Chapter 9:  The Benefit of Backbone

(Wednesday, 09 July, 2003.  1000 hours.)

Jesse decided to give Mark and Steve a good half hour together before he went back in to talk to them.  In the meantime, he spoke with Dr. Lewis for a few minutes, and together they had decided what the next step in Steve's treatment would be.  Then Jesse sat at one of the monitors and watched Steve and Mark for a little while.

To his surprise, the father and son didn't seem to have much to say to each other.  Most of their time was spent in silence with Steve lying back against the pillow, eyes closed, and Mark sitting on the edge of the bed, clasping his son's hand.  Every once in a while, Steve would open his eyes, as if to reassure himself that Mark was still there, and then he would close them again and doze contentedly for a few minutes.

As he smiled at the picture of familial closeness, he felt a warm, strong hand on his shoulder and looked up to see his own father smiling proudly at him.  "You've been a good friend to him, Son, and I know you're going to see him through this."

Jesse smiled back.  The look on his dad's face gave him a warm happy feeling inside.  "Thanks.  I hope you're right.  I can't imagine what it was like for him, believing his dad was dead and trying to remember how it had happened, then suddenly realizing that he was wrong."

Dane Travis couldn't think of anything to say in return, so he just stood there quietly beside his son.

Soon the silence had stretched uncomfortably long, and Jesse had to stand up and say, "I . . . I think Steve and I ought to get back to work."

Dane just nodded, and began to walk away.  "I'll be in the main observation room."

(Wednesday, 09 July, 2003.  1030 hours.)

Steve wasn't sure how long he'd been lying in bed, holding his father's hand, letting the relief wash over him when he heard the door to his room open.  Opening his eyes, he saw Jesse come in pushing a wheelchair.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, guys, but, Mark, I really think Steve and I need to get to work, now."

Mark got up to go, nodding his understanding, but Steve tightened his grip on his father's hand and said, "No, please, Dad, stay."

Mark looked at his son, wishing he could remain, and then at Jesse, and knew he couldn't.  The young doctor looked grim, but determined, and Mark was suddenly reminded that all of this had been very hard on Jesse, too.  Doing what little he could to make it somewhat easier on his young colleague, Mark gave Steve's hand a gentle squeeze and then slipped his fingers out of his son's grip.

"I'm sorry, Son, I can't."  Mark's heart constricted at the sight of his son's disappointment, but he continued talking as he made his way to the door.  "Right now it's best if you continue working steadily with one person, and that should be Jesse.  My presence would only interfere with things, but I promise I will be close by, all the time."

Heart breaking, Mark shut the door on his son almost begging, "I will see you later, won't I?"

With his father out of earshot, Steve turned to Jesse.  "I will see him again, right?  You'll let me see him?"

"Once you have reached your goal for the day, yes, you can see him again . . . "  As Steve began to ask a question, Jesse cut him off, continuing with, "I can't tell you what that goal is.  You have to get there on your own.  I can try to guide you a little, but I can't just let you set a course and steer right for it, because we might miss important things on the way."

Steve was thoughtfully quiet for a moment, then he asked, "You do know what the next goal is, right, Jess?"

Jesse smiled and nodded, "Oh, yeah, I know, and I will do my best to help you get there, buddy.  Now, your chariot awaits," he said, indicating the wheelchair, "so climb aboard."

"I'd rather walk," Steve said.

Sighing, Jesse took a seat on the edge of the bed so he could talk to Steve instead of talking down to him.  "This is not a negotiation, Steve," Jesse said, firmly but kindly.  "I will explain why things need to be a certain way, and then that is what we will do.  Do you understand?"

"Yeah, but . . . "

"No buts, Steve.  Do you understand?"

"Yes, yes, ok, whatever you say," Steve agreed without being agreeable.

"All right," Jesse began, "I know you would rather walk, and I can't blame you, but I can't allow it.  I want you in the chair so I can put safety belts on you."

"Safety belts?" Steve said in surprise, and then the implication sank in.  "You mean restraints," he said accusingly.  Suddenly, all nerves, offended, embarrassed, and a little frightened at the prospect of being trussed up like a wild animal, he began to beg.  "Please, don't, Jesse.  I promise I'll be good.  Really.  Anything you want me to do, just say so, but please, don't tie me down."

His friend's pleas all but shattered Jesse's professional veneer.  "I have no choice, Steve," he said, and hearing his own voice shaking, he paused for a moment to steady himself.  Seeing the fear and anxiety in Steve's eyes, almost made him lose his resolve, but he knew he didn't dare give in, and so he looked away for a moment and took a few deep breaths.  Come on, Jesse, he needs help, not sympathy.  You have to be strong for him, because he can't be right now.  Give him the benefit of your backbone, not your bleeding heart. 

Finally, he was able to meet Steve's gaze, and hoping the look in his own eyes combined caring concern with the clear message that he absolutely would not back down, he spoke.  "In a few minutes, I am going to change the mix of your medications, and that has a lot of potential side effects.  I know you're already experiencing confusion, anxiety, memory loss, and heightened mood swings.  The new meds are going to add the possibility of hallucinations, delusions, and uncontrollable rage to that list.  I can't risk you becoming a danger to yourself or someone else."

"But, Jesse . . . "

"No, Steve, no way," Jesse insisted.  "Do you seriously think I could stop you if you had a frightening hallucination and it sent you running for the hills?  Could I defend myself if you flew off the handle and decided to use me for a punching bag?"

"Jesse, I would never . . . "

"You don't know that, Steve, and, right now, neither do I," Jesse cut him off again.  "Now look, your arms will be free.  The chest belt fastens behind you, and the lap belt latches underneath the seat at the side, both out of your reach, just in case.  Please, Steve, don't fight me on this, you won't win.  Just get in the chair."

Somehow, Steve knew with utter certainty that his friend wasn't going to give in, and the thought that Jesse really believed he could be a threat to anybody, himself included, frightened him.  Without another word, he got out of the bed, and with a little help from Jesse, settled into the wheelchair, and let his friend strap him in.  Jesse placed the light blanket from the bed over his lap, probably as much to hide some of the restraints as to keep him warm.  Steve sat quietly as Jesse pulled a syringe out of his white coat and injected its contents into the bag of IV solution.  Then, Jesse moved the IV over to the chrome stand that was attached to the wheelchair, and, as they moved out of the room and slowly down the hall, Steve waited for the new drugs to take effect.

The two friends didn't say a word as they traveled the length of the building.  Jesse wasn't sure what Steve was feeling, but he was more than a little apprehensive.  If Steve did begin to hallucinate or fly off into a rage, the drug combination was no good.  They would have to stop work immediately, wait until the new meds were out of his system, and then try a different mix in a couple of days, all the while keeping him on a basic combination of strong psychoactive drugs to prevent the false memories from solidifying.  Every time they tried new meds, they were risking frying Steve's brain for good, making him a permanent mental patient.  Jesse would never forgive himself if that happened, and worse yet, he didn't think Mark or Amanda would either.

Jesse surfaced from his wanderings to discover that they had reached their destination without incident.  Of course, what Jesse knew and Steve didn't was that the true test lay behind the doors that loomed in front of them.  'Treatment Room'.  What an innocent sounding place, but it might as well read 'Torture Chamber.'  Jesse crouched down to face his patient.  There were some other things he had to do before he could take Steve in there.

"Steve, buddy, look at me."  Jesse was not surprised when his friend looked up reluctantly and then quickly looked away again.  Among other things, as they first hit the system, the drugs he had given Steve were known to create feelings of fear and insecurity, and he knew it would be almost impossible for Steve to maintain eye contact for any length of time.  "Come on, pal, it's me, Jess, look at me."

Steve lifted his head and held Jesse's gaze for just a moment.  Then he turned his head slightly and refocused his eyes just above Jesse's right shoulder.

"How are you feeling, pal?"

Steve frowned drawing his brows together, and once again, he lowered his head.  "It . . . uh . . . it's really hard to focus, Jess.  I . . . I . . . "

It seemed almost to require a physical effort for Steve to express his thoughts, but Jesse waited patiently while Steve searched for the words.

"These thoughts . . . memories . . . they keep . . . flying through my head, and . . . I can't stop them, Jess . . . I . . . I can't think . . . I don't know . . . "  Steve looked right into Jesse's eyes, then, desperately seeking something.  "I can't tell what's real, Jess.  Help me."

"Hey, buddy, you know I will," Jesse said, and put a comforting hand on Steve's shoulder even as Steve looked away again.  "I'm just going to check your vitals," Jesse continued to speak soothingly, "and we'll see how you're feeling in a few minutes, ok?"  There was a chance the worst of the side effects would go away as the drug levels stabilized in Steve's blood.

Steve nodded grimly, and closed his eyes while Jesse got the thermometer, blood pressure cuff, and stethoscope from the cart that had been placed outside the door of the so-called treatment room earlier.  "Open your mouth for the thermometer, pal," Jesse said, "and roll up your sleeve so I can check your BP, ok?"

Steve complied with both requests without ever opening his eyes.  His breathing was fast and heavy, and it was plain to Jesse that he was focusing almost all of his attention on the effort of simply holding himself together while the jumbled mass of thoughts and ideas tumbled through his mind.  Jesse checked Steve's pulse and counted his respirations before he inflated the blood pressure cuff.  Both were a little on the high side, as was his BP and his temperature, and Jesse decided that if he didn't settle down in the next thirty minutes, that they would just go back to Steve's room and try again another day.

Surreal images floated through Steve's consciousness.  Some of them he knew were real, and some of them he knew were not.  Others, he just wasn't sure.  A vivacious blond named Lily went flying over the hood of a car, and he felt inexplicably sad.  Then an engine exploded, parts flying everywhere.  He heard his sister crying for him, begging him to help.  Then he was scattering her ashes.  He was surfing with Jesse, and he wiped out.  He swam powerfully for the surface, only to come up with a handful of sand.  He'd gone the wrong way, how stupid!  He should have watched the bubbles and followed them to the surface.  They always went up.  His lungs burned for want of oxygen, and he felt the blackness closing in.

"Steve?"

The voice was a long way off.

"Steve, come on, buddy, focus on me."

He knew that voice.

"Come on, Steve, get a handle on it.  Calm yourself down.  Deep, slow breaths."

That voice was trying to help.  He started breathing, and found he was no longer under water.

"That's it, buddy, just breathe."  Jesse was deeply concerned.  For a moment there, Steve had seemed somewhere else entirely.  He'd been flailing aimlessly and holding his breath.  Jesse had watched nervously, not wanting to interfere because Dr. Lewis had told him it was best to let nature take its course, but when the arm movements stopped and Steve still hadn't drawn a breath, he decided it was time to intervene.

"Keep talking," Steve gasped.

"Ok, you're doing fine, Steve.  Deep, slow breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth.  Try to do it on an eight count.  In, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight!  Out, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight!  Good job, buddy, keep it up."

They were fifteen minutes into the half an hour Jesse had allowed, and since Steve was now doing a relaxation exercise, he decided to let it continue and see what would happen.  He checked Steve's pulse and blood pressure again and counted his breaths, and then started over repeatedly until Steve began to come round.  Surprisingly, within ten minutes all of Steve's vital signs were within normal range. 

"Steve, you with me, buddy?"

"Yeah," Steve said, opening his eyes and meeting Jesse's gaze willingly.

"You're all right now?"

Steve nodded.  "I think so.  My head's a little clearer, now.  What happened?"

"The drugs mess with the chemicals in your brain.  Until you adjust to them, they can cause some pretty weird reactions."

"I thought I was drowning."

Jesse nodded.  That certainly explained the arm flailing and breath holding.  "Ok.  I'm going to check your vitals one more time, including your temp."

Jesse performed the final checks, and even waved a penlight in Steve's eyes for good measure, and when everything seemed to be ok, he asked his friend, "How do you feel?"

"Still kind of nervous.  A little confused.  But I'm all right, I think."

"Any more random thoughts?"

Steve considered his answer a moment and then nodded.  "A few, but not so many, and they're not so distracting.  I can hold on to one idea at a time now."

Jesse agreed.  "You seem a lot more coherent.  I think you're ready to go ahead and do this today, what do you think?"

"Since I don't know what we're doing that's kind of hard to answer, but if the alternative is bed rest, I don't need any more of that."

Jesse grinned.  "That's good enough for me." 

Jesse opened the doors to the treatment room and slowly wheeled Steve in.  Please don't let him freak on me, now. 

(Wednesday, 09 July, 2003.  1115 hours.)

"Oh, God, Jesse, no!  You promised I wouldn't have to go in there again.  You promised!"  Such was Steve's panic that he struggled to move the wheelchair, not realizing that Jesse had applied the brakes.  When he found that he was going nowhere despite his best efforts, he tried to rise out of the chair, and when that didn't work, he began clawing at the restraints across his chest and lap.  All the while, he was shouting, "Jesse, no!  You promised!  You promised!"

Very calmly, Jesse came around in front of Steve.  With an effort, he was able to grab the larger man's wrists and hold his hands down.  He was just very lucky that Steve didn't decide to start kicking.  The lap belt held him in the chair, but Jesse had elected not to use ankle restraints to preserve at least some of his friend's dignity.  Steve struggled and squirmed a little, but Jesse hand managed to cross his arms at the wrists and force his hands to his lap so that he could get very little leverage.

"Look at me, Steve," Jesse said again.  It was becoming their mantra.

With his arms effectively restrained now, Steve ceased his shouting and pleading, but he was still looking over Jesse's shoulder in stark terror.

"Look at me, Steve."

Steve continued to stare for several moments, but finally, he dragged his gaze to Jesse's face.  "You promised," he whispered.

"I know," Jesse said gently, "and I'm not breaking that promise.  You don't have to go back into the water any more, but you need to see it.  You need to see what is in this room so you can begin to unravel what happened to you.  Now, we're going to go closer, and you're going to take a good look at that water tank, ok?"

"Do I have to?"

"Yes, but I will be right here with you the whole time, so nothing bad can happen, ok?"

"G-give me a minute."

"All right."  Jesse released his grip on Steve's wrists and slowly moved his hands up to his friend's shoulders.  Looking Steve in the eye, he said firmly, "You can do this."

After a few minutes, Steve nodded, and said, "Ok, I think I'm ready."

As Jesse slowly wheeled him toward the circle of golden light and the hateful tank of Water, Steve could feel his heart move into his throat and his stomach begin to churn with fear.

"Oh, God, stop a minute."

Obediently, Jesse stopped, and immediately placed a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder.  Steve drew strength from the contact.  He closed his eyes and drew a couple of deep breaths, and finally he said, "Ok, I can do this."

Jesse didn't say anything, but he did pat Steve on the shoulder before he began slowly pushing him forward again.