Chapter ten: Practice Makes Perfect
(November 20th-21st)
"Good morning, Lieutenant!" called that obscenely cheerful voice at eight in the morning, startling Steve from his deep concentration. Marcus laughed at his shocked expression.
"What? Did I startle you?"
Steve made a rude gesture, and Marcus laughed again. Steve, already exasperated with the young man, threw the tablet he had been writing on at him.
Marcus caught the tablet in mid air. "Well, it's good to know you can still use body language," he said.
Steve stuck out his tongue and pointed expectantly at the tablet. Marcus had dropped by his dad's office before leaving yesterday to give him a child's writing tablet with solid and dashed guidelines and a model alphabet for Steve to practice his writing. Steve could tell from Marcus' expression as he flipped through the pages that the young man was pleased with his progress.
"Excellent, Steve. Just excellent. At this rate, you'll be working on cursive in a week."
Steve grinned.
"Did you manage to make a list of the people you want me to meet with to explain your condition and get them to help you?"
Steve nodded.
"Words, Steve."
"Ye-ehs" Steve said, nodding again, and opening the top of his tray table, he pulled out a sheet of paper that had obviously been torn from the tablet. He handed it to Marcus and watched proudly as the young man unfolded it and read.
Across the top, in Dr. Sloan's distinctive hand, it read, 'I want you to know this was all Steve's idea. After I figured out who he wanted, I spelled out the names for him, he found the letters and wrote them down.' Below that was a list of names in a childlike scrawl: Dad, Jesse, Amanba, Cheryl, Aleks.
"Oh, this is good, Steve, very good," Marcus praised him, all the while thinking how sad it was that such a man as this couldn't even spell his friends' names anymore, even with help. He knew Dr. Sloan had seen the errors, but probably hadn't had the heart to correct them. Quickly weighing the benefits of correcting the errors now against the risks of undermining Steve's enthusiasm, Marcus decided he'd better let the mistakes slide.
"Ok, since you're in the mood to write, let's work on that this morning."
"'Kay," Steve said, and Marcus was pleased to note that he had stopped dragging the word out. It was amazing how much progress this determined man had made already, and Marcus hoped it would continue until he was fully recovered.
Marcus placed his backpack on the foot of the bed and proceeded to root through it. First, he dug out a collapsible easel and set it up. Then he took out a folding corkboard, opened it up, locked the panels in place, and attached it to the easel. Finally, he took out a large sheet of newsprint, unfolded it, and tacked it to the corkboard.
"We are going to make an idea web," he explained, helping Steve to sit up on the edge of the bed so he could work at the easel. "We start with the main idea in the middle and branch out with related ideas all around it. Of course, those related ideas have other ideas connected to them, and everything ends up being tied together, and that's why it's a web. Understand?"
Steve nodded, and then shook his head.
"Words."
"Ye-essino."
Marcus drew a big circle in the middle of the paper. "You'll get it as we go along. This idea web is going to be about you, so write your name in the circle."
Steve put the pen to the paper three times before he looked at Marcus and said, "Oooooell."
"I'm sorry, Steve, I don't understand."
Steve grabbed the writing tablet and, pointing to the sample alphabet, said, "Oooell. Aiii-wye."
"You need me to spell it for you?"
Steve nodded. "Ye-es. Aiii-wye," he made writing motions at the easel.
"Ok," Marcus agreed, "but then you have to say each of the letters and all the words back to me, all right?"
"'Kay."
Marcus spelled Steve's name slowly and carefully, and Steve dutifully pronounced each letter until he found it on the sample alphabet and wrote it down. As Steve looked for the letters, Marcus noticed that he always started with a. Making a mental note to watch that behavior, Marcus decided to let it go for a while. It could be something that would take care of itself in a few days or even just a few hours, or it could be a problem with remembering sequences, in which case he would have to address it later.
When Steve had finished writing his whole name, Marcus said, "Good. Now, say your name."
Today, there was no reluctance to try, though there was some hesitation on the first attempt. "Sssteeeve. Steve!"
"Very good." Marcus drew a line from the circle with Steve's name in it and put another, smaller circle at the other end. The idea web now looked like a lopsided barbell. "Now tell me something that's important to you."
Steve thought a moment, then smiled. Then he whistled in imitation of a siren, twirled his finger in the air over his head as if it were a strobe light, then adopted a firing stance and held his hands before him as a gun. He managed to hold his position for about ten seconds before he started to tip sideways and Marcus had to grab his arm and steady him.
"Hey, your balance is improving," Marcus commented.
Steve nodded. "Ye-es."
"Now, you were saying, I think, that the police department is important to you, is that correct?"
"Ye-es."
"Ok, I'm going to list some words about your job, and I want you to say each of them back to me. Then you can pick the one you want in that circle, ok?"
"'Kay."
Marcus said each word slowly. Instead of being insulted, as he had been the day before, Steve was intent. He listened carefully and repeated each word back as well as he could.
"Police."
"Pleece."
"Lieutenant."
"Loo-tent."
"Homicide."
"Ahm-sighed."
"Detective."
"Dee-tek-tiv."
Steve grinned, and Marcus had to smile back. He'd got it on the first try.
"Ooell deetektiv. Aiii-wye." Steve turned to the easel with a smile on his face.
They spent the entire morning working on the idea web. Steve wrote each letter carefully and as neatly as possible as he pronounced it, and when he finished each word, he spelled it again and, with prompting from Marcus, said it until he got it right at least once. Attached to 'detective' were the words 'police,' 'lieutenant,' 'homicide,' 'partner,' and 'Cheryl'. In a small circle near the bottom was the word 'gun,' and Marcus suspected that Steve viewed firearms as a necessary tool of the trade, no more, and no less. Also connected to Steve's work were the names of some of his colleagues, including Tanis, Newman, and Chief.
The word 'friends' came out from 'Steve Sloan,' at another point and connected with 'Cheryl' and 'Tanis'; attached to it were also the names 'Jesse,' 'Marcus,' 'Amanda,' and 'Alex,' (both spelled correctly this time), and, at Steve's insistence, were six empty circles for names his dad would help him fill in later.
Marcus hadn't been able to guess the names for the remaining friends, but he knew one vacant circle was for a tall thin doctor who had left Community General years ago and skied a lot. Another was for a woman who sang beautifully and worked with Dr. Sloan. The third was for a military man Steve had known for a long time, and the fourth circle, smaller than the rest, but apparently added out of a sense of duty, was for a nervous stingy man. The last two were for an oriental man and a young woman with long hair, and that was all Steve would tell him.
Mark's name was also listed under 'friends,' but then Steve decided to draw another circle and call it family. He connected Mark, Jesse, Amanda, and Alex to it, then he drew two more circles, and managed to communicate to Marcus that they were his aunt and uncle, but since Marcus didn't know the names he couldn't help fill them in. Finally, Steve drew two tombstone shapes, and Marcus knew immediately to whom he was referring.
After he spelled out 'Mom,' 'Catherine,' 'Sister,' and 'Carol,' Marcus decided to take a break to give Steve some privacy to collect his thoughts. When he came back, he found that Steve had raided his backpack to find his other markers and had drawn flowers on the graves.
He gave Steve another minute to examine his work, then said, "Are you ok to go on?"
Steve took a deep breath and nodded. This time, Marcus didn't insist that he use words.
By eleven o'clock, the page of newsprint was filled with forty words about Steve Sloan, with room for nine more when Mark was available to help. After Catherine and Carol, Steve had added circles for his hobbies and for BBQ Bob's. Jesse, Mark, and Alex were connected to Bob's, and Bob's was connected to hobbies, along with surfing and motor cross. Jesse was also connected to surfing. Then Steve went back and added one more friend, a tall, serious fellow who seemed rather brusque and almost never laughed.
Marcus studied the idea web and realized just how full and active this patient's life was. He worked a high-stress fulltime job and helped run a restaurant on the side. He had a busy social life, and two physically demanding hobbies. Then and there, Marcus said a little prayer that he could help Steve Sloan get back to his old self quickly.
When Steve stretched and yawned, Marcus looked at his watch and said, "Whoa! I have a meeting right now that I am late for." Helping Steve into bed, he said, "I want you to rest until lunch comes. I will see your father and tell him to help you fill in the rest of the web when he stops by, ok?"
"'Kay," Steve agreed, and surprisingly, he settled back to sleep without argument.
"By the way, you did a great job this morning, Steve."
Smiling sleepily, Steve said, "Tanks, Mawkus." Then he rolled over and pulled up the covers.
Before he left, Marcus set the idea web up at the foot of the bed so Steve could see it when he woke. When he looked at it again, he had to smile. Steve had done an incredible amount of work today. Marcus had been hoping for ten words describing the detective and he'd gotten five times that. He also noted that Steve had eventually stopped working from a and went right to the letter he needed when Marcus spelled for him. Hopefully, soon, he wouldn't need the alphabet in front of him all the time. Once he could spell independently, writing on his own would be within his grasp.
Marcus cut the light as he left the room, and hurried up to Dr. Sloan's office.
"Sorry I'm late," Marcus said as he entered the office. "I was working with Steve, and he really did well today. We sort of lost track of time." He went on to explain to the others what they had done and finished with, "When you join him for lunch, Dr. Sloan, he'll want you to help him fill in the blank spots. Try to get him to spell without looking at the alphabet, ok?"
"All right, I'll do that, Marcus. Now, I believe you know everyone but Cheryl, is that right?"
"Yes, Sir." Marcus nodded and reached out to shake Cheryl's hand. "Steve thinks rather highly of you," he said.
"Really?"
"Yes. He has great respect and affection for you. Of course, I am sure you realize that, since he asked you to be here."
"Oh, yes, I suppose so. I hadn't thought of that."
"Now," Marcus began, taking charge of the meeting despite the presence of four doctors, three of them older and more experienced than him. This was his specialty, and despite his youth, few people in LA, let alone this hospital, knew more about rehabilitating aphasia patients. "I am sure you all want to know everything I can tell you about Steve's condition, so just let me tell you what is going on with him and what you can do to help. Then, if you have any questions, I'll see if I can answer them.
"First of all, besides his friends, Steve has one thing going for him that most people don't. As a leftie, there is a good chance he has speech centers on both sides of his brain. Most right-handed people don't. That means some of the functions he has lost due to the brain damage can be taken over by other areas of the brain.
"Another very good thing is the fact that Steve has remarkably few symptoms of aphasia. His reading and listening comprehension seem unaffected. His retention is excellent and he seems able to carry out complex instructions without trouble. He has retained a sense of humor. He can sort, prioritize, organize, and synthesize information, and he can express himself well through body language.
Cheryl made a confused face. "Then, what's wrong with him?"
"He cannot form words, and he cannot write them down."
"Expressive aphasia, maybe apraxia of speech, too," Mark said.
"I don't think so, Dr. Sloan," Marcus disagreed. "Steve is very fluent; he's just incomprehensible. When he's not being obstinate, he has no trouble producing language sounds, which would not be the case if it were expressive aphasia. Broca's area of the brain controls the motor movement needed to produce speech sounds, and from the MRI that was done when he was still comatose, I can see that there was only a little damage done there."
"But you said his comprehension, was excellent, right?" Alex asked.
Marcus nodded.
"Then it can't be receptive aphasia, can it? When Wernicke's area is damaged language comprehension is lost."
"That's right, Alex," Marcus said. "And I doubt he has apraxia. I had him tell me the story of Sleeping Beauty yesterday, and while most of the words were nonsense, the intonation and cadence of the language were spot on."
"Well, then, what the hell is it?" Jesse asked.
"Jesse," Amanda said soothingly, but before she could say another word, he was off on a tirade.
"No, Amanda," he said, then turned to Marcus angrily. "You have been working with him for two days, and from what I have seen and heard, all you have managed to do is make him hysterically upset and get him pissed off at you. You should know what is wrong with him by now. I am tired of hearing about what isn't wrong. I want you to tell me what is wrong. I want you to give it a name, dammit, so we can figure out how to fix it."
His anger suddenly spent, Jesse backed off. Amanda, who was closest to him, put a hand on his shoulder to calm him.
Before Marcus could speak, Cheryl added her comments. "I don't care what you call it. I'm a cop, and I don't need to know the medical terminology. Just tell me how I can help Steve."
"Ok, Jesse," Marcus figured if the young doctor was going to swear at him they might as well be on a first name basis, "Both areas of the brain seem to have been affected slightly. A minor injury affecting Broca's area would account for the minimal right side paralysis and the occasional stuttering, as well as the telegraphic speech he uses sometimes."
"Ok, stop," Cheryl cut in. "I know I said I didn't need to understand the medical lingo, but what is telegraphic speech?"
"Telegraphic speech is a term that goes back to when people used the telegraph to send long distance messages," Marcus explained with a smile. He knew most people really did want to know what all the medical terms meant when they were being used. Sometimes, even after an explanation, they wouldn't understand, but it still made them feel better to ask. "Since they were charged by the word they often left out little words like a, an, and the as well as helping verbs like will, can, and have. When a person uses telegraphic speech, he omits those same words. Usually, sentences are very short and to the point."
"Ok, like a baby learning to talk."
"Very much so," Marcus agreed, "which is why it's important to guard against the temptation to talk down to aphasic patients when they talk this way."
"I understand, now. What else is wrong with Steve?"
"Well, some damage to Wernicke's area would explain the fluent but incomprehensible speech he uses most of the time. So, Jesse, in answer to your question, 'What the hell is it?' I think Steve has a complex aphasia syndrome."
"Ok, thank you" Jesse said, and then a bit more politely added, "I'm sorry for losing my temper. Steve is a very good friend, and what hurts him hurts us all."
"I would have known that even if I hadn't met you, Jesse. Even if I'd never met any of you, I could tell from working with Steve how much he cares for all of you."
Cheryl smiled, and asked, "So, could you tell us how to take care of him?"
Marcus smiled. "Don't take care of him, for one thing. He has a speech disability and some slight paralysis, he is not an invalid."
"Besides," Amanda added with a chuckle, "he'd get pretty irritated if you tried to take care of him."
Marcus nodded and frowned knowingly. "I got that impression." Then he started to list the things they could do to help.
"Talk to him, a lot, and treat him like an adult, not a child. His comprehension is not impaired, so he will understand what you are saying, and he will understand if you talk down to him."
"And he will probably throw the bedpan at you," Mark interjected.
"Quite likely," Marcus agreed, "though this morning he did very well and only threw his writing tablet at me once."
Mark grinned. "He's been using it?"
"Oh, yeah. Be sure to ask to see it when you go by at lunch."
"I will. What else can we do to help him?"
"When you talk with Steve, minimize background noise, shut the door, make sure you have his attention, try to keep the conversation one-on-one as much as possible, and give him time to respond."
"Does that mean he should have only one visitor at a time?" Amanda asked, concerned that they had already been doing things wrong by visiting him together.
"Oh, no, not at all," Marcus said, "but when you're talking to him, make sure he knows when he's switching conversation partners. Whoever's not talking at the moment should be sure to stay quiet."
"Ok, I think we can do that. Would it be ok for my boys to visit him?"
Marcus thought about it a moment. "Can they be still, take turns, and wait for him to answer?"
"Yes, I think they can."
"Then he should be ok with them. He might even do better with them than with adults if he is willing to treat conversation as a game with them."
"He might just do that," Amanda said. "He loves CJ and Dion, and has as much fun as they do when he's entertaining them. I'll bring them by soon."
"Ok. Now," Marcus said, "There are a few other things you need to do to really help Steve. Listen carefully, encourage him to speak, but don't insist on it. Accept and use all means of communication, and try to understand what he's telling you, no matter how he chooses to convey the message. Read to him, if you have the time and he wants you to."
Mark looked around. "I think we can all do that," he said. "Is there anything else?"
"Yes, two things, and they are very important," Marcus said adamantly. "Don't correct him too often. If you can understand a word, even if it isn't quite right, accept it, praise it, and make him glad he tried.
"Also, let me be the bully. In therapy, I will insist that he vocalize everything, whether he can say the actual words or not, and I will make him say things over and over and over again until he gets them right. Some days I will frustrate him beyond all reason, and he will probably throw the bedpan at me more than once. Learning to speak again will be hard work. I want him to understand and accept that so that when I show up to work with him, he can get geared up and ready to be challenged.
"Therapy is going to be hard," Marcus concluded, "and there's no way around it. On the other hand, conversing and communicating can be pleasant, relaxing experiences for him, even now, if all of you make it so. As I said before, let me be the bully. He'll need the rest of you to just be his friends."
By eleven forty-five, Marcus had answered their remaining questions, agreed with Alex that it might be a good idea for Steve to have a small dry-erase board to draw the concepts he couldn't pantomime, and gone off to have his own lunch. Steve's friends, and father, while still concerned, were much more at ease now that they felt they knew what to do. Before they left the office, though, Cheryl had one last question.
"Uh, Dr. Sloan, what did you and Marcus mean about Steve 'throwing the bedpan?'"
"Steve will probably kill me, but . . ."
"R-O-N," Mark spelled patiently.
Steve looked around for the writing tablet so he could find the letters. When he saw his dad holding it, he reached out for it.
"Try doing it on your own, first," Mark said.
"Dad, I want to get it right. Please give me the tablet."
"Try to get it yourself. It's only three letters. You need the practice."
Steve glowered at his father and Mark said patiently, "Practice makes perfect, Son. Practice your spelling along with your writing, and it might come back to you sooner."
Steve looked around and found a copy of the day's paper. In the margin at the top, he wrote the word as he spelled it aloud. "R-O-N. Is that right?"
Mark looked at the page Steve had turned toward him. "Exactly, Son. That's just right. I knew you could do it."
"R-O-N. Waahnnn. Wahn." Steve grinned as he copied his friend's name into the circle and said it aloud. Then he drew a small heart alongside the list of his friends' names and connected it to Ron and Amanda. He pointed to what he had done, and laughed, "What do you think Aaamannanndaa will sayyy about that?"
Mark grinned and said, "I think if you manage to say her name before she sees it, she will hug you. If you don't, she will probably kill you."
Steve laughed with his father, pointed to the smallest circle, and tried to imitate Norman Briggs.
By the time Marcus arrived back at one o'clock, the web was filled in except for two circles.
"I'm sorry, Steve, I don't know them."
Looking from Marcus to his dad, Steve said, "Jess-see knowssss," and pointed from Jesse's name to the two empty circles. He got out Marcus' other markers then, and drew a blonde woman and an Asian man next to the two circles. Pointing to the pictures he said, "Aiiii assss Jess-see. Eeee knowssss. 'Lo, Mawkus."
"Hello, Steve. Are you ready to get back to work?"
"Yesss."
Marcus grinned. He'd never had a patient improve so quickly. He knew Steve's condition wasn't transient aphasia. If it were, he would likely be back to normal by now. Still, it was amazing how rapidly he was regaining his speech. Just two hours ago, Steve was having trouble with the word yes and he'd only uttered a couple of words without prompting. Now, after a nap and some lunch, he was forming telegraphic sentences and using greetings spontaneously.
Mark touched Steve's elbow, and when Steve turned to look at him, he said, "I will see you at dinnertime, ok?"
"'Kay, Da-ad."
"Dr. Sloan?" Marcus said, "Tomorrow, when they send the lunch menu up with Steve's breakfast, could you leave it for me? It will be good vocabulary practice for him."
Mark nodded. "Ok, Marcus. I'll remember to do that."
Steve's second day of therapy started much like his first. When Marcus arrived, he was deeply focused on his idea web, which had been tacked to the wall by his bed. Trying hard to pronounce the words that he had written the previous day, he got most of them right. The only things giving him real trouble were long words like 'Lieutenant,' and r-words, like Ron, Dora, and Greer.
Not wanting to scare him, Marcus came in quietly and said, "Good morning, Lieutenant." Steve just grunted, and Marcus laughed. "I take it you are not a morning person."
"Yessino," Steve said. "Aiiii wun," he said, and pumped his arms as if he were running.
"I know," Marcus said. "Your dad and friends told me a lot about you. I like to run, too. When you get your balance back, we'll go for a run in the park across the street, ok?"
Steve grinned. "'Kay."
"Good. Now, today, we're going to start with the lunch menu," Marcus said, picking it up from where Mark had left it for him on the table. "Then, you are going to tell me about some of the things on your idea web."
"'Kay. Ow bed?"
"All right," Marcus agreed, and he helped Steve out of his bed and into a chair. Once they were both settled, he said, "Now, I am going to say everything on the lunch menu. I want you to say each item back to me, and then tell me what you want."
"Awite."
"Hey, that's a new word."
"Yes."
"Ok, let's start with your fruit choices. . ."
An hour later, they were finally finishing with the menu.
"Ok, I think I've got it now. You want fruit cocktail and a banana for fruit, milk and coffee to drink, grilled chicken, a biscuit, carrots and broccoli."
"No, no, NO!" Steve shouted and threw the bedpan across the room.
Marcus hid a smile. He knew exactly what he was doing. By deliberately screwing up the menu again, he was forcing Steve to articulate more.
"What's wrong, Steve?"
"No, bwok-ee."
"I thought you wanted broccoli."
Steve looked at him angrily and insistently said, "NO!" He got up and carefully walked across the room to retrieve the bedpan. When he got to where it had landed, he stopped and stared at it. He felt confident enough to walk a little ways on his own now, but he wasn't sure he could bend over without losing his balance and falling forward. Glowering back at Marcus, he said, "Ep," and pointed to the bedpan.
"Don't look at me," Marcus said. "I was trying to help, and you started swearing at me."
"Saw-ee," Steve apologized and tried to look pathetic.
"Apology accepted," Marcus smiled, "but I'm still not going to fetch the bedpan for you."
Steve glared at Marcus for a moment, then kicked the bedpan. It bounced off the wall and rattled across the floor. Satisfied with the sound, Steve kicked it again. Then he booted it across the floor back to his chair.
Sitting back down, he said petulantly, "No bwok-ee."
"But, Steve," Marcus teased, "broccoli is good for you."
"Don' Ike. Tinks."
"Tinks? Think about that word a minute, Steve. Did you say it right?"
Steve nodded. "TINKS!" he insisted, made a face and pinched his nose.
"You mean it smells bad, right?"
"Yes."
"Think before you speak. How do you say something smells bad?"
Steve thought a moment. "SSSSSSTINKS!" he said, and grinned.
"Good. Ok, what do you want instead of broccoli?"
"Gwinn buns."
"Excuse me?"
"Gwinn buns! Like gwinn buns."
"You're saying it wrong again, Steve. Think about it, then say it correctly."
For almost three minutes, Steve sat thinking, trying to remember how to say the name of his favorite vegetable. Marcus said it wasn't gwinn buns, but then, what was it? Without warning, he started to weep. He took the bedpan from the floor beside his chair and started banging it against the bed.
"No know," he cried. "No KNOW! Want gwinn buns!"
Marcus crouched beside him, and said, "Hey, take it easy, Steve, it's ok. Take the menu, find the word you want, and try again."
Steve wiped his tears on the cuff of his shirt, took the menu from Marcus, and searched for what he wanted. "Dis," he said.
"Say it, Steve," Marcus insisted gently.
"Can't. Ooo say."
"Try."
"Ooo say."
"Only after you try, Steve," Marcus insisted.
Steve studied the words a minute more, then said, "Gween beeyans." Tears slipped down his cheeks because he knew he said it wrong.
"Ok, Steve, that was better. Now listen. Green beans. Can you say that? Green beans."
"Gween bee-eens," he said, and threw the bedpan across the room sobbing now. "Dammit, when am I going to be able to talk? I am so tired of this. Why can't you help me?"
"Ok, that's it. You did a lot yesterday. You need to take it easy today. I want you back in bed for a nap, now."
"No," Steve refused weakly even as he let Marcus help him into bed. "Wan green beans."
Marcus gave him a meaningful look, then. "I told you, you could do it."
Steve smiled briefly, then laughed softly. Then he began to weep again. "Hawd," he said. "So hawd."
"I know it's difficult, Steve," Marcus agreed, "but you have got to keep pushing. The more you improve now, the better off you will be later."
"'Kay."
As Steve turned over on his side, Marcus pulled the blankets up and said. "You rest now, I'll be back in an hour."
"'Kayyyyy."
Marcus didn't correct Steve for slurring the word. He knew it was just because he was tired.
It was eleven o'clock when Steve woke up from his nap. He was alone, but there was a note on the table for him. He tried to read it three times, but all he could make out was his name and the signature, Marcus.
He looked at his idea web, and he could read all of it. Then he looked back at the note, and still couldn't decipher it. There were a few letters here and there that he could make out, but most of it made no sense at all to him. He got out his writing tablet and copied the letters he could make out, drawing lines for the letters he was missing. He hated word games, and this was quickly becoming very frustrating because in some places he wasn't even sure how many letters were missing.
The harder Steve worked, the more important it became to decipher the note. What if it were something important? What if he was supposed to do something or relay a message? He had to know what it said. Soon he was highly agitated, rubbing his forehead, and muttering to himself. Suddenly, he could bear no more, and he shoved the table away, knocking it over, and grabbed the bedpan and hurled it across the room shouting, "Dammit! Dammit! Dammit! Why can't I read it? What the hell does it say?"
"What in the world is wrong?" the redheaded nurse Steve now knew as Elena shouted over his tirade. "Lieutenant Sloan, are you all right?"
Steve pointed at the bedpan and jabbered something at her. She knew he was slightly paralyzed and unable to speak as a result of a head injury, so all she could do was fetch him the bedpan. When she handed it to him, he threw it away again and continued yelling.
"Do you need some help to get to the bathroom, Lieutenant?"
"No, dammit! Just bring me the damned bedpan again and find Mawkus. I need to know why I can't read his note."
Since he shook his head no, pointed at the bedpan, and continued yelling, the nurse fetched the bedpan back again, and Steve beat it on the bedrails a few times, shouting all the while, before throwing it again.
"Let's just get you into the bathroom, Lieutenant Sloan," the nurse said soothingly, taking his arm.
"Find Mawkus, dammit!" He shook her off, turned to her, and put one hand on either side of her face so he could force her to look at him. Making himself calm down, he looked her in the eye and said, "Yayna. Need Mawkus."
He turned to pick up the note to show her, but his outburst had frightened her. By the time he turned back around with the note, she was out the door.
Steve was no longer upset, but he was very anxious about the note. Carrying it with him, he ventured to the door of his room for the first time. Standing in the doorway, he called again, "Yayna. Need Mawkus. Peeze?"
She was nowhere in sight, so he turned and headed toward the nurses desk. All he wanted was to know what the note said.
"Yayna?"
"Ok, you hold him!" Steve heard Elena shout as he felt two burly arms wrap around him.
"NO! Get off me. Let me go. Yayna I just need Mawkus. Peeze!"
"Shhh. It's going to be ok," Elena soothed him. "It's ok. You're just going to have a nice sleep, and when you wake up, it will all be better."
Steve struggled against the orderly who was restraining him, but twelve days in the hospital, seven of them in a coma, had left him weak and uncoordinated. As he felt cold alcohol rubbing against his arm, he redoubled his efforts.
"Just relax, Lieutenant. You'll be fine."
Steve began to weep at the prick of the needle sliding into his skin.
"Stop! Peeze, stop! I'll be good! I just need Mawkus! Peeze, find Mawkus." Steve continued to fight as the orderly carried him bodily back to his room, but the sedative was just too strong. By the time they were ready to put him back in his bed, he was weak as a baby. As she covered him up, Elena heard him moan piteously, "Yayna, wy? Just wan Mawkus."