Consciousness
by dcat
This takes place right after Mark undergoes surgery and is in ICU in the episode If You Can See What I See
OOOOO
This was definitely a fog.
A deep, unfathomable, heavily-shrouded, pea-soup, so thick a knife couldn't cut through it, fog.
None of his senses seemed to be working at all, yet something was triggering his misty mind into some sense of awareness. The trouble was that it wasn't leading him to an understanding of that awareness. Everything was grey and murky, like something just below the surface of a muddy river. You couldn't see a millimeter in front of your face, nothing below and nothing to the surface. His awareness was nothingness.
How long did he drift in this state? Did time even matter in this state? Was this state of earthly dimension? When had he ever thought of an earthly dimension? Why was his cloudy mind even thinking of these things, when he rather should have been focusing on breaking through the fog, cutting through the surface and seeing the light or at the very least seeing something that looked remotely recognizable. He needed to get back to where he'd been, not to stay in this unknown place.
Why was it that he was able to think and to question, but do nothing beyond that? Where exactly was he and why wasn't able to deduce any answers for himself?
There was nothing, just that damn fog.
He gave into it finally, fading into the oblivion itself as the fight it was taking to overcome it was becoming too hard. Peace suddenly surrounded him, until something, some force urged him back. And the fog returned again as well, the bleak, dreary unknown, uncertainness. He pushed his mind to its limits to overcome this primordial sense of being.
This time he rested, cleared his thoughts out completely, rather than turning them off. Give it time, it'll all make sense, let it show you what it wants to show you in its own way, in its own time, whatever this was. That was better now, calmness surrounded him.
Now his senses, the ones he remembered, the big five, touching, smelling, hearing, tasting and seeing, began their gradual and welcome return to him. It was as if they had left and departed him leaving him with only his thoughts. It was odd not to have them, yet strangely serene. Like being out of body, but still having a mind. But now he greeted their return with what felt like a joyful embrace of sorts. Pieces of this cloudy puzzle were falling together. He could feel his heart beat in his chest, though it was distant and faint, it was working, drumming out a cadence he could fall into step with.
His breath was next, pure air pumped into his lungs, filling them, in and out, in and out, steady and slow. These life-giving functions continued their pattern and his mind focused on their sustaining simplicity. He relaxed, lulled quietly and gently by the awakening rhythm of his heart and lungs. He was alive.
Did the fog seem to be lightening?
His mind instructed him to touch and to feel his surroundings. His body seemed weightless, though obscurely heavy at the same time. He couldn't move, though he attempted to will his limbs to move. Nothing doing, was his body's reply. He was prone, lying on his back, a pillow, maybe two under his head, the extra cushioning now evident from the rest of his body. It must be a bed, a light sheet and blanket covered most of him, but he felt a chill ripple through his torso and chest. The sheet underneath him was crisp and starched, leaving him wanting to touch something softer. As he inhaled and exhaled, he felt the scratchiness of the under sheet on the skin of his back.
Was that a bandage on his stomach? The tape pulled at his skin near his navel and also again around his back.
Blip, blip, blip, blip, blip blip, blip, blip, blip blip, blip, blip, blip blip, blip, blip, blip.
What the devil was that?
A noise, an actual real, honest to goodness sound. Another one of the missing senses suddenly appeared. He could hear. The loudness nearly deafened him. Other mechanical sounds began to bark out their own song. The liquid rapidly dripping nearby, the blipping noise, something else had a ping sound attached to it. Then there was something that sounded like a kind of a clap. Each one got louder than the one he heard before it as if all the 'noise' was coming to some sort of blaring crescendo. He heard what he thought was footsteps and then what was that, the sound of another human and then another, followed by another voice. His mind concentrated on what they said, but he couldn't make it out. Were they speaking English? It sounded like muffled gibberish to him, muddled in low tones, and over spoken syllables. A soft touch, human contact on his bare shoulder and then his forehead, followed by a light breath in his left ear. And then, words he could understand, from, a voice he didn't recognize, "Mr. McCormick, you're in the hospital, just rest, you're all right." It was a female. Her soothing voice, dripping with comfort and concern. She patted his shoulder once again. Then she must have stepped away.
Rest, she had told him. He thought again to the cadence of his heart and lungs, for now, letting go of the blips and the pings that tried to drown out the normal sound of life. Ah, there it was still beating and breathing deep inside him. He took comfort once again in the pulse of life it beat into him.
The fog lifted more, turning away from the shadowy, gloom and instead to a more familiar brightness.
His senses of smell and taste were jarred next. Antiseptic or alcohol filled his nostrils, followed by something bitter and unpleasant and in his mouth, something he could only think of as metallic bombarded his taste buds. It was all unpleasant and he quickly drifted away from those repulsive senses, retreating once again to measured tempo of his own beating heart.
He was restless though, caught between this safe, calm mist and yet wanting to come fully back to what he'd always known. And as much as he tried to stay in the tranquil comfort of his simple being, he found these senses of his were trumpeting his resurrection of sorts back to the reality he could now begin to recall.
He had been shot.
Whether he was just remembering the wound and the initial pain of being shot or was he now beginning to experience the actual pain and the aftermath, he couldn't quite comprehend it, but the ache began in his gut and radiated outward throughout his weakened body. Maybe it was a combination of both.
Then he heard a sound that was immediately recognizable and ultimately comforting.
He listened closely, the voice was initially was again jumbled and unclear, but yet he knew it. His heart knew it.
"How is he, how is he, how is he?" The voice seemed to repeat over and over in a muffled sound.
He wanted to talk, to respond for himself, and to mention the fog and the rhythm of his heart, but his lips couldn't seem to form the words and his voice was virtually non-existent. Was that a groan or a choked breath he'd just let out? It wasn't the response he wanted to give, but it was all the fog would allow him to do.
"He's beginning to come around," a female voice said. Was it the same one from before? He couldn't tell for sure.
"So, he's going to be all right?" That was him, he was sure of that, the Judge, old Hardcase, Hardcastle. The voice he knew, the voice that could take care of the fog in Arkansas moment. His own voice tried to make another sound, but all he heard was a clicking type of noise, his voice catching in his own throat.
He felt a strong, warm hand on his forearm. That was the Judge too. The heat from the touch radiated up and down him, almost seemingly pushing strength into his own being. He wanted to push against it and turn and take the hand of Hardcastle, but the Judge seemed to be pressing down his hand onto to his arm in an effort to not only bolster him with his own strength, but to reassure him. Yes, the fog was lifting.
She said something to Hardcastle that he couldn't make out, and the Judge patted his right forearm with unusual but welcome gentleness. And then his touch was gone.
He strained to hear whatever they stepped away to say about him. He wondered why his sense of sight didn't want to work. Why wouldn't his eyes follow his command to open? If he could see, maybe it would help him understand. His eyes, they'd always worked before, but now they were so heavy, he could feel them flutter, but then nothing. His lids became like ship anchors, holding fast to staying closed. Like his voice, he knew he could talk and he could see, but he couldn't seem to make them obey.
"Critical," he just heard that. Keep listening, "Just gave us a scare," he heard that too. It was some other male voice, a doctor maybe? "Happens after surgery," the voice continued, "very serious condition, we're monitoring everything closely," The voice was talking about him, "next 24 hours are crucial."
"Can I stay with him?" That was Hardcastle again. His voice clear and forceful, almost demanding. He felt the urge to smile, but the weakness overtook the urge.
"I'll set it up," the other male voice said. "I think you can probably help him more the medicine right now."
This doctor was just about as smart as Hardcase.
He knew the Judge came back to the bedside and he tried to talk once more, just to say 'thanks,' or 'I'm okay' but all that came out was a breathy, strained sound. Then he felt Hardcastle's hand rest on his forearm again. The Judge even rubbed it up and down for a moment, then letting it come to a contented rest. The comfort was undeniable.
Damn these eyes, he thought, he needed to see the Judge, but the surgery and the injury he sustained took every bit of strength he possessed. He had to clear the fog though, before he could, well, fully rest. Since his voice couldn't say anything, he knew his eyes would.
Mustering up every bit of strength he could, clear down from the tips of his toes, he pushed and drove his eye lids open. They began to tremble and weakly open up. He knew they wouldn't stay open for long. He found a new energy from deep within, his lips quivered wanting desperately to speak to his friend. He managed to turn his head to the right ever so slightly and his eyes, weak and glassy tracked with him to seek out the face he knew.
And then they made eye contact, blue eyes meeting once again with even bluer ones.
He saw the Judge reveal a smile, "Don't try to talk kiddo, you got a tube in there to help you breath right now. You just came out of surgery. You'll be all right though. Everything's fine now."
His eyes searched for something more in those of his friends.
The Judge took his hand from his forearm and lightly ran it across his brow. "I'll be right here, I won't leave you, you can just rest," The Judge added the gentle reassurance. It was exactly what he needed to hear.
He tried to nod his head, but he couldn't. The Judge's hand went back to the top of his forearm, until he mustered up another bit of strength that made his own arm turn in the bed, palm up, shaking with from the pain and weakness. Hardcastle took his eyes off the kid's long enough to see what he was doing and then let his own hand reach down to grasp onto his. The Judge gave it a squeeze. "Just sleep now, you'll be fine, I'm not going anywhere," Milt said. Their eyes collided one more time, till his finally gave out and closed.
The fog was gone.