Elizabeth
Scott's been to see me four - or is it five? - times now. Sometimes I'm not sure. My head's been so muzzy with all the drugs I've been given for the pain that sometimes I think he's there, but I'm just imagining it. It's hard to keep track of time in the dark like this. The staff keep reassuring me that my sight is OK, that I just have to stay in the dark and not try to use my eyes until this eyelid regrows, but it's hard, very hard.
On one of his visits, Scott brought me this radio/disc player and a stack of jazz discs. I don't remember telling him I liked jazz, but he seems to like it too, and we have quite a few favourites in common. I only realised the other day that the machine also has a 'record' function, so I'm going to try using it as a diary to keep some track of the days. One of the nurses brought me in some blank discs to use.
I'm feeling a bit more lucid now anyway, now my medication has been reduced. They took the stitches out of my right leg yesterday, where it had been trapped in the crash, so now I can move that side of me a bit more freely.
One time I had been telling Scott about when I had worked in Miami, and gone swimming with dolphins. The next time he came I felt him put something into my hand - it was a little dolphin that he had carved from a piece of driftwood. Did he tell me he lived by the sea? I can't remember. With all the drugs I'm still a bit hazy - he must have told me all sorts of things about himself, but I can't remember the details - he certainly seems to know a lot about my life.
I never know quite when he is coming, but it seems to be every three or four days. The first I know is his voice from the doorway saying "Elizabeth - it's me, Scott" - as if he needs to say who is. I'd recognise that voice anywhere - it's the one thing that kept me from having hysterics when I was trapped in that wreckage. He's got a lovely voice, soft and gentle, but rich and deep, like dark brown velvet.
He came again today, and this time he brought his guitar. He played me a beautiful piece that he says is called 'Cavatina'. I'm lying flat because of all the tubes on my skin, and at one time he said bending over to talk to my was making him uncomfortable, so he' s taken to sitting on the floor beside the bed, so our heads are almost level. I like that as it means from where I am lying I can reach out and touch him.
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Scott's been to see me four - or is it five? - times now. Sometimes I'm not sure. My head's been so muzzy with all the drugs I've been given for the pain that sometimes I think he's there, but I'm just imagining it. It's hard to keep track of time in the dark like this. The staff keep reassuring me that my sight is OK, that I just have to stay in the dark and not try to use my eyes until this eyelid regrows, but it's hard, very hard.
On one of his visits, Scott brought me this radio/disc player and a stack of jazz discs. I don't remember telling him I liked jazz, but he seems to like it too, and we have quite a few favourites in common. I only realised the other day that the machine also has a 'record' function, so I'm going to try using it as a diary to keep some track of the days. One of the nurses brought me in some blank discs to use.
I'm feeling a bit more lucid now anyway, now my medication has been reduced. They took the stitches out of my right leg yesterday, where it had been trapped in the crash, so now I can move that side of me a bit more freely.
One time I had been telling Scott about when I had worked in Miami, and gone swimming with dolphins. The next time he came I felt him put something into my hand - it was a little dolphin that he had carved from a piece of driftwood. Did he tell me he lived by the sea? I can't remember. With all the drugs I'm still a bit hazy - he must have told me all sorts of things about himself, but I can't remember the details - he certainly seems to know a lot about my life.
I never know quite when he is coming, but it seems to be every three or four days. The first I know is his voice from the doorway saying "Elizabeth - it's me, Scott" - as if he needs to say who is. I'd recognise that voice anywhere - it's the one thing that kept me from having hysterics when I was trapped in that wreckage. He's got a lovely voice, soft and gentle, but rich and deep, like dark brown velvet.
He came again today, and this time he brought his guitar. He played me a beautiful piece that he says is called 'Cavatina'. I'm lying flat because of all the tubes on my skin, and at one time he said bending over to talk to my was making him uncomfortable, so he' s taken to sitting on the floor beside the bed, so our heads are almost level. I like that as it means from where I am lying I can reach out and touch him.
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