"He's been unresponsive for over a week now. Has anything in his environment changed? Any new visitors within the last week?" Dr. Feld asked Nancy, one of the nurses. He handed her the file folder as he walked out of the patient's room.
"No. He hasn't had any visitors at all since he's been here," she replied, taking the folder. She gave a little sigh when she put it down on top of the pile already forming next to her keyboard. "And there's nothing new, no. He's been the same as always, except for the catatonia of course."
" Of course," Dr. Feld said softly, distracted. "Alright, I don't want you to give him an more medication than he's already taking. I want to see if it's something we're giving him. Keep him under watch and reduce his dosage."
"You got it." she replied, scribbling a note inside his folder. Nancy took a brief glance into the patient's room and saw him sitting by the window, looking out through the open blinds. He usually refused to have the blinds closed, so they always stayed open. It wasn't an uncommon desire for people with post-traumatic stress disorder to want things a certain way, so no one ever bothered to make them different. And that's when the idea suddenly came to her.
"Claire, watch the station for me for a second." she whispered to the girl next to her. Nancy dropped the folder back onto the pile and quickly stepped across the hall to the patient's room. He didn't move or look at her when she approached him, but somehow she knew he was aware of her being there.
"John? It's me, Nancy. I'm going to try something if that's alright with you?" she asked needlessly. She knew he wouldn't respond. He hadn't responded in over a week, but she figured anything was worth a try. Slowly, she reached toward the blinds and gently pulled the cord. The verticals slipped across the window without a reaction from him. But when she gave the chain a tug and the blinds flipped closed like eyelids, she suddenly got the reaction she was looking for. Without warning, John's gaze shot toward her with a look of pain. His eyes darted from her to the blinds and back again, a soft sound coming from his throat.
"It's alright, John, its alright." she soothed, reaching a hand out and placing it on his shoulder. Suddenly, he jerked away from her and gave out a harsh cry of pain. Nancy looked out into the hall and motioned for Claire. The nurse ran into the room, looking desperately for a way to help. John began keening on the bed, cradling his left arm as if it hurt.
"Go get Dr. Feld!" Nancy ordered Claire. The young nurse nodded and ran out of the room.
"John? I need you to relax, ok? It's alright, nothing's going to hurt you." she said softly, moving away from the edge of the bed so as not to crowd him. The keening sound continued, but the cries slowly ebbed away. He stillclutched his left arm and cradled it against his stomach.
"Nancy?" Dr. Feld called from down the hall. He raced through the door just in time to see John fall back onto the bed, gasping for air and making small whining sounds. "Nancy, what the hell happened?" the doctor asked, motioning for the nurse with a syringe. The nurse stepped forward and tried to reach out for John's arm, but the patient only cried out louder at the sight of the needle.
"Ok, ok--put it away, Jacob," he quietly ordered the nurse. He nodded and capped the syringe, holding it by his side just in case.
"John? John, I need you to calm down. Whatever is going on you have to calm down first before I can help you, do you understand?"
"I don't understand," John said quietly. "It makes no sense."
"What doesn't, John?"
"That name." John whispered, still clutching his arm.
"What name? Your name?" Dr. Feld asked, sitting down on the bed and moving closer to John.
"My name isn't John," he replied softly, looking up at Dr. Feld with wet eyes. "You keep calling me John and that's not my name."
Dr. Feld looked up at Nancy and Jacob, who both looked as surprised as him. John was right, that wasn't his name. They actually didn't know his name and had to call him John Doe on his forms. No one knew who he was or where he came from and he never hinted at even remembering his name before.
"Then can you tell me your name?" Dr. Feld asked, reaching out very slowly to take the arm not-John held cradled against his stomach. It was a motion he'd done before and, after a few x-rays when he was first admitted, it was clear that it had been broken very near to the time he was found at the train station. It was a messy break that had been set wrong and probably left John with very painful arthritis. The gesture of cradling the site of the break was always John's way of telling people he didn't feel very safe.
"Open the window." he begged after a moment of silence.
"Can you tell me your real name, John?" Dr. Feld asked, ignoring his request. Not-John keened and pushed himself against the wall.
"Please," he begged, tears now streaming down his face. "I have to make sure it's still there."