"Just a few more hours," Jim Dunbar thought, twisting his wedding ring. "Just got to get through today and it'll be over."
He was seated in an easy chair in the corner of his hospital room. The orderly had just left after helping him to get dressed. This was the day the detective was going to be released from the hospital. He'd been there for over a month, recuperating from the bullet wound that had cost him his eyesight.
Everyone kept asking if he was excited to be going home. He always answered, "Yes, of course." But that wasn't the truth. His stomach was churning. He was sick…yeah, sick of life.
Christie had arrived to take him home. He could hear the steady click, click, click of her high heels as she entered the room.
"Hi, sweetheart," she said brightly, leaning in to give him a kiss. She then sat down on the edge of his bed. What he didn't see was how red and were puffy her eyes were from crying.
"Has the doctor been in yet?" she asked.
Jim shook his head, "no", not bothering to turn his head in her direction.
"Aren't you happy to be going home?" she inquired, doing what sounded like crossing her legs.
He smiled ruefully, then asked: "Did Rick and Mom come with you?"
"Just Rick," she said, "He's parking the car. I wanted to run up first to make sure the doctor hadn't discharged you yet."
"Your mom," she added, "Is home baking you a batch of chocolate chip cookies. Your favorites."
Just then, there was a knock on the door and Dr. Michaels, Jim's neurologist entered the room.
"Good morning, Jim," a precise voice with a British accent said. "It's Dr. Michaels."
Jim hated that voice. Never more so than when "it" explained that his optic nerves were severed and there was no way to regenerate them. "Medical science has not progressed to that point as of yet…". He could still hear the prognosis: "Profound, irreversible blindness."
"I've already signed your discharge papers," the doctor explained. "One of the orderlies should be by with a wheelchair in a few minutes."
Jim nodded stiffly when Dr. Michaels reiterated that he should go home and "take it easy" for the next couple of weeks. After that, he wanted to do an in-office follow up. If all was well at that appointment, the detective would be free to resume "normal" activities.
He then handed Christie several prescription slips.
"Make sure you get these filled and follow the instructions on the bottles." he said.
Michaels then wished Jim luck.
"Thanks doc," Jim replied, holding out his right hand. The doctor took it.
It astonished Jim how casually the doctor had said "normal activities." What was that? Nothing in his life was ever going to be "normal" again.
"Hey bud!" Jim's youngest brother Rick's voice boomed out from the doorway. "Ready to roll?"
"Oh, the orderly's here with your wheelchair," Christie said, jumping up and walking toward Jim. She took his hand and he stood woodenly, allowing her to guide him into the chair. The orderly then adjusted the foot rests.
"Fuck," Jim silently thought. "Yup, this is what my life has boiled down to. A blind cripple being wheeled out of the hospital."
It had only been a month and a half since the detective had taken heroic action in saving the lives of four fellow officers at a bank heist. He'd taken out the perp, but not before the bastard had the chance to take one last shot, that had entered Jim's brain and caused all this.
The first month had been a blur. Hell, he had been so doped up, he had only gotten his wits about him and realized what was going on a few weeks ago. He was so confused for so long… In fact, he was still confused.
The only thing he really remembered about the shooting was the sensation of being hit by a brick. He'd spent a great deal of time in the past weeks trying to piece together what had actually taken place. It had been at a bank robbery. There was a shootout. One cop was killed. This is the point where Jim's memory started to get fuzzy. But he was pretty sure that he had run out of ammo and crossed the street finding his partner, Terry, cowering behind a building. He thought that he had pleaded with him to take a shot. But the other man had frozen and Jim was forced to physically pry the gun from his partner's hands.
Jim had thought about it so much and so often over the past weeks that he wasn't sure what was real and what he imagined. At this point, did it even matter?
Post-surgery, Jim had been in a chemically-induced coma for nearly a week. The bullet had caused significant brain swelling and there was a chance that he might die. Doctors had also warned Christie and his family that besides the bullet, he'd had taken a significant blow to the back of the head when he collapsed after being shot. That had taken 60 some-odd stitches to close. There could also be a major deficit in muscle tone. In layman's terms, he might have some paralysis.
The overwhelming feeling that Jim had lately was of claustrophobia. Funny. He'd always assumed that blind people lived in "darkness". Somehow what he was experiencing was worse than that. It was nothing. Just thinking about it made his heart race. "Christ", he thought time and time again…"Have I lost my mind?" It was like a deep, grey fog that never changed. Like trying to see out of the back of his head…he just couldn't. Day and night he could feel it closing in around him. The worst time was when he woke up in the morning.
God, that was the worst. He'd wake up to this void. You'd think it would get easier every day. Jim felt it was getting worse. He would wake up, open his eyes and his body would physically react to the realization that he couldn't see. His blood literally ran cold.
Sometimes he put his hands to his eyes to confirm that they were actually open. He'd "look" up, down, sideways…still, nothing. It was surreal. The side of his head where he'd been shot was still somewhat numb. There was an area with stitches and though it didn't especially hurt at that spot, he was experiencing what felt like a searing headache behind his eyes 24/7. Then there was the back of his head where he had a Frankenstein monster's worth of stitches. That did hurt. A lot.
What the hell did it matter? Pain was nothing compared to the blindness. It had become a sort of sick obsession with Jim…waiting, wondering, fascinated with how much he could endure and still live.
The parade of visitors through his room had been unending. The mayor, the police commissioner, his mother, his brother, his aunt and uncle, Christie's family and of course, Christie. His partner Terry and his wife were conspicuous by their absence. It was just as well, Jim didn't want to deal with Terry, ever. Fuck. He didn't even want to go there.
He hated visitors, but was pretty much obliged to let them in. Wasn't like he was going anywhere.
Jim's reverie was interrupted by a group of nurses and orderlies who gathered around to say goodbye and wish him luck.
"Luck?", he thought to himself, bitterly. "I think my luck ran out a long time ago." But, he forced a smile and thanked them all for their ministrations.
As the orderly wheeled him down the corridor to the elevator, Jim cracked his knuckles, a response to the sounds and smells of the hospital. He heard a patient moaning in pain as they passed his door.
"Poor bastard," Jim mused to himself. "Probably no better off than I am."
"Here, Jim…", Christie said, placing a bundle of metal tubing into his hands. "Aren't you going to want your cane? You left it back in the room."
"Aw, shit," Jim thought, acid rising in his throat. But what he said was measured: "Please, Christie…not now." He dropped it into his lap as though it was red-hot.
The day before, a representative from the Lighthouse, a rehabilitation center for blind people stopped by to introduce himself. The man, John Eberle, was also blind and wanted to, what? Welcome Jim to the land of the blind? Actually, he wanted to meet Jim and tell him about the services the Lighthouse offered. Independent living…orientation and mobility…Braille…assistant technology…etc., etc., etc. Jim knew that John was trying to throw him a lifeline of sorts…but, the other man's efforts had left him cold.
Before Eberle left, he presented Jim with two things…a white cane and a plastic "talking" watch. He showed Jim how to hold the cane and demonstrated how it could help him in moving freely. Of course, Jim would be getting extensive training in use of the cane later, but, for now…it could be a great help in getting his bearings at home, etc.
Jim would have thrown it into the trash can, but Christie had entered the room at that moment. If he had given in to his impulses, it just would have started an argument and he wasn't up to that. He had to conserve his energy for what needed to be done.