LEN BIAS: CROSSOVER
A novel
By: Michael D. McClellan | September 19, 2010
"Everything's going to be okay," Emily says. "Some of the best doctors in the world are treating you here. You're going to get better every day. You just have to give yourself a chance to heal. I love you, Jason Schuler."
"Where are my parents? Mom...Dad...Dad...my leg...God, my leg..."
The world swims away blackly and comes back in fragments. My head is spinning from the pain. I want this to be a horrible dream but now I know it isn't, and my fear and my agony is so dark that I lose control of my overweight bladder, peeing on myself in front of complete strangers. The warmth from the release soaks the front of my crotch but doesn't spread, and only then am I vaguely aware that I'm wearing a diaper. Shame engulfs me. Fear engulfs the shame. Pain unhinges its jaws and swallows both of them whole.
"...my leg...make it stop please make it stop..."
I'm shaking now, uncontrollably. I'm cold. Freezing. My teeth clack together in rapid bursts, staccato gunfire. Just like that day at Hunting Creek Lake. I can feel the tube that runs into my nose and disappears down the back of my throat, past the pharynx, down the esophagus into my stomach. It's a nasogastric tube - an NG tube, or feeding tube - the definition of which was burned into memory during one of those question and answer sessions between Emily and Dr. Smithson. It's the diameter of a pencil. It feels like I've swallowed a two-by-four.
"Please..."
The nurse steps over to Dr. Ghajar. There is a quick exchange between them, something about low blood pressure and the possibility of hypovolaemic shock. Emily moans. Her hands ball up into fists and go instinctively to her mouth. She's blank-faced, asking questions, trying to hold it together. Dr. Ghajar instructs the nurse to begin a midazolam infusion at 8 milligrams per hour, with .7 micrograms of fentanyl for sedation.
"We're going to help you with your pain," Dr. Ghajar says reassuringly. "We're going to deliver a mild sedative through an IV. This will help you to relax and get some much-needed rest. Tomorrow you will start to feel much better."
Emily is beside me now, telling me how much she loves me. Telling me that everything is going to be alright. She leans over and kisses my cheek, both hands clutching my shoulder. Gradually the pain subsides, and everything grows dark and hazy again. I drift away not knowing who I am or what I've become, only that something very wrong has happened to me and that it goes far deeper than the fading pain in my shattered right leg.
~ ~ ~
I hear my mother's voice. It's amplified but there's also a distance connected to it, as if I'm close and yet far away at the same time. She's speaking to a large group, a congregation maybe, and she's telling them that when God gives you lemons, make lemonade. The crowd showers her with applause. A lump goes up in my throat. What a special woman. I miss her so badly that I ache inside, and no sedative in the world can insulate me from this hurt that torments my soul.
~ ~ ~
Emily and I are alone in the room when I come to. The feeding tube is gone, that's the first thing that I notice, and I thank God that I'm no longer choking on the two-by-four. The other thing is the pain - or better yet, the welcomed and relative lack thereof. Dr. Ghajar was right; what had been unbearable agony below my right knee has been replaced by a dull throb, persistent but far more tolerable than what was there before. For the first time since this all started I'm able to think, and think clearly. I stare at Emily, who is standing at the window, looking out. The sky behind her is clear blue. Flower arrangements and fruit baskets on the window sill. A stack of magazines. A puzzle book, folded open, resting on top of a newspaper. I stare at the yellow wall across from me. June 29 in black marker on the copy paper. An assortment of get well cards taped in neat formation, six across and five down.
"Emily."
She turns at the sound of my voice. She looks tired, worn down from worry and lack of sleep. There is a nervous mix of fear and concern on her face.
"Jason honey, how do you feel? How is your leg?"
"It still hurts."
"How bad is the pain?"
"Not like before. But it doesn't feel good, either."
"The doctors said that today would be a turning point, and that it should start to feel better."
"My face hurts - it hurts to move. Hurts to talk."
"Hon, your bones are bruised." She kisses me gently. "I love you, baby."
I glance out the window. Blue skies and nothing more. I wonder what floor I'm on, what room number I'm in, how long I've been here, if these are all things that I should already know. Even with the help of the copy paper, my perspective of time feels as broken as my leg.
"How long have I been unconscious?"
"Fourteen hours, twenty minutes. How is your head?"
"Tight...like it's going to explode."
"Your pressures are good, but the doctors said that you're going to feel that tightness for awhile. I wish I could make it go away. But thank God you're back. That's the most wonderful, exciting thing that has ever happened to me - God answered my prayers."
"I'm not dreaming, am I?"
"No baby, you're not dreaming. You're no longer in a coma. You're making so much progress so quickly that the doctors can't even explain it. Modern science can only go so far - Dr. Smithson called you a medical miracle."
"Do you have a mirror?"
"What?"
"A mirror - I want to see my face."
"That's not the important thing right now."
I glance down at the creamy white arms that don't belong to me. As if the pigment in my skin has been sucked away by the IV tubes running into my veins. My race, erased. "I need to see, Emily. Please."
Emily hesitates, then relents. She opens the narrow metal locker beside the bathroom door, pulls out her purse, sifts through it and returns with a compact mirror. She pops it open and holds it in front of me. "Your nose was broken during the impact with the steering column. The airbag malfunctioned. You hit your head. You had a lot of swelling, which put pressure on your brain. You're lucky to be alive right now."
I stare at the stranger in the mirror, heart racing. The injured white man stares back, just as frightened, his once-handsome features now puffy and bruised. An inch-long track of stitches runs parallel to his right eyebrow, just below the bulging knot on his forehead. More stitches across the bridge of the nose.
God no...
I mouth this slowly, in utter silence. I shake my head in disbelief. The stranger in the mirror mouths it right back to me. I had prepared for this moment as I'd drifted away in the haze, and had braced myself in the first few moments after regaining consciousness. But now, facing my greatest fear...how could this be? How could I become him?
