Disclaimer: This story is loosely based on ER, particularly the episodes "If Not Now" and I think "You are Here." The lovely Ray Barnett makes a brief appearance. The main character is intended to be very similar to him. Of course, I don't own ER or it's characters and episodes. This story is mine though, so don't take it or any of its parts. If anyone cares, this story earned me an A plus.
And here's your host…Alex Trebek!
It's seven o'clock, this much I know. Funny, I don't remember turning on the TV. Nor do I remember lying down for a nap. I guess it has been awhile since I went out with the guys last, God forbid they ever discover that they tired me out completely. It was either their crazy antics or the booze that did it. I'm the responsible drinker of the bunch; they volunteered me DD for life, carting their drunken asses home at all hours of the night, but I'll admit, watching your buddies get drunk makes for a lonely evening. I allowed myself one conversational drink; one 12 oz beer, four percent alcohol. As a six foot one, one hundred seventy pound male, my blood alcohol level should only fall around .02, not enough to cause any significant impairment. .08's the legal limit here in Jersey. This is just a temporary buzz, that's all.
My head's pounding; throbbing even, some sort of weird hang-over-esque headache for the non-intoxicated. I make to massage my temples, but my arms remain at my sides. Suddenly my body feels heavy. I feel drugged. My heart beats faster against my chest and the Jeopardy theme is quickly replaced with shrill, ear-piercing beeping. I try to yell out, but produce no sound. I'm not alone anymore. Maybe I never was. People are watching me, I can feel it. Distant chatter grows closer, louder, more hurried.
Heart rate's up to 130. BP 178 over 32.
Looks like the Etomidate wore off before the Sux. He's conscious but paralyzed.
I'm not in my apartment. This isn't my bed. These voices, I don't know them. Wait..I'm paralyzed?! Don't just look at me, do something! Whatever it is you wanna do, I consent. I consent!
He's panicking. Push the Fentanyl!
Someone grabs hold of my arm. Geez, that's cold. What a wimp, right? That's not even the painful part. These guys don't know I'm afraid of needles. Maybe someone should fill them in. Maybe Heather's told them. Maybe they don't care.
Cole, my name is Dr. Barnett. We're going to give you a narcotic to ease the discomfort you're feeling. You might feel a little dizzy at first, but that should—
Whoa…a little dizzy? What do you consider a lot dizzy? Would someone please explain this. Why am I here? What's happening to me? Am I dying? Is this death? I've just got to get my mind off of this. It'll go away. Maybe I can get some sleep. They say things are always better in the morning, right? I know that's a lotta bullshit, but when you're desperate, you'll believe anything. Like I said, mind off of this. I've gotta keep my mind sharp. If I can't have my body, I'd at least like my brain. I'm just going to list the 293 ways to make change for a dollar. That'll help. Here goes. Two quarters, five dimes…Three quarters, two dimes, one nickel…Eight dimes, three nickels, five pennies…
Was I asleep? It's hard to tell. Either way, my eyes were closed. One of us had to sleep. I knew she wouldn't. She's been here all night, sitting at my bedside, sighing. It wasn't a nurse. I know that sigh. It's Heather's "I can't believe you could be so stupid" sigh. Or maybe it's her "I miss you" sigh. I can hope, right?
I met Heather my sophomore year at Thomas Edison State College in Trenton, New Jersey. We were both going for a BA in Communications and, as fate had it, we ended up in the same debate course. I'd seen her around, heard her name come up in conversation. She was admired in our department, a regular poster child for success and overcoming adversity. Heather's completely deaf. She can read lips fairly well, but relies mostly on sign for communication. She's beautiful too, any guy with half a brain could see that, but it wasn't her looks that attracted me to her. She was a mystery to me. She was fascinating beyond comprehension. She always had something interesting to say; her mind always at work, her hands flying. She caught me staring once. I gathered up the courage to talk to her, using the little sign language I knew, thankful I took that ASL elective the semester before. She laughed, an ice breaker. So I wasn't great yet, I knew that, but I'd made a valiant effort. She was impressed, and just like that, I was in her good book.
We stayed in touch after graduation, exchanging the occasional email, meeting for lunch every once and awhile. Neither of us was looking for a relationship at the time. We were just friends, no matter what anyone else said. She'd just gotten out of a long-term thing, and I was the self-proclaimed king of one-night stands. Looking back, it's that point in my life that I am least proud of. I was a punk, a punk rocker. It was then that my band was in its heyday. Formed in my buddy's garage when we were in high school, Hitler's Barmitzvah frequented all of Point Pleasant, New Jersey's most popular bars, entertaining the drunken masses with our angry lyrics and sick guitar solos. As guitarist and lead vocal, it was up to me to maintain the band's image: leather, thick coats of black nail polish, guy-liner, the works. I used to spike up my hair with enough gel to form a protective shield around my swelled head. I'm not gonna lie; I thought I was all that. Music was my one and only claim to fame. I did alright in school, but I wasn't a star student. I went to college reluctantly. What could I possibly learn that I didn't already know, right? I sucked at sports, but I was content being a spectator. I didn't even have any real hobbies aside from playing my guitar. I watch Jeopardy regularly; there's something so addicting about trivia. Did you know, if you were to spell out numbers, you wouldn't find the letter a until you reached one thousand? Maybe I just like to impress people with what I know. It's fun to watch people's reactions. I like to see the eyes widen, the jaws drop. Maybe I secretly wanted to be more than a rock star, maybe a professional instead, an adult.
It was Heather who gave me that little push I needed to act on that secret desire. She saw great potential in me. She was that one person who I knew would always stick by my side, watching Jeopardy with me every night at seven o'clock. She told me to do what I thought was right and that nothing would change the way she thought of me. She said I was a good guy, but not for the reasons my friends think. She was the band's biggest fan, even though she couldn't hear our music. She knew I had musical talent, but she was much more interested in my active pursuit toward learning and self-betterment. I met up with the guys about a week before we were due to talk shop with a record company. Years ago, it was my dream to get a recording deal, but now, it seemed so trivial. Right before I was going to spill the beans that I was no longer interested, Brett, our drummer and my best friend, told me that the band had voted, that they were moving on without me. They said I had become distracted, that my priorities had quite obviously shifted. It was true. My focus had gone away from being a household name and was fixed instead on growing up, on getting a real job, maybe even starting a family someday. Maybe I'd finally act on my dream to be a game show contestant. Suddenly, all of these new opportunities were becoming available to me. I felt free.
My eyes flicker open, things slowly coming into focus. There's a nurse standing over me, checking my vitals. She's smiling. That's a good sign, right? Heather's crying. She calls for the doctor. The doctor is not smiling. That's not a good sign. Maybe he's just more serious.
Cole, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand.
I do ask she asks, surprised though at how difficult this simple task seems.
Ten days ago, you were involved in a serious motor vehicle accident. You were waiting at an intersection when you were hit head-on by a drunk driver.
An average American spends roughly six months of their entire life waiting at a red light. Come on Cole, focus. Now's not the time for trivia.
You sustained a traumatic head injury leading to some swelling or edema of the brain. We call that a Hypoxic Ischemic injury. The swelling restricted the flow of blood-borne oxygen, glucose, and other nutrients to the brain. To prevent further damage, we placed you in a Barbituate Induced Coma. This protects the brain during neurosurgery. A surgeon inserted an ICP monitor into the skull cavity. This measures inter-cranial pressure and controls the rate of swelling. We'll take it out in a few days after we get a repeat CT Scan.
Surgery, huh? I hope my surgeon was listening to music during the procedure. Statistics show that surgeons who listen to music perform better than those who don't. I wonder if I'll have a scar? Some people find scars attractive. Shut up, Cole! Listen to the doctor. What's my prognosis?
We'll know more after we run some tests. You got lucky, Cole. You've responded very well to treatment, but you have a tough road ahead. You'll have to do some physical and occupational therapy so we can work on regaining some your motor and cognitive functions. Unfortunately, you'll experience some difficulty with memory and dexterity, but don't give up hope. Patients with a positive outlook never fail to surprise us.
So much for being free.