March 3, 2024
Sometimes, when you are dreaming, you know that you are dreaming. Things might seem real enough, but there are usually signs, little things that are out of place, subtle clues that something is amiss.
Right now, you are not dreaming. Nor are you awake. You are idling, somewhere in between, a willing prisoner at the bottom of a deep, dark chasm. And there is a pleasant, sticky warmth, an almost numbing placidity, that is weighing you down and preventing you from making your way to the surface.
That is until, from somewhere in the distance, there comes a plea.
Open your eyes.
The words are faint, initially, barely audible. And thus, they are easily dismissed.
But the pleading continues.
Open your eyes.
Open your eyes for me.
Come on, open your eyes.
There is a tickling within you, like the tugging of a single thread, something gently pulling from the outside. And with each tug, comes yet another plea.
Open your eyes.
Open your eyes.
Open.
Open.
Open.
You know not the source of this request. But one thing is certain. The threat of consciousness is imminent.
And it definitely is a threat. Because wherever you are, you are rather comfortable, and you would prefer to go on being comfortable. Waking takes time, and tremendous energy. So, you fight against it. You resist climbing out of that darkness, for as long as possible. Whatever force is tugging from the outside, it simply refuses to yield.
You begin to experience what can only be described as sensory overload. All at once, you gain awareness of many things.
There is a burning sensation in the center of your chest, the unmistakable result of both pressure and friction.
You are in transit. You detect movement, the dull hum of an engine. You can feel its vibration underneath you.
Your pants are wet. Not just damp, but thoroughly soaked.
Your chest and arms are bare. You are very cold, to the extent that your body is shivering.
Your hands, especially, are trembling. And there is something clamped onto one of your fingers.
As though that were not enough, the dull hum is interrupted by a terrible wailing. It echoes around you, like a continuous, mechanical scream. It is a horrid, all-encompassing sound. And it repeats its long refrain several times before ceasing.
Once again, there comes a plea. This time, not from far away, but from very, very close. This is not a figment of your imagination at all. Nor is it a dream. It is an actual voice, and that voice belongs to a person.
"Come on, honey," she coos. "Open your eyes."
There are knuckles rubbing against your sternum. They are pressing and digging into your flesh. You don't like it. No, you do not.
"Open your eyes," the voice repeats, more forcefully.
Fueled mostly by irritation, you finally summon the strength to acquiesce. You open your eyes.
It takes you a few seconds to keep them open long enough to focus on anything. When you do, you survey the space around you. It is fairly confined. There is a woman sitting right beside you. You have never seen her before in your life. Furthermore, you have no idea how you got here or where you are going.
There is something in your mouth, a thick wad of cloth or gauze. Your attempts to spit it out are unsuccessful. It continues to cling to your lips.
"You bit your tongue," the woman says.
Preposterous. Why would you bite your own tongue? You do not remember doing so. But when she removes the gauze from your mouth, you can taste blood.
The woman takes hold of your chin and shines a light directly into your eyes.
"Look at me, hon."
You try to turn your head, in order to thwart her. She lets go of your chin. But a stabbing pain shoots through your neck, forcing you to cry out.
"You had a seizure," she explains. "You're going to the hospital."
She must not be expecting a response, because she does not wait for you to answer. It's just as well, since you have no idea what she's talking about.
The woman presses some kind of tool against your forehead. The tool in her hand beeps. She withdraws it, muttering to herself.
"Jesus…that can't be right."
She taps the tool with frustration and presses it to your forehead again. A few seconds later, there's another beep.
The woman begins to move with more urgency. She produces several small foil sacks and arranges them around you. She puts one under each of your arms and one on top of your head. They feel like ice against your bare skin. You squirm against them, groaning. Damn these Midgardian healers and their archaic practices. You are already cold. There is no logical reason to make you even colder.
"I'm starting a central line," she advises, as if that means anything to you at all.
She turns her back to you. You wonder if, perhaps, she is through with you and is planning to leave you alone. You let your eyes fall closed. Just when you are beginning to relax, something stabs you in the shoulder. The pinch that follows does not last long. Nevertheless, it is startling enough that your eyes are wide open again.
You want very much to defend yourself against this unwarranted assault. Except that you appear to be restrained by a set of straps. Your forearms are still free. So, you reach out with your hands, hoping to grab onto something nearby. Unfortunately, your limbs are weak, and you cannot control them. Your fists flail about, smacking awkwardly into the woman. She braces herself against the wall behind her.
"I need some help over here," she yells.
You know not for whom her announcement is intended. There may be others present. If this is a vehicle or a vessel of some kind, then surely someone is piloting it. But you are facing the opposite direction and cannot see them.
Just then, a second person enters your line of vision. It is Steve Rogers. You can think of no reason for him to be here, now. And yet, here he is.
Steve crouches down beside you, grabs your wrists and presses your arms against your chest. He is incredibly strong for a mere mortal, and he subdues you with little effort. While he's obviously not trying to hurt you, you resent the gesture. You struggle against him, fruitlessly.
Whatever the woman stabbed you with, it is still in your shoulder, affixed to your skin with tape. She attaches a small contraption to it and produces a syringe.
"Pushing acetaminophen," she says, injecting the medicine into contraption, "five hundred."
She turns to Steve.
"If this guy is on something now would be the time to tell me."
"He's not on anything," Steve replies.
"He's got an awfully big bruise on his arm."
"He had an IV, but he pulled it out."
"What was in it?"
"It wasn't anything recreational, if that's what you're suggesting."
"He has a body temperature of a 107 degrees and his heart is beating almost 200 times per minute. I'm about to push adenosine to slow his heart down. If that there's any chance that seizure was caused by something other than a fever, like say...drugs, I need to know now."
Steve lets go of you and pulls something from his pocket, a folded piece of paper. He hesitates, briefly, before handing it over to the woman.
The woman regards him with confusion. She unfolds the paper and scans it quickly.
"Alright, then," she remarks, apparently satisfied.
You suddenly realize that it is becoming increasingly difficult to breathe. You were so distracted by their conversation that you somehow managed not to notice. When you begin panting, in order to take in more air, the woman flings the paper aside and turns her attention back to you.
"His sats are dropping."
Steve picks up the piece of paper, folds it up and stuffs it back in his pocket.
"What does that mean?" he asks.
"It's means that because his heart is beating too fast, he's not getting enough oxygen."
"What about the stuff you just gave him?"
"It's not working—"
She places a mask over your mouth and nose. The mask has an elastic band attached to it, which stretches to fit the circumference of your skull. The interior of the mask is emitting something cool, which you quickly deduce is the aforementioned oxygen. You inhale the gas into your lungs. As you do, the mask begins to fog up, your hot breath creating tiny beads of perspiration on the surface of the plastic.
Ordinarily, you wouldn't want anything covering your mouth or nose, regardless of its purpose. But you can breathe more easily with the mask than without it. You decide to allow it to remain on your face for now.
"Hey," the woman tells you, "keep those eyes open, okay? We're almost there."
There's a lurch. The vehicle you are traveling in comes to an abrupt stop. The doors in front of you fly open. There is a small group of people standing before you. They ogle you, expectantly, as though they were waiting for you to arrive.
The woman addresses the entire group. She speaks so rapidly that you cannot understand everything she is saying. But you suspect that she is describing you. The bed you are lying on is rolled out of the vehicle, through a set of doors and down a long corridor. You turn and turn and turn again. The corridors are never ending. Above you there are a series of bright, artificial lights, and they burn your eyes.
The woman's voice gradually fades into the background and is replaced by new voices. There are hands and faces all around you. The hands lift and move your body onto a bed. They poke and grab and pull and touch you. Every part of you.
In a very short span of time, your shoes and socks are removed, and your jeans and undergarments are cut away. You are covered almost immediately with a gown and a thin cloth. Even so, you panic at the prospect of being naked at all, let alone before an audience of strangers in a well-lit room.
The faces ask you questions that you cannot answer. Every time you close your eyes, they demand that you open them. They want you to stay awake. They keep talking to you and encouraging you to talk. Except that you can't, for some reason. So, you just stare at them.
The faces talk amongst themselves as well. They discuss you constantly, at times in graphic detail. You listen to what they are saying, even though their words are mostly meaningless to you.
Some part of you knows that this is a hospital, a place of healing. But you cannot help wondering whether this is meant to be some bizarre form of torture. Perhaps the rulers of Midgard have seen fit to withdraw their benevolence and have finally decided to punish you for your crimes.
Still, if this is meant to be torture, it is most unconventional. Among the practitioners are both men and women. But the women are especially concerned about your well-being. They hover and fuss over you like a flock of mother hens, calling you sweetie and honey and dear.
There are far too many sounds, a chorus of noises comprised of various types of machinery, footsteps, telephones ringing, people talking and laughing. The pressure within your cranium is slowly building. You fear it will eventually explode.
At last, the interrogation ceases. Once again, you are moving. Your bed is being rolled down another long hallway, and you are turning and turning. This time, however, you are taken away from all the noise and bright lights to a room that is dimly lit and very quiet.
Steve Rogers is there, and a small woman with dark hair. She and Steve are both oddly dressed. They are wearing paper aprons and hats, and latex gloves. They also have masks on their faces, so their mouths are obscured. When they speak to one another, you cannot understand them. Their voices sound fuzzy and strange.
You are alarmed when Steve begins rolling you onto your side. You don't have the strength to resist him. Nor, can you resist when he bends your legs at the knee and pushes them upwards, closer and closer to your torso. He holds your legs in place, so that you cannot move them. It is not a comfortable position at all.
Beside you, on your bed, lay a web of intersecting wires and tubes. It's unclear precisely how or where they are connected to your body. But they must be important, because the small woman rearranges them with great care. On your left wrist, there is a white bracelet with some kind of writing on it. Your vision is blurry, and you cannot make out what it says. Lurking beneath your confusion is the vague understanding that these things are good. Or at the very least, they are not bad. They are not intended to harm you but are there for your benefit.
The small woman moves behind you. You can make out her individual fingers, crawling along your back and pressing into your skin. You panic, as you consider the possibility that you are unclothed. No, you decide. You are still wearing a gown. You deduce that it must open in the back.
You gasp when you detect something sharp, piercing your flesh. Attempts to turn your head are once again rewarded with a stabbing pain in your neck.
You feel immense pressure against your spine. It is a sensation you have never experienced before in your life, and you don't much like it. The pain in your neck begins to radiate down your torso and into your pelvis and legs. And then, absolutely everything hurts. The ache is dull at first, but it quickly becomes nearly intolerable. Though you cannot hear yourself, you know that you are whimpering.
Thor materializes before you. Not as a man, but a young boy, his face still chubby and his head a mess of blonde curls. He leans against the side of your bed, his round, little cheeks framing a satisfied grin.
"Only babies cry," he informs you.
You long to say something clever in return, or just conjure something and throw it at him.
Little Thor sticks out his tongue. You close your eyes, so you don't have to see his stupid face. Even so, you can still hear him, taunting you.
You have no idea what is going on. This is all so surreal that you begin to suspect that it is a nightmare. You need only to wake up and it will all be over.
Wake up, you think, as though you might somehow will it to happen. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.
The other people in the room are oblivious to Thor's presence. You try to cough or make some kind of noise to get their attention. You produce a rather pathetic squeak, which prompts Steve to glance in your direction. He either cannot see Thor, or he does not care. He says something to you. Once again, his voice is fuzzy and strange. But among all his garbled words, one is perfectly clear.
Erik.
You forgot all about Erik. Where is Erik? Shouldn't he be here?
Yes, Thor would never do this if Erik were here. Erik would tell Thor to behave himself. Erik would tell Thor to be nice. And Thor would listen to Erik.
But for some reason, Erik isn't here. And you have no reason to believe that he will be anytime soon. You conclude that whatever is happening, no matter how terrible, it cannot possibly go on forever. Nothing can go on forever. You simply need to be patient, to wait it out. There is no need to lose your composure, especially in the presence of other people.
Thor is right. Only babies cry. You are so determined to control yourself, to not give in to your fear, that you begin to tremble from your efforts.
At last, the pressure in your back abates. Steve straightens your legs and guides you onto your back. You are still in pain, but you can at least relax, somewhat.
Steve and the small woman leave the room and another man enters. The man is carrying something, which he drapes across your entire body. It looks like a blanket, but you quickly learn that it is not. Whatever it is, it is heavy and cold.
You are already cold, however. You have no desire to be any colder. For once, you want a real blanket, something thick and warm, and made of fur. You want to curl up by a great fire and sip steaming, hot broth.
The man exits the room. You lie there, shifting and squirming in a vain attempt to get comfortable. No matter how you position yourself, you are in pain. Your every muscle aches and trembles. You push at the dreadful, cold thing that is covering you and it falls to the floor.
The door opens again, and the small woman enters. First, she retrieves the item from the floor and drapes it back over your body. She says something to you that you cannot understand. Then, she was walks around the side of your bed. You cannot see what she is doing. You can feel her touching the port that is attached to your shoulder, injecting something into it, perhaps. There is an intense rush of warmth within you, and all of your pain rapidly fades away. You don't even feel cold anymore, not really. You try to stay awake, so that you can enjoy it. But you are suddenly extremely tired.
You sleep. You know not for how long. You know only that you do not dream. You are slowly lured back into consciousness by a faint and steady beeping.
You lick your lips. They are dry and cracked. There's a foul taste in your mouth, sour and metallic, a combination of blood and something else you cannot place.
The heavy, cold thing that was covering you earlier is gone. You feel rather warm now. You are actually perspiring a bit, even though there is nothing atop you but a thin blanket.
You are not in the same room as before. This one is slightly larger. It is more brightly lit, and it has a window in the corner.
A woman in a green tunic is fiddling with the machinery beside your bed. You want her to tell you what she is doing, or explain what is happening. She does neither.
She turns and smiles at you.
"Your dad is here," is all she says.
Then, she leaves the room.
You glimpse at the door. For a split second, you fully expect to see Odin come rushing in. You experience a pang of fear, as you contemplate what consequences might await you. Consequences for what, you're not even sure. You haven't done anything. Have you? It's entirely possible that you did something heinous and you just forgot. But then, you make out the silhouette of a familiar figure approaching, and it is definitely not Odin.
Erik tells you that he got here as quickly as he possibly could. Apparently, Dr. Chen wanted to look him over and thought it would be better if Steve rode with you in the ambulance.
"In hindsight," he jokes, "it probably would have been better if we'd sent Jane."
Though the finer details continue to remain hazy, you recall that which precipitated your arrival at the hospital, including your ride in the ambulance. Erik had been dreadfully ill for some time. After some prompting, and with some assistance from Steve, Jane and Dr. Chen, you attempted to heal him. You must have been successful, or he would not be standing here, now.
A small woman in a white coat enters your room. You recognize her from before. She introduces herself as Dr. Patel and informs you that you have something called bacterial meningitis.
"When you arrived," she says, "we inserted a lumboperitoneal shunt to reduce your intracranial pressure."
You know that Dr. Patel is speaking to you. While you are relieved that you can understand her words, you are unmotivated to respond. Not only are you incredibly weak and tired, but you have no idea what she is talking about. None of this feels real. It is almost as though you are watching a performance or a play.
Erik studies your face, visibly concerned about your lack of reaction. Normally, you detest having others speak for you. It is unnerving, even to you, just how little you care right now. You are sick. For all you know, you might even be dying. But you want nothing more than to just shut your eyes and let everyone else sort it out.
"Loss of speech and altered mental status are fairly typical with this type of infection," Dr. Patel provides. "It is usually temporary."
"If he was exposed to meningitis, at some point," Erik asks, "wouldn't other people have gotten sick as well?"
"Not necessarily. Bacterial meningitis is not that contagious. It's an opportunistic infection. It tends to attack people whose immune systems are weak or compromised."
"Compromised," Erik echoes. "To what extent?"
"Significantly, I imagine. I don't understand exactly what Loki doing before his symptoms presented. But whatever it was, it rendered him extremely vulnerable to infection. The pathologists who analyzed his blood theorized that he does not have an acquired immune system as we do. His body regards all pathogens equally. For us this would not work, because our innate immune systems are not powerful enough. Viruses mutate and we have to constantly adapt in order to keep up with them. His immune system is normally so powerful that it doesn't need to recognize individual pathogens in order to fight them off. But his body is not used to targeting specific pathogens. So, in his current state, he has no defense against them."
"But it is treatable, right? Humans recover from meningitis all the time."
"Correct. Though he is not human, his physiology is similar enough. And having baseline labs was tremendously helpful. We've reduced his fever and stabilized his heart rate. Enough to buy us time to diagnose the underlying illness. Since his body is responding predictably to those therapies, we believe the best course of action is to proceed as we would with any other patient and treat the infection with both antibiotics and corticosteroids. The steroids will reduce the swelling around his brain and give the antibiotics a chance to work."
"How long before you know whether the treatment is effective?"
"No less than forty-eight hours. Even so, he should remain here for a minimum of seven days for observation. And the shunt will probably have to be removed, of course. But that can be done later, as an outpatient procedure."
Out of the corner of your eye, you watch another woman enter your room. She is pushing a small cart. She approaches a metal stand next to your bed and removes an empty plastic bag from it. Afterwards, she hangs two new bags in its place.
She notices your eyes on the empty bag.
"That was just saline," she offers, "to keep you hydrated."
Hydrated. You know how hydration works. Fluid goes into your body and, sooner or later, it comes out again. Both of which normally require some active participation on your part.
She notes your confusion and exchanges a worried glance with Erik.
He squeezes your hand and waits for you to look at him.
"Try not to think about it," he says.
After Dr. Patel and the other woman exit your room, you stare at Erik for a long time. Though you cannot bring yourself to care about the details of your condition or treatment, you are admittedly thankful that Erik is here now to manage things out on your behalf. If you don't have the energy to speak, you want to make an effort to stay awake for him. You owe him that much. But you end up closing your eyes and, before you know it, you are asleep again.
You wake periodically, throughout the day. Random people enter your room, constantly. Thankfully, they never stay for long. Whenever you open your eyes, you find yourself checking to make sure that Erik is still there. And whenever he catches you looking at him, he touches you, as if to further reassure you of his presence.
Erik seems different, somehow, stronger and more confident. It's strange to see him moving with such ease. And yet, there's unique sort of gentleness to him, in the way that he smiles with his entire face, and his voice makes all of his words softer around the edges.
As night falls, your pain returns with a vengeance.
You've been in pain before, far worse pain than this. The difference is that this pain is continuous. It just goes on and on. And you have no way of knowing when, or if, it will end.
You writhe against the mattress, as you contemplate your situation. You are trapped in this bed, like an infant who is unable to care for himself. Humans are likely accustomed to such frailties. You are not. There were occasions, during your childhood, when you felt like this. Not ill, necessarily, but certainly feeble and pathetic. You learned, early on, to conceal your weaknesses, lest they be used against you.
You scan the space around you, searching desperately for some potential distraction. But the room is almost entirely dark, and your eyes cannot focus on anything. You are momentarily overcome with self-pity. You fear that you actually may cry.
Erik rises from his seat, and hovers over you, briefly. While you would gladly accept any remedy that would put an end to this ordeal, no matter how ludicrous, you cannot allow him to know that you are suffering.
You know that you are being ridiculous. You take some deep breaths, steeling yourself. You are determined to endure this without complaint. The last thing you want to do is embarrass Erik or cause him distress. But your fists and jaw are still clenched, and you cannot disguise the fact that your face is drenched in sweat.
Erik dashes out of the room. He returns right away, bringing with him a young man in a long, white coat.
"I'm Dr. Hall," he offers. "What can I do for you?"
You blink back at him, and then at Erik.
"I thought you were giving him something for the pain," Erik prompts.
"Oh, I'm sure we are," the man returns. "Let me just..."
Dr. Hall pushes a button and activates a monitor on the wall. He scrolls his finger along the screen and mumbles to himself as he scans the information.
"Seizure...fever...shunt...meningitis...antibiotics and steroids..."
He turns to Erik.
"Looks like he's getting intravenous morphine. He had a bolus about two hours ago."
"Maybe you're not giving him enough."
"Ten milligrams is on the high side. It's pretty much the maximum dosage."
"His metabolism is considerably accelerated. Might that alter the efficacy of the drug?"
Dr. Hall deactivates the screen. He washes his hands at the sink and approaches your bed.
"I need to examine you," he tells you.
When you say nothing, Dr. Hall addresses Erik instead.
"I need to examine him."
Just as before, Erik touches you and waits until you look at him. Except that, this time, he doesn't squeeze your hand. He just taps your arm.
"It will be alright," he says.
"Loki, is it?" Dr. Hall pries, nervously. "That's uh...an unusual name."
Dr. Hall peels the blanket away from your torso and gathers it around your waist. Then, he tugs on your gown until your abdomen is exposed. He kneads at your flesh with the tips of his fingers.
Your abdomen is sore. Technically, your entire body is sore. When the doctor's fingers land on a particularly tender spot, you suck in your breath. Any remaining doubt about the extent of physical weakness is promptly extinguished. You grip the guardrails of your bed, using all of your strength, and the flimsy, plastic material remains intact.
Dr. Hall stops what he's doing, and darts out of the room.
"I'll be right back," he calls, over his shoulder.
He returns immediately, pushing what resembles a small desk with a computer screen on it. He parks it next to your bed. Some sort of wand is attached to the desk via a long cord. Dr. Hall puts on a pair of latex gloves. He retrieves a bottle of gel, which he squirts onto one end of the wand. Then, he rubs the wand against the surface of your abdomen.
He is clearly trying to be gentle. It matters not. Even his subtle ministrations cause you significant discomfort. You breathe, raggedly, as you continue to grip the guardrail of your bed.
Dr. Hall wipes the gel from your abdomen with a paper towel. After he throws the soiled paper into the waste bin, he lowers your gown and pulls your blanket back into place. Then, he peels off his gloves and tosses them into the bin as well.
"The shunt looks good," he reports. "I don't see any blockage or over drainage. There is some swelling, but that's to be expected."
"What about the pain?" Erik asks.
"As I previously stated, he's getting intravenous morphine. He had a bolus at seven o'clock. He'll be getting another in about 2 hours."
"Like hell he will," Erik declares, angrily.
"I'm sorry?"
"I want to speak to Dr. Patel. Where is she? Is she not the attending physician?"
Dr. Hall nods, apprehensively.
"She's on call. I can page her if..."
"On call," Erik interrupts. "You're telling me she's not even here?"
"Ordinarily, she would be. She had to attend a fundraiser. I know that she planned to come back in before going home for the night."
"When will that be?"
"Eleven, maybe eleven-thirty?"
Erik glances at the clock on the wall.
"It's barely nine."
"Loki has a shunt, diverting excess cerebrospinal fluid to his peritoneal cavity. Some discomfort is to be expected."
Erik takes a step towards Dr. Hall.
"Look at him," he says, pointing at you. "I want you to look at him and tell me that he's experiencing some discomfort. Tell me you'd trade places with him, if you had to."
"Pain is relative—"
"You are a doctor, aren't you?" Erik demands, gruffly. "Or are you just a student?"
Dr. Hall takes a step back.
"Yes, I am a doctor. I'm a third year resident, internal medicine."
Erik squares his shoulders and puffs out his chest.
"Internal medicine includes the management of pain, does it not?"
"Of course, it does—"
"Then, stop making excuses and do your damn job."
You are, admittedly, fascinated by the drama unfolding before you.
Dr. Hall tugs, nervously, at the lapel of his coat. He is roughly the same height and build as Erik, but considerably younger. Yet, he is clearly intimidated.
"Right...well, Loki is obviously very different than...other patients we've had. And his systolic is definitely elevated. I guess I can give him some Codeine to tide him over until Dr. Patel returns. She can decide what to do from there."
Dr. Hall leaves the room again and returns with a syringe. He puts on yet another pair of latex gloves, uncaps the syringe and injects its contents directly into the little plastic port that is attached to your shoulder. Your pain subsides, somewhat, though not quite as thoroughly as before. You are no longer in agony, at least.
When the two of you are alone again, Erik sings a song to you in Swedish. You understand enough to know that it is about a bear that is sleeping. Some part of you appreciates that it is a nursery rhyme, and most likely intended for young children. Nevertheless, the sound of it is comforting. Under any other circumstances, you would undoubtedly be embarrassed to be on the receiving end of such attention. Right now, it is a welcome respite from your new reality, one which consists either of sleep or pain, or some combination of both.
