A short bit for you guys.
Happy New Years Eve, everyone!
Chapter Text
~The LA Hospital ER doors burst open a little before 10pm, as two teams of doctors rush in with two new patients on stretchers. The first patient is a tall man with gray hair in his early forties. There's some bruising around his left eye. He is conscious but he groans in pain, clutching his bandaged, right forearm, snapped bone sticking out at the wrong angle. His chest is bare and covered in bruises and fiercely red horizontal lines.
He's trying to look back at his friend on the stretcher behind him, calling his name urgently. It's no use; the second man is unconscious. He's hooked up to several IVs and machines. Half of the man's mostly-naked body is wet, red and raw in places, top layer of skin torn by road rash, black grit still caught in between muscle. His face is hardly recognizable, black bruises and blood, the right side of his skull and face greatly swollen underneath his curly hair.
There's a little over a handful of people waiting for them at reception, everyone is anxiety ridden. The teams go down a hall and at a fork, move opposite directions. A woman follows the older man down a left hall, while the group quickly follows behind the second man's team of doctors. The doctors try to push them back. A bearded man with long, brown hair shouts angrily that they're family and they all trudge forward anyway. The doctors ignore them, set on their task, and lead the team down the right hall, into a large operating room on the left. There's a long window, and the group watches, holding their breath, hugging each other, tears streaming down many of their faces.
The doctors on the other side of the glass get to work. Half of them are rinsing his wounds with antiseptic, removing dirt and sewing his skin back together. One doctor shaves the hair from the swollen side of his head before taking a small knife to his scalp, carefully peeling back the skin. Then she takes a small hand saw and cuts into the skull ever-so-carefully, removing an inch of bone and setting it aside. The group outside watches in horror as blood and fluid gushes out but the doctor is not fazed; she places towels around the young man's head. She removes another small square and from here, she inserts a tube, the fluid draining into a container nearby.
The group keeps watching, fascinated and terrified, hands covering their mouths. The work of the doctors is so swift, careful and calculated. Every waiting second is torture.
Everything is calculated, but something goes wrong. There's unseen swelling in the lower back of the head, maybe a touch too close to the brain stem. The long beep of the heart rate monitor rings loudly throughout the room as the patient flat-lines.
Time slows down further, and there's chaos and shouting within and outside the room. The group outside calls his name, calling for him to come back. A couple of them shut their eyes and desperately pray to a God that they don't believe in.
The doctors inside grab the defibrillator and administer one shock. And another. And another. And another. Two of the assistants have their eyes on the clock, watching the seconds. A minute goes by. And another. Their lips are getting ready to call it. The man with the long brown hair glares at them. ~Don't you dare. Don't you even dare.~
At the beginning of the fourth minute, the heart rate machine begins to beep in rhythm again. The patient's chest rises and falls. The group outside exhales, still holding each other, nerves shot. The team inside gets back to work using the rest of the time to drain that hidden remainder of fluid, finishing up the last stitches, bandaging, fixing as much damage as they can.~
~~~
~A day later, the patient sits up in his hospital bed. He stares out the window of his room, thankful that he has a view at all. One side of his body and his head is heavily bandaged. He's lost track of time even with a clock, but he is always smiling, because the people he cares about are always in the room with him. The groups alternate between a couple people to all of his friends, but someone is always there. The man with the gray hair joins them sometimes, his wife and young daughter with him. The daughter is a joy to watch; she sings songs and dances for the patient. The gray-haired man's arm is in a sling but he dares not complain.
People are crowded outside in the parking lot and although some of them are loud, most of them are respectful, holding up signs to the window that read "WE LOVE YOU DAN!", "GET BETTER SOON!" or "GOD BLESS YOU DAN". They stay as long as they can, until security guards usher them away.
The patient's parents are always with him. They were exhausted, having taken 3 flights to get there, never sleeping. Sometimes they are talking to his main doctor, a young woman with blonde hair and glasses. Dan can't hear everything they say, but he knows that they're going over options. Too many are listed for a normal person.
On one of the days, the woman sits down across from the patient with his parents. She addresses him as well, but he has a hard time registering what she says. He gets the gist of it; the swelling keeps coming back but they're doing everything they can for it. He nods silently. His parents cry.
He smiles the widest when all of his friends come to visit at the same time. They show him presents that the fans made for him. He laughs and keeps them in the room with him, all around his bed.
He smiles, but it's exhausting, because he knows about the one topic that no one will discuss. He can feel the pressure growing in the back of his skull.
When his parents are preoccupied with the doctor, he grabs a nearby pen and paper and begins to write. He writes a few copies of the same thing and signs them.
The patient gets his parent's attention. He holds his mother's hand and gives her the piece of paper. At first she is confused. Then she covers her mouth and looks away, shaking her head as she begins to bawl. She hands the paper to his father. His expression is a hard line that doesn't falter. He stares at the patient for a moment. He insists that he will hold onto the paper, and pockets it. He says he will get a lawyer.
Later, the patient shows two more copies to the man with the long brown hair, and the man with the gray hair. Both of them immediately shake their heads stubbornly and try to reason with him. No, no way, they say. But the patient knows how tired everyone is. He knows how much they're suffering, how hard it's going to be for them to smile. So he insists. They say they will hold onto the forms but nothing else.
On the fourth day, the patient knows that something is wrong. It's hard for him to think clearly. He's trying to stay positive but he's having mood swings. The migraine won't leave, no matter how many pills he takes. It's harder for him to speak now.
It's sometime in the late evening - his parents have slipped out of the room, but the gray-haired man is with him. They're listening to recordings of some of the covers that they've done through his tablet. The patient asks the man to come closer – he needs to tell him something important.
The patient whispers something into the man's ear, and one of the pieces of paper into his hand. This time, his eyes are filled with tears. His vision begins to double, so he closes his eyes to rest.
The man asks him what he means. He doesn't respond, having fallen asleep. The man shakes him. Then he shakes him and shouts his name. His parents and the nurses run inside.
The man grabs the patient's hand and sobs.
Now he understands.