Clara tipped her head in confusion. The only type of 'stroke' she had ever heard of was of one given to a cat.
Janeece understood her confusion with the term. "It's when the blood that comes from the body to the head gets cut off. Not permanently, but temporarily – enough time to cause problems."
"Problems like what?"
She had to think for a few moments. "Speech…memory…emotional problems…confusion…" She could see the young girl's face come over more and more marauded with fear. "But no one would know if he has all of those sorts of problems till he's gotten better. And sometimes they don't happen for a few weeks or months after he's discharged."
"I don't want him to be sick," she said in a low voice.
"I know you don't and neither does anyone else. But the thing is, if he gets sick he's going to need people to help him. That might mean he'll need you." She located Tom's number on her phonebook and called it. "S-Sir, it's me. I don't mean to interrupt you during the weekend, but…"
"No it's fine, Janeece," his voice came out thick with surprise at hearing her on the other end. "Is everything ok? Have you heard back about Chris?"
"Y-yeah, Clara and I saw him a few hours ago." She noticed the young male's daughter had curled up on the sofa. "They could be right about the stroke."
A small pause ensued. "He's really that bad?"
"No, not from what they could see, but…he freaked out a little. Not only that but he can't remember anything about the accident." Janeece made to peer out of the window, noticing it pour down outside. "He wants to see you."
Chris woke up during the late afternoon. He was inwardly crestfallen at realising he didn't feel he had a good enough rest despite sleeping for a couple of hours. He slowly peered up to see that a nurse had just taken his temperature by removing the thermometer from his mouth.
"How do you feel?" She stroked his dark bangs back over his forehead.
"Sick," he dimly replied, thankful that no more objects were going to invade any parts of him for some time.
"Someone wants to see you," she explained, "but if you still feel tired you can go back to sleep and I get them to come back."
"No," he made to sit up but she helped him to do so, "I wanna see them now."
She left the room and escorted Tom into the small room. "He may tire a little as he still needs his sleep, but he'll be ok for a few minutes," she explained.
He thanked her and went over to the bed.
"You ok?" Chris couldn't help but feel daft at asking him such a question. If anything he should be asked that, given his situation.
"I should be asking you that question," he teased mildly, taking hold of his shoulder and squeezing it. "You don't look too good right now, you know."
"I don't feel it," he admitted, "but then again I don't remember anything about the accident."
"I know," he replied, "but in time you might. It doesn't have to take long for you to piece it all together."
"That's sort of why you're here," he stated loosely.
"Chris…" The older male rubbed his shoulder comfortingly. "Mate…you shouldn't be worrying yourself about that, not now. You need to rest."
He cast his gaze down onto the blankets, sadly.
"Recovering from the accident and the surgery and the stroke…it all takes time. It doesn't happen overnight and you yourself should know that."
"I feel fine," he spoke in a low voice.
"That wasn't the impression Janeece got when she and Clara came to see you," he told him. "Losing your short-term memory isn't that uncommon after a stroke, and I know getting angry very easily isn't like you. But it's manifested from what happened in theatre, and you can get help for it. Hospitals like this…they've got specialist stroke units and it might not be as an inpatient. If you sought help for it you'd be saving us all a lot of worry. And we're very worried for you right now."
"I don't mean to worry anyone," he admitted, "but I don't want anyone to see that I can't cope."
"I know, and that's 'cause you've always helped your little girl," Tom stated softly, "but you've got to think about yourself now. I know you don't wanna be here, no one does, but you're in the best possible place if anything goes wrong. When you're out we can maybe think about trying to get you remember, but that isn't going to help until the physical problems are fixed first."
The younger of the two remained very still and quiet, as if inwardly moping about his plan backfiring. He felt a small ache in the back of his head but he switched it off.
"You're starting to look tired," he noted suddenly. "You want me to get you anything?"
He shook his head weakly.
"Wow," he stated, "that's a first, coming from you."
"I don't think I'm allowed anything," he replied dimly.
"Whatever happens, I'm here for you," the older spoke firmly. "You've been there for me when I've had problems."
"You don't have to do that," he protested, amiably refusing the offer of help.
"No, I wanna be here for you." He squeezed him comfortingly. "I just wish I knew who it was who did this to you so I could make them pay for it."
"I hate to start to sound like you, mate, but that isn't going to help at this point." He stated weakly. "You're right, I shouldn't have to worry about remembering anything, but…it's just the fact that I'm not able to. And as for the anger…I can't explain it, but something's turning it on and off."
"The doctors will help you with that," he reiterated. "They've come across this lots of times."
He drew in a small sigh, feeling his ribs ache a little.
"I should let you sleep," he tousled his bangs before pulling away from the bed. "Now you make sure you do what the nurses tell you to."
A week had gone by, and Chris was able to go home. Tom parked up outside the hospital and asked to see him.
He waited outside in the main ward whilst the nurses helped him to get out of bed and get ready to go. He was surprised to find that he actually looked a lot better than he did when he was taken there.
"He still gets headaches," the doctor told him, "but that's from the concussion. He's been prescribed some painkillers for post-operative relief, but he can use them for the headaches if they persist."
He nodded in acknowledgement.
"He has been going to the stroke unit to help with the anger issues, and it's helped him. He will have to keep going there until the therapists are happy to discharge him, but he only has to go for an hour once a week as an outpatient."
"What about his memory?" Tom wanted to know.
"Well, he hasn't mentioned the accident, if that's what you meant."
"When should he start to remember anything?"
The doctor shrugged. "It can happen at any time. The headaches he gets indicate that he's using too much of his energy to remember, so he can't be made to recall every single detail just like that. And the worst thing anyone could do is force him. He will remember, but he'll need to be given time for it."
The young male was helped into the other's car and taken back to his place. Everything that had gone on over the past week and a bit had taken its toll on him, and he'd lost track of his own situation before the accident. "Where's Clara?"
"She's staying with Janeece," Tom replied, "and she's done a very good job with her, I might add." He got him to sit down on the sofa, then took hold of his legs and lifted them onto it. "Now is there anything you want?" He looked to him enquiringly.
Chris shook his head. "No, you can go now, mate."
"I'm not going yet," he stated, "not till I know you're safe to be left by yourself."
He thought it best not to disagree and remained very still where he was sitting.
"Do you feel cold? I can get you a blanket if you've got a spare one," he offered.
He drew in a barely audible sigh. "You can use the one on my bed if you want," he supposed.
Out of the corner of his eye he watched the older male disappear into his room to retrieve the blanket in question, choosing those few seconds to inwardly carp about having someone look after him. Since when did he need anyone to watch over him?
"There," he came back and wrapped the thick blanket warmly over him, "that's better. We don't want you getting a chill."
"Tom, I wouldn't –"
"Now then," he placed his hands on his hips, not done with him yet, "you want me to get you something? I can go out and do that if you want."
"I don't know if I'm hungry."
"Sure you are," Tom stated. "The operation has probably made you feel nauseous and they wouldn't have let you go if they didn't think you were up for eating. I know what being in hospital can do to you. It can make you feel dizzy and tired…but if you eat something – it doesn't have to be a lot – it won't take as long for you to feel better."
"O-ok," he uneasily agreed, "but I don't want anything heavy." Not only did he hear his stomach rumble, he also felt it.
Once Tom was happy the younger male had managed something, he kept a very close eye on him. An hour had passed since he'd eaten, and within that time he was showing signs of exhaustion. "Feeling tired?"
"No." On that note, Chris tried to perk up and seem more awake, but it didn't last long and he simply flagged all the more.
"I think you are," the older of the two helped him up, taking him into an embrace of which made it look as though he was escorting a drunkard back to his place after a heavy night out.
The doctors explained that he was fine to walk as long as it wasn't too far, and an approximate guess of nine paces from where they were to his bed was probably not excessive.
He kept one arm around his waist, inwardly worried at the fact that he'd lost a little bit of fat around his middle. He knew that was down to him being on an IV diet, but he was convinced his appetite would come back and he'd feel better. He helped him onto the bed, pulling the covers away for him to get in.
"I'm going to be off once you go to sleep," he explained, "so is there anything you want when I come back tomorrow?"
"Umm, yeah." He peered up at him slowly. "How about you don't come back?"
He smirked to himself. "Don't get lippy." He tousled his dark bangs, which had fallen flat from being bedridden. "If you wanna get better you're going to need help."
"How long is this going to take?" Chris's voice came out pale and thin.
Tom came over more sombre. "As long as it has to."
"But that could take weeks…maybe a few months."
"I said I would be here for you." He spoke firmly. "That's if you want me to help you remember everything."
He said nothing but nestled further down into the sheets, already feeling the urge to sleep. "You'll want me to let you in, unless you take my key." He appeared to be squirming under the bedclothes, only to move his arm from underneath to grab hold of his keys that were on his nightstand. "I guess I won't be able to drive yet, either," he supposed dejectedly.
"No, but on that note, I can get your car back for you," he suggested.
"Get…my car back…why? Where is it?"
The older male frowned. "You're having me on, aren't you?" He seriously hoped that he was.
"It's outside," he spoke weakly, "where it always is after I come back from anywhere."
"No, it isn't." Tom came closer to the bed. "Your car was where you left it before the accident – in the school car park. You didn't drive home that day, remember? You were admitted to the hospital."
The younger male came over silent and thoughtful. "I feel stupid."
"No, don't." He placed a hand against the top of his head. "Don't feel bad and don't feel stupid. We know your memory isn't all that good. Everything will get pieced together, and you may not remember it all in the order it happened, but that doesn't make you thick or slow. You've heard firsthand about kids' experiences of trauma, well, this is around about the same."
"If you say so," his voice tailed off from exhaustion, and it was then that he realised he'd fallen into a deep sleep.