars back. I hear myself moan pitifully. I begin to chill. For the first time in forever I think about the cocaine, and what I wouldn't do to be back in that dorm room with my friends, and how I would simply get up and walk away without ever tasting the first line.
"Do you know who you are?" Dr. Ghajar asks, sadistically refusing to acknowledge my misery. "Do you remember your full name? Can you tell me your full name?"
"Leonard Kevin Bias."
"Who?" Emily asks quickly.
"Len Bias - my name is Len Bias."
"You're my husband," Emily says softly. "Jason Schuler. Jason Anthony Schuler."
"I don't know you. I'm not Jason Schuler - I'm Len Bias. Where are my parents? Why aren't they here? Why aren't they with me?"
"You've been through a lot," Dr. Ghajar says. "This type of reaction is common in patients suffering head trauma. You're mind has been knocked off of its tracks, so to speak. The important thing to remember is that, in most cases, this is only a temporary state."
"No, I'm not Jason Schuler. What did you do to me?"
