Author's Note: Welcome back, and thank you all for reading and reviewing! I apologize for the torture - I'll unfuck this now, yes? Yes. Also, please note that I don't work in the field of medicine whatsoever, so everything taking place here is solely based off research, some personal experience from the perspective of the patient, and many hours spent watching ER on television. But I hope that my attempts at writing this medical drama have been entertaining and at least somewhat realistic so far! :D Anywhoodles, the title of this chapter comes from the Screaming Females song of the same name. Please let me know what y'all think via reviews, and enjoy!
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Chapter 22 - Rose Mountain
Erik
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov'd—I lov'd alone—
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev'ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—
From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that 'round me roll'd
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass'd me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form
When the rest of Heaven was blue
Of a demon in my view—
- "Alone" - Edgar Allan Poe, 1829
Opening my eyes slowly, I was very distantly aware of the various pieces of medical equipment blinking and beeping within the confines of the space I occupied, steadily alerting all in attendance to continued signs of life. A life that hadn't been lost; the notion seemed strange, though, felt immensely out of place, but somehow that fact still wasn't lost upon me then. Even so, I couldn't remember the exact reason why that fragment of information was so significant for me, either. No matter how much I tried to concentrate and find the source, I only knew that I had to acknowledge the importance of this unnamed survival, regardless of how unsure I was about its origin or my connection to it - I needed to do so, one way or another. And so I tried once again to just settle myself down and focus, gradually becoming more aware of the hospital room that I was in, then noticing that I was in the surgical ICU. People spoke in hushed tones around me, sometimes to me, but…
But I couldn't actually respond, and that made absolutely no sense. For the instant that followed, I didn't feel that I was a part of reality any longer - at least as I'd known it - and I had no idea why that would be happening in the first place. Everything was so skewed from what I had otherwise counted on to be fact. I was certainly in the ICU, yet I clearly wasn't working, I wasn't doing rounds or fulfilling any of my other duties there. Rather, I was lying down, stiff and in pain, disconnected from the world yet present there all at once; I didn't understand it whatsoever.
Immensely confused, yet still trying to keep my mindset as rational as possible in order to speak - to call out to the colleagues whose voices I recognized nearby - I was instead startled to realize that my voice had failed me altogether. No sound came at all from that attempt to form words, and the lethargy that seemed to have taken ahold of my thoughts had in turn caused me to lose several seconds to my disoriented state. It stalled the sense of reason that I'd wanted to keep, before I finally comprehended that something was in my throat that prevented speech; a hard plastic barrier was now there, unforgiving and unyielding. A tube, and from which I felt the force of air into my body, expanding my chest artificially, the sensation incredibly unnatural and almost painful. Instinct alone told me to fight against that obstruction, to push my way past it and get the hell out of this disturbing reality. The effort of doing so, however, had only worsened my overall state, to the point that I began to struggle to regain what little composure I had left.
Growing steadily more upset, I tried in the next moment to move my hands, to bring them up to my mouth and hopefully feel exactly what was there - or to at least make better sense of why there was a tube in my throat. But my attempt at movement was immediately halted; when I looked down with still-blurred vision to find the source of the impediment, I was shocked to see that my wrists were bound to the rails on either side of the bed that I was lying in. Confusion gripped me that much more then, but that confusion quickly gave way to terror in the face of something I couldn't describe - I still couldn't even find an effective way to put the pieces together that might explain why I was in this situation to begin with.
So I just tried to move my arms again, now hoping for a different outcome, even in spite of being well aware of the restraints around my wrists. But obviously, the attempt was useless. And anyway, even if I had been able to move my arms more than an inch from where they were held, the resulting pain that shot through my chest at just the slight motion that I had made was excruciating - it was more than enough to convince me not to try again. Rather, I became tense, my only movement from breathing so heavily against the tubing in my throat from the exertion.
Frustrated and remaining more than a little disoriented, I finally just admitted defeat, opting to just look around the room again for the time being; when I did, the first thing I noticed, and that I'd missed before, was a bright-yellow plastic band on one of my wrists, the text on it reading FALL RISK and situated above another hospital bracelet. Seeing that, I was somewhat beginning to understand why I was restrained, if nothing else - I couldn't remember it then, but I had likely become combative at some point between initially returning from whatever surgery that I'd just been through, and this moment of regaining full-consciousness, probably during the initial process of lessening my sedation. That really wasn't an uncommon occurrence for people that were coming out of anesthesia; there were so many times in the past that I'd witnessed my own patients resisting waking up in the frightening and unfamiliar environment I was in now.
But even recalling that small piece of knowledge didn't help stem the flow of panic that was continuing to threaten me, fighting to take over. I had gathered a few more details about my surroundings by then, but I still didn't know what brought me to them, and that scared me badly. Rationality was waiting for me in the wings, whispering occasional reminders of my safety, but it wasn't loud enough to be heard over the betraying insistence in my mind that I was in danger. My breathing quickened once again, the resistance of what I now knew to be a ventilator adding that much more stress to everything else that I was going through. Tears stung in my eyes as I struggled firmly against my fall-restraints, against the resulting pain that I was desperately trying to ignore. None of that mattered to me then - I just wanted out of there.
"He's breathing over the vent," a familiar voice broke through my haze of fear, before giving further instructions to someone standing beyond the point I could see. Then, they spoke to me directly, "Easy, you're alright, Erik. Can you hear me? Do you remember where you are? Do you remember what happened to you?"
Shaking my head, I quickly closed my eyes, feeling hot tears running down my face, even as I allowed myself to be pushed carefully back to lying against the raised portion of my hospital bed, and I forced myself to stay calm. Of course I knew where I was, I knew that I'd had surgery recently - I'd figured out at least that much by then, that wasn't my problem; not knowing exactly why I was in the SICU now, though, was incredibly disturbing, and I was having enough trouble just trying to process everything that happened since I'd woken up. It spiked my anxiety in a way that made me legitimately concerned for myself, concerned that my racing heartbeat might actually cause me more damage than had already been done. As it stood, my situation seemed bad enough; I had to settle down, or I'd only risk making it worse.
I'm safe...I'm in the hospital. Relax...
But that only worked for so long before I lost control again, before I was shaking and fighting back tears once more, all but ignoring anyone speaking to me from my bedside then; and in the next instant, everything came rushing back to me - I saw the man that shot me, felt the pain from the bullets, fear from the moment I woke after being shot to losing consciousness again later. I remembered talking to Nadir and calling for Christine, the feeling of her holding my hand in the trauma room, and sincerely believing that I was going to die. Then there was nothing, only darkness for an immeasurable time, a void I couldn't escape. Slowly, each of the missing pieces that I sought fell into place, came into the proper order, and the image that I was left with became all too clear - I was in the ICU on a ventilator because I had undergone surgery, and I'd needed that surgery because I was shot in the chest. Somehow, it seemed more favorable to have forgotten it all indefinitely - I knew it wouldn't be easy to lay the memories of this event to rest going forward. As much as I wanted to, I would never forget this experience.
Dr. Reyes had just asked me all of those questions, I realized - and had done so in an attempt to assess my neurological status, one of many post-operative requirements. And so I looked at her and nodded to assure that I was more or less all there. Then, I drew her attention to my side, and slowly formed one of my hands into the shape of a gun, gesturing as if it had been fired in order to explain what I remembered happening. Reyes said nothing then, only gave me a look of sympathy at my answer, but still appeared satisfied with the content my response.
"I'm going to take that tube out of your throat now, alright?"
She really didn't need my permission for this procedure, but she didn't pause to get it from me, either - though I honestly couldn't say I cared if she chose to streamline this process wherever possible. Now that I had a better idea of what was going on, I just wanted the damn thing out, wanted to have some semblance of freedom restored to me, even if that was only in the form of using my own voice. It wasn't long before she and a nurse were ready to work, and while I knew exactly what to expect from the extubation - that particularly unpleasant experience was one that I'd already gone through firsthand before this day - that prior knowledge still didn't make it any more tolerable than not knowing. I nearly choked when she pulled the tube out, the movement causing the pain in my chest to return with a vengeance. Groaning when the nurse started me on an oxygen flow through a nasal cannula, adjusting it beside the feeding tube that was already in place, I tried to suppress another coughing fit. I closed my eyes again tightly, refusing all the while to acknowledge why the pain was so bad. I'd decided by then that the image of my own chest being forced open was more than I could tolerate for the moment.
"Give him a bolus of morphine," Reyes said to the nurse, removing the restraints still binding my wrists as she did so, "And go get Dr. Durant."
Christine's name recaptured my attention, and I asked hoarsely, "She's here?"
"Don't try to talk, Erik. But yes, she's stayed with you the whole time you've been here. We really had to fight her just to go get some rest, but she's nearby - "
" - I need to see her - "
" - You'll see her soon. Settle down, you'll see her soon."
That was an immense relief for me to hear then, but I took Reyes' instruction not to talk seriously, and opted not to voice my response.
Instead, once the restraints were taken off, I tentatively flexed each of my hands, noting how difficult even that simple movement was. It was strange to consider how weak I'd gotten, to realize in turn that I still didn't know how long I'd actually been unconscious. Another unsettling notion. But I was quickly distracted from that line of thinking; my movement aggravated sutures and broken bones, and I had to lean my head back and lay my hands at my sides in an attempt to stay as motionless as possible. I'd already felt my exhaustion returning to me from the brief exertion of waking and being extubated, and this latest bout of pain served to make it that much stronger. Almost unwillingly, I closed my eyes, drifting somewhere between reality and a haze of pain meds wherein I should've slept; from a medical standpoint, it would be the best thing I could do for myself then. The body heals during sleep - rest is as important to fostering recovery as anything else we provide for a patient's treatment. But even in my exhaustion, I didn't actually want to sleep again; in being perfectly honest, I was still too gripped by the fear that I wouldn't wake up, and that lingering fear only brought on more restlessness.
But before that could turn into a problem of its own, Christine was finally led in. She looked as weary as I felt, the tears in her eyes telling me that she was still upset by everything that she'd witnessed. Yet she also showed clear relief when our eyes met now, likely brought on by allowing herself to cling to at least some hope in the end. I loved her for holding onto that hope at all, loved her for staying with me in spite of everything that happened between us. Seeing her as I did then, the fact that she was actually in room with me, she was so breathtakingly beautiful in my eyes. If any wordly force had brought me back, it was her, I was sure of it - even thinking that I could've ever stayed out of her life, that I could've walked away from her was my biggest mistake. I truly had almost lost her - I'd almost left her. Yet she'd still stayed when I needed her.
I didn't realize that I was crying until she was beside me, taking my hands in hers.
"Christine - "
" - Don't try to talk yet - "
" - I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," I sobbed breathlessly, ignoring her appeal for the sake of my broken voice as I attempted to pull myself upright again, and get as close to her as possible. I'd almost been able to fully embrace her, but doing so was physically too painful for me to handle for long. So instead, she followed me when I'd leaned back again, and with that, she brought her arms around me as securely as she was able to, clearly mindful of each tube and wire I was still connected to, mindful of the PICC line in my arm. But I didn't care whatsoever about anything that was surrounding us then, I just held her close and wept into her shoulder and repeated my desperate apology to her, begging for her forgiveness for everything I'd done to hurt her.
"Shh, it's alright, sweetheart. Calm down," she whispered, pulling back carefully before taking ahold of my hand again, coaxing me to remain still with her free hand. I matched her grip for as long as I could, thoroughly annoyed by what little strength I was able to return. Yet I didn't dwell on it, either, so long as her hand remained in mine. And I just silently cried for a time, finally beginning to truly process what happened to me, everything that almost happened, everything that I'd so foolishly tried to give up with Christine. She meant the world to me and more, and yet I'd almost let the relationship we'd built slip through my hands like sand caught on a breeze. She didn't deserve the hell I put her through, didn't deserve my abandonment. The fact that she was by my side then was nothing short of a miracle and an act of mercy, as far as I was concerned.
"I thought I'd never see you again," I admitted, attempting to continue speaking and move forward again, only to gasp sharply at the pain the motion caused. Moving beyond an extremely limited range of motion was simply out of the question for me, it seemed.
Christine held my shoulders gently in the next moment, an unspoken but firm command to just stay put, before she reached up to brush my disheveled hair away from my face, as she had done for me so many times in the past. The familiarity of her gesture held firm to my heart.
"You're alright now," she repeated, her tone soft, "You're safe."
I took in her words, closed my eyes against the tears that followed her voice, but I could only nod in acknowledgment that I heard her - any other response was impossible for me to find.
~~oOo~~
The clearest memories that I have of the initial hours after my waking, were of the pain that I was in, and of constantly feeling cold - chilled so often to the point that I was left shivering almost violently in my bed. Both issues were difficult for me to handle for very long. My injuries and their subsequent treatments were inherently painful, and the medication meant to combat that pain obviously wore off eventually. Though I was being given dilaudid through the PICC, I didn't like how unfocused and disoriented it made me feel, and between the doses I was that much more miserable; I knew that healing would be a gradual process, and based on how I felt now, I sincerely wasn't looking forward to it. Pairing that with the anemia that severe blood-loss caused, I was better off sleeping whenever I could. Doing so at least offered me somewhat of a reprieve during that time, but it was only physically. Whenever I closed my eyes and attempted to relax, instead I saw the events that brought me here unfolding again, and that was terrifying. Following each nightmare, I'd wake up with a gasp, my heart pounding and my hands shaking as I reached out for Christine, because no one else brought me any comfort.
I continued in that manner long after regaining consciousness, and had let that stress stay close before I'd been convinced to allow myself to fall asleep, rather than fight it. Though grudgingly at first, I was starting to to do, still exhausted and upset, but relatively calmed by the voices I heard of the physicians and nurses and other patients around me, by familiar sounds of my department that I worked alongside for so long. Hearing them all now from the perspective of the patient, rather than as the surgeon, had piqued my curiosity enough to compel me to focus on that aspect of my environment, instead of my place there - in turn, some of the restlessness I'd felt up to that point was beginning to abate. It was only when I heard a distinct voice beyond my bed, and then felt Christine's hand slip from mine, that I started waking up again.
"I'm sorry it took me so long to get here," Nadir whispered, and after a pause when, I'd assumed, he and Christine embraced one another in greeting, he continued, "How's he doing?"
"Stable, he's past the worst of it now," Christine replied, giving a sigh that sounded very much like a significant weight had been lifted from her shoulders, before explaining, "Vitals are fine, neuro-function is normal. He's breathing on his own."
"Alḥamdulillāh," he murmured, an appeal of gratitude to God, then a bit louder, "Thank you for calling me, Christine. I won't stay too long if - "
" - Nadir," I called, cringing at the harsh quality that my voice had taken on as I stirred.
But he wouldn't let me try to sit up fully when he approached, instead placing his hand on my shoulder as he said, "It's good to see you awake."
I nodded, then responded flatly, "It's good not to be dead."
"I'm sure it is," he laughed, seeming to be shocked by my bluntness as he leaned in closer to hug me - a rare gesture, but one that I allowed, because he had very much helped save my life, "Don't you ever scare us like that again."
I scoffed, and that was about all the acknowledgment of his words that I could manage before exhaustion threatened to pull me under once more - I'd certainly pushed myself much further than I should have already, and I was feeling the effects of my doing so now. But Nadir understood that without having to be told outright, and simply left me to try to fall asleep again, speaking to Christine briefly before heading back downstairs. Then, throughout the rest of the first day, a few of my other coworkers had shocked me when they tried to come visit, to wish me well as Nadir had done. To be honest, I was grateful for the consideration, but even so, I'd quickly decided that Nadir was the only one from the hospital that I'd wanted to come in to see me. So I made it clear to everyone on-call on the surgical service that I'd just really preferred to be left alone - Nadir and Christine were the only people outside of my post-op care team I had wanted to communicate with for any extended period.
As it stood, Christine and I had yet to even address or attempt to resolve the fight that we'd had before the shooting - nevermind any discussions about our baby or anything else of consequence. I suspected that we wouldn't be doing so immediately. But she still stayed with me in the SICU as often as she could - especially at the start of my time staying there. She'd been given some time for emergency leave from her internship, and spent her days beside me as I recovered. But while I truly appreciated her for the effort, I also had to admit to myself that it did little good on my part. Because reassuring though she was, in the end there wasn't anything that she, nor anyone else could say to me that would help me feel any peace of mind. Certainly not any time soon. I couldn't get out of my own mind long enough at any given moment to try to put anything into perspective, to allow myself to handle this as I needed to; rather, every instant of pain, every time one of the doctors or nurses came over and administered care had served as a reminder of how shattered I was, both inside and out.
It's violating, even disturbing to sense that the body is no longer whole - to see the evidence of the bones in my chest having been broken, or to think about the fact that another human being held my heart in their hands, that someone actually held my life in their hands. It was all too much to accept. Injuries could often be as mentally traumatic as they are physically, and for me, treating them was as violent as their cause, ultimately felt like an assault, even as doing so was meant to save my life. It felt impossible to separate past and present and come to terms with any of it - I honestly didn't know how, nor was I even sure I could if I did. My survival wasn't a miraculous or inspiring thing in my mind, but rather the frightening and painful outcome of being attacked. It grated at my anxiety, and I had no idea what to do with that - I had no idea what to do with myself.
Yet in spite of knowing why doing so would be a mistake, I remained almost entirely silent about how badly I was handling myself, save for the initial moments that I'd been awake, of confessing to Christine that I was so sure that our last meeting in the ER would prove to be our final encounter. For the time being, I didn't want to voice the decidedly negative shift in my thoughts until I had the necessary words to do so - at that point, I had no way of putting it out into the world properly, so it simply felt more appropriate to wait until I did. I truly believed that I had no other alternatives.
After coming to that decision, though, most of my silence was otherwise due to my physical inability to speak clearly, or at least without pain - a side-effect of being on a ventilator. To treat that ongoing issue, the speech therapist on our staff came in to see me several times over the days that followed to work on getting my voice back to normal, to strengthen and heal the muscles in my throat that would allow me to talk and eat and drink again as I'd done before. And although a large part of that had to do with healing naturally, the amount of time dedicated to my overall recovery would be determined by whether or not I followed through with the therapy itself - the less I did, the longer I'd feel the effects of the intubation. Until I healed, and beyond the discomfort I felt at not being able to speak in general, my feeding tube would also have to remain in place, because I couldn't swallow well enough yet to take in any nutrients by myself. And so, out of necessity - and for lack of anything better to do - I focused the majority of my energy on working with the speech therapist to manage that set of problems immediately.
But for all the benefits that my doing so would bring, it was still an exceedingly slow and frustrating process just the same - I made more than one mistake during that time. At one point, when I had been distracted by one thing or another, I'd unthinkingly tried to take a drink of water on my own, without using the powder that I'd been given to make it a consistency that wouldn't irritate my throat. So, unsurprisingly, the water had proven to be too thin, and I nearly choked on it, spilling the rest and sending the cup that I'd just used clattering across the floor, all a result of my carelessness. With that misstep, I'd earned myself a stern reprimand from my nurses, and more than one heated reminder to use the thickener for anything that I drank for the next several days. I'd absolutely hated it - the substance made everything taste and feel like sand, but there was little to be done for it; in the meantime, I had to be patient while I waited to clear that hurdle.
"You know better than to try straight water right now," Christine said when she returned from trying to rest, and found out what happened.
"It wasn't on purpose," I muttered, weakened from choking on the water, and lying back before the wave of dizziness I was feeling then did that for me.
Sitting down on the bed next to me, she asked, "Are you alright?"
"My chest hurts," I responded, but then quickly amended at her look of concern for my phrasing, "It'll be fine, it was my own damn fault."
"They say doctors make the worst patients, you know."
"Right," I laughed humorlessly, "Don't shit where you eat."
"That's so vulgar, Erik," she smiled, seemingly against her better judgment.
But she kept her smile just the same; I loved the way it reached her eyes when she carefully moved to lay beside me, having enough room to do so in a way that was comfortable for both of us. She'd just started doing that in the past couple of days, and a part of me honestly wondered if that renewed behavior was only due to my getting stronger, or because she was beginning to feel reassured about spending time with me in this relatively more familiar way. Whether or not we actually broke up before the shooting was somewhat unclear - we danced around the subject in our anger, made threats about ending the relationship, and there were so many hurt feelings on both sides. But that was all, and so far, everything remained unresolved between us, no clear answers in either direction. The love was still there, she'd already told me as much by then, but our official status as a couple remained undefined, and she didn't even know that I wanted to be in our child's life, that I wanted this family with her; and I didn't know how to tell her. It seemed that neither of us was brave enough to broach either subject yet.
Even so, our return to physical contact was comforting to me in more ways than one, and had served as a reminder that we were still together somehow, at least in a deeper capacity beyond just friendship. I had to keep reminding myself of that crucial detail, because I knew that if I didn't, then I couldn't handle moving forward - selfishly, I needed something to depend on.
~~oOo~~
Days later, once my voice had returned more or less to its normal state, I still remained silent altogether on the subject of my anxiety, but I was otherwise physically recovering as I was supposed to, at the very least. Noting that, I had determined that it was very unlikely that I would bring the anxiety up to anyone at all yet - Christine provided me comfort in a general sense, and that was usually enough to bring me back to reality from the worst of my unease. And anyway, for the time being, my attention was drawn elsewhere. For better or worse, I had thoroughly convinced myself that the distraction was helpful; I simply wasn't ready to speak. In the span of time between the shooting until now, I had been through too much, had witnessed too much, and having to relive any of it by talking about it certainly wasn't something I felt anywhere near ready or willing to attempt. What I felt then was bordering on depression, and as such, I didn't want to risk inviting more trouble for myself by dwelling on anything for longer than was necessary. And from there, I just left it at that; in my mind, it didn't make any sense to keep adding stress where too much already existed. I'd given myself enough to handle as it stood. So I just opted instead to essentially ignore my emotional state, and take everything else about my hospital stay slowly, focus only on recovering and making a sincere attempt to listen to my doctors to foster healing.
Shortly afterward, I was transferred from post-surgical intensive care to a slightly less invasive room on the floor - this one more resembling a hotel suite than a space in a hospital, save for the disgusting amount of poorly-concealed medical equipment lining the walls. Still, it didn't escape me that its primary and most obvious benefit was that it was private, although I strongly suspected that my position in the department played a larger role in influencing that factor of the assignment than anything else. But I truly didn't have the energy nor the desire to make any criticisms about it, either, and so I just said nothing at all when I was moved and had gotten settled - better to be in a place where it was relatively quiet than somewhere I'd have to deal with other people. However, I quickly began to associate the room with more pain.
Because once I'd arrived, Dr. Reyes gave orders in her notes to get me up and walking as soon as possible - which, incidentally, always translated to immediately in our department, a standard that I was familiar with. I had just never been on the receiving end of that requirement before. Following my first attempt, though, I very much wanted to avoid trying again; starting on physical therapy was a process I wasn't eager to continue, but the choice was out of my hands. In spite of the resulting pain, in spite of my body's weakness, I knew that I needed to rebuild my strength; my muscles had already atrophied enough simply for being in the hospital in the first place, and further inactivity would only serve to prolong undoing the damage, therefore halting any more progress I could hope to make in the future. Although I'd be lying if I didn't say that I had hated that weakness, hated becoming so unwillingly vulnerable to begin with.
But every moment of frustration toward myself, toward the medical personnel charged with taking care of me, had also served to keep me the hell out of my mind - that alone turned out to be its own unexpected benefit. Over time, I had gone on to demand to wear the surgical scrubs that I was used to, instead of a standard hospital gown. Unsurprisingly, I was outright denied initially, but it wasn't long before I was given what I wanted, and that had proven to be as significant as fighting through my physical therapy - because to me, even just looking less like a patient had brought me closer to regaining autonomy, to feeling less like a victim and more like myself again. It wasn't much, nor would this serve as an effective means of actually dealing with my trauma, what it was doing to me - I wouldn't try to delude myself otherwise. But each small victory had helped to a degree, and that meant something. I tried to view this as another step forward, another step toward normalcy and returning to my own life.
Unfortunately, though - and as much as I'd admittedly been trying to put it off - my doing so had also involved finding out exactly what happened the day I'd been shot in the emergency room, to try and understand what my role in the events and their outcome truly was. Regardless of how daunting that task would certainly be, there came an instant that I realized that I wouldn't be able to move on otherwise, and I honestly didn't want to think about what might happen to me if that happened. Before that point, I had been kept almost entirely in the dark about most of the details of the shooting, as well as everything following it, simply for the sake of my wellbeing and my ability to focus on recovery. And that could've been considered a fair decision for a time at the beginning of all of this, but that particular method of keeping information unspoken couldn't go on indefinitely, and we all knew it. Soon enough, I was going be released from the hospital, and from there, I would no longer be able to hide - either intentionally or otherwise - from the facts that were surrounding this situation.
From what I knew already, the story itself and every subsequent interpretation was still circulating through various news outlets, propelling the debates over gun-control and countering drug addiction and God knows what else, without ever solving any underlying causes, before it just became one of many pieces of data for similar statistics; simply put, the memories or any other representations of the shooting were not going to be fading away any time soon. Moreover, enough time had passed for most of the information to become part of the public record, and that meant it would only be a matter of time before that information made its way to me, especially when considering how closely tied I was to the circumstances. So it was determined - albeit reluctantly - that it was in my best interest to be prepared for anything and everything I might hear. Still, when Nadir and Christine finally came to speak to me about it, I quickly understood why the decision to do so had been delayed - why they were hesitant to speak in more detail than was absolutely necessary. When all was said and done, out of the total number of people that had been attacked, it was easier to count who survived than who was dead - it wasn't a record-breaking mass shooting, but still enough to be considered notable.
"I need to know all of what happened," I said impatiently once Nadir finished giving me a basic synopsis of the event. It was early-evening when we chose to have this conversation, and I was already agitated by that factor alone - I hated that part of the day. Whether I was acting as a surgeon or a patient, there was something about the coming nighttime in hospitals that left me decidedly uneasy, and for a moment I regretted insisting on talking about any of this when I had. But there was no changing what I had set into motion, either, and not being told the whole story was unacceptable - it wasn't enough. Christine was sitting closely next to me on the side of the bed, Nadir hunched tensely in a chair across from us; by then, my feeding tube was gone, the PICC line currently detached from the IV pole, and my ability to move around on my own had improved - not to the point of being entirely painless yet, but that in combination with the other factors that contributed to my freedom meant I could stand up and raise my voice to demand answers, if it came down to it. But still, I didn't want that to happen. So instead, I attempted to explain evenly once more, "Please, I need you to tell me what happened. Everything."
Nadir sighed, "Do you think you're ready to hear everything, though?"
"I think that's a loaded question. But I can't just let this go, we both know that."
Another sigh, now of resignation, but just the same he said everything that he was able to then - explained the number of injuries, the number of casualties in greater detail than he had before, now speaking the names of the dead almost reverently. Although I wasn't surprised that he had. Because this wasn't something that we were recounting to one another after hearing an abstract version of it on the news, or something we passed on from overhearing our coworkers talk about it on our way to finish another task. Rather, this specific act of violence was one that was experienced firsthand by everyone in this room, had happened to our own and to the patients we were meant to care for, where we'd worked almost every day for years, and in turn had affected us all in some way or another; it was impossible to ignore those affects when Nadir spoke now - it was impossible to be objective anymore.
"They mostly targeted doctors, and we lost one of our ER residents," Nadir continued slowly, "And Jason Herrera - "
" - The paramedic?"
"Right. You knew him?"
"He was there with me that day. We were both outside when everything happened...he ran into the ER when I did."
"I'm sorry - "
" - Was this all because I agreed to send the drug-seeker out in the first place?" I asked sharply, seemingly out of nowhere yet finally voicing the notion that had been chipping away at my conscience for quite a while by then. I had to know if this was my fault entirely, and so I nearly begged, unsure of what I really wanted to hear, "Did he come back ready to shoot because Moreno and I wouldn't give him the drugs he wanted?"
Nadir hesitated, then, "Getting turned away drove him and his friend back here, yes. But it would've happened whether it was you or anyone else that sent him out. You had no way of knowing it would turn out the way it did, and we've both seen people like that in the past that just throw their fits and leave without more problems. Statistically, the outcome should've been completely different."
"But we had to be the goddamn statistical outliers..." I said miserably, then leaned forward stiffly and put my hand over my mouth, an almost mechanical gesture, but one made in a stunned silence from then on. I couldn't find any further words for this reaction, couldn't describe the storm that was taking place in my thoughts in that instant.
Once again, it occurred to me that I had known all of the people that we'd discussed - I had known them, and the majority of them were dead and gone. I'd been through the sense of unreality I that felt now when I was in the Army, where every death was just another mark on a tally of people that I would never see again. Over time, I'd grown almost numb to it, had gotten too used to being on the receiving end of that kind of news. But even so, that much familiarity with death didn't make it any easier to accept, when I really thought about it. Whether I'd gotten along with the person in question or not didn't matter in the end, because the fact remained that they were dead, and it was painful to have to conceptualize, to have that reminder of mortality and the wasted time leading up to it. Quite frankly, it was disturbing enough then, and more so to experience again now - I'd believed my retirement from my military service had meant leaving that unsettling feeling behind me for good. Having it return to me in Chicago was terrifying.
Christine attempting to get my attention finally broke through the haze in my mind, but it was another handful of seconds before I realized that she'd made that attempt more than once.
"Erik," she repeated, "Talk to me, honey."
And I did so, still thinking about the Army when I asked both of them, yet neither of them at once, "They didn't, ah...No one was alone when they died, right?"
"That's right," Nadir said gently, even solemnly - and with no small amount of bittersweet relief, I knew that he wasn't saying that just for my sake.
I only nodded, then, "What about me? What happened to me?"
"Erik, I'm not sure if - "
" - Just tell me."
"Alright. Your heart had stopped - "
" - I already knew that - "
But he held up a hand to stall further interruptions on my part, saying with clearly forced evenness, "It was long enough that you were close to being pronounced."
That was unexpected, and I asked warily, "How close?"
When Nadir hesitated, Christine said, so softly that I'd almost missed her words, yet even so, they held as much force as they would have if she'd screamed her answer, "Fifteen minutes. Moreno thought it was time to call it, and Nadir asked for fifteen more minutes to keep trying," she continued, and though she looked away from me, she took ahold of my hand and said, "I think the nurse's notes put you responding at thirteen."
What I was hearing now was incredibly overwhelming, and nearly more than I could take in; I had to take a deep breath and clear my throat before I could speak again, "What changed?"
"Patience," Nadir said, "Endurance. Maybe even a fucking miracle, if we get right down to it," he added with a humorless laugh, "It really was a longshot, but it just didn't feel right to stop before then. You almost didn't make it, but - "
" - Stop," I whispered brokenly, "That's it, I need this to stop."
He assented with a slow nod, and although I didn't miss the look of sympathy that he gave me for my reaction, I was completely silent for a time after that. Suddenly, the gravity of everything I had just heard - the undeniable implications that followed everything that they were telling me - became so strong that I'd almost felt like I was going to suffocate under the weight of this new knowledge. In spite of asking to hear this, it seemed that I truly wasn't ready after all. I'd known that my injuries were severe enough to warrant critical care measures to be taken, and I had certainly been afraid before I lost consciousness that I might very well be killed as a result of being shot - but to actually have that fear confirmed now, to hear it justified and then have to face off with the fact that I was so much closer to death than I had realized, was beyond jarring. I'd had close-calls in the past, but never to this extent, never to the point that escaping that fate with my own life intact could be considered anything less than astonishing. Somehow, that factor was nearly as difficult to consider as the overlying circumstances had been for me - almost as unsettling as anything else that I'd learned in the course of this discussion. For several moments following the revelation, I had to very mindfully tell myself to stay calm, to deliberately remember to not lose myself altogether in the steadily rising panic that I was feeling - because honestly, it was incredibly tempting to do so then.
Absently noting that Christine had taken my hand tightly in hers once again, I had just barely acknowledged the contact all the same, only giving her the most minor indication that I had felt her presence there with me at all. And fighting to maintain at least some semblance of composure afterward, I could only shake my head when Nadir softly asked me if I'd wanted or needed to hear anything else from him. At my negative response, he stood up and rested his hand firmly on my shoulder in a gesture of comfort, before graciously excusing himself to leave Christine and I alone to process this together. He had done his part, I knew how difficult that was for him, appreciated what he'd given to me - but I was grateful when he recognized that I had to settle down, and thus had allowed this quiet moment to follow.
"I won't ask you if you're alright, because I know you're not," Christine said when it was just the two of us in the room - and she seemed very near tears when she looked up at me and spoke again, "I just wish I could do something to help."
My response was immediate, though my voice faltered, "Just...don't leave."
She accepted that request rather quickly, somewhat surprising me in the next moment by leaning in closer and capturing my mouth in a firm kiss - one of so many that each of us had been attempting to restore over the time we spent together in this room, sharing in an unspoken fight to repair everything that was shattered before. But as soon as I tried to return that kiss in equal measure, I'd somehow managed to move too sharply in the process, and the resulting pain in my chest and my strangled cry broke us apart in an instant. Unable to speak when she asked me what was wrong, asked what she could do, I just closed my eyes tightly against that pain, balled my hands into fists in the fabric of my scrubs to wait it out. But even so, it resonated for several moments before I felt like I could breathe evenly again, distantly aware of the fact that Christine had carefully rested her hands on my sides to help me regain some stability. When I'd finally felt ready to open my eyes again, a part of me was almost furious to realize that this would be my new normal until I was fully recovered; I absolutely hated that, as much as I hated everything else about this traumatic and devastating situation.
Any lingering pain I felt from then on would only serve as another harsh reminder of everything that had happened - there was no escaping it, and that truth was exceedingly bitter.
