A Day Called Zero
I read that people feel different while they’re under the effects of anesthesia. Some say they could hear the doctors and nurses, they could reply but no one could hear them, a la Joe Bonham. Some had either wondrous dreams that placed Oz and Wonderland to shame while others woke up as if only seconds had passed, only to learn of the horror that had happened to their bodies. I didn’t feel like hearing people comment on the fact that I wore a pair of green satin panties that day; I probably would have a never-ending nightmare if my brain decided to kick into high gear while under.
No, I got to wake up to a blinding light in my face. Knowing it couldn’t be God, I surmised that it was someone trying to see if there was any life in my eyes. My consciousness glided back down into the world and the doctors immediately went into telling me everything that was wrong. They disregarded the tube in my throat.
Never mind that it hurt like hell to cry
Forget the fact that my arms were immobile and they asked me to sign form after form.
Ahh, the wonders of the American medicine system.
I had been in the hospital for over three weeks with absolutely no visitors. I shouldn’t have expected any since the alimony checks were taken directly out of my bank account. Pat and Alex were my friends in the evening and the rest of the day was spent in a revolving door of pain and the absence of any feeling whatsoever for another week.
The tube was eventually removed and I could whisper a bit when the nurses asked questions. They were hoarse whispers as my throat was raspy and it was painful to talk to the slight depression I felt after I saw continuing coverage of a little girl who was involved in the crash that day. The reporter looked like Sally Struthers begging for the forgotten children in Africa as she spoke of the little girl who was missing school, ballet recitals and her little puppy at home who was lost in the accident. That little girl was at home with nary a scar on her. She was missing her right leg, but she at home at least with her mother, father, and maybe PETA, as they gathered information to maybe come and see me.
Less than five days before they were planning to let me convalesce at home, I felt like not wanting to go home. I didn’t just have survivor’s guilt, I think I had a death wish.
Tragically, the hospital had me speak to a therapist, I had no physical strength in my arms and the windows were quite thick.
