Author's Note – Thanks for all the reviews- I really really appreciate each and every one of them :-) Olivia- Thank you for the constructive criticism, and don't worry btw I understand ;-) I apologise in advance, I wrote these a while back and haven't gone through them, but in the chapters I'm writing now I'll try and watch out for the things you told me about, though it'll be difficult since I don't have a Beta (as I'm sure is probably pretty evident) unless Krazy does it for me, and she's not American either. Thing is I don't have a whole heap of time to be honest... If I get something wrong, just tell me so I don't do it in the future (or I'll try anyways), but thanks for the help :-)
Chapter 9
"Post what?"
Nick said in disbelief at the doctor standing confidently in front of him, expression unreadable.
"PTSD - Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It means he may experience realistic...hallucinations if you like, and other symptoms related to the incident, panic attacks, nightmares, depression, it varies from patient to patient. I haven't noticed depression as such on Mr. Sanders, but certainly panic attacks and nightmares. There is little we can do, and under these circumstances I feel the best thing to do would be to wait."
"And...what do we do?"
Catherine asked. The doctor shrugged.
"Give him the support he needs at a time like this; make sure he knows you're there for him, most likely what you would do anyway."
The doctor's last statement reminded Catherine of Greg's father and his last visit to the hospital. Her expression was one of incredulity. PTSD- that happened to other people. Not Greg. Not the young vibrant lab tech she knew. After a little while the doctor left the CSI's staring into space, until they realised he was no longer there and looked at each other instead. Somebody would have to tell Jon Sanders. Catherine realised it was the perfect opportunity to talk to him and left.
At the knock he looked up slowly. Ambivalence played within him, but eventually he chose to ignore the knock. He heard the muffled voice of a woman and his eyes shot to the door.
"Jon Sanders? It's Catherine Willows..."
After a few moments more turmoil inside, he decided to continue ignoring it.
"I have news of your son, of Greg."
To this he got up and let her in, this time without hesitation. He suddenly realised how he must look to her. He hadn't shaved since he'd found out and the dark room he'd been hiding in was in such a state of chaos he felt slightly embarrassed inviting her in. Hiding. Away from life, the truth, his own actions against his son. Part of him wanted to clear up whether he really thought it was Greg's fault, or not, but a stronger part of him didn't want to think about it at all. It was easier to blame somebody he could yell at; a focus for his hate.
She looked him in the eye, and he was cut short by the strength and determination emanating from her. He couldn't help but feel immediate respect for her, though he tried to pretend he still felt that same burning anger he'd felt before. In truth it had fizzled to a burning pain and loneliness.
She stood, staring at him, trying to work out if his feelings had changed.
"Come in"
He said, almost in a daze. He hadn't spoken for a while, his voice sounded strange to him.
"I don't know what you hope to achieve by coming here but..."
"Your son has PTSD."
"What?"
"Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The symptoms are nightmares, depression and realistic flashbacks, panic attacks..."
She found her voice sounding colder and more detached than intended, and tried to remember what Jon Sanders had been through.
"Mr Sanders, I know you are looking for someone to blame, but it is not Greg's fault. The sooner you understand that the better, because right now he needs you- you need each other. If you want somebody to blame, try James Roe. You know inside it isn't Greg's fault."
His face displayed his inner turmoil as he sat down. His voice was quiet and shaky as he asked,
"Is there anything the doctors can do for him?"
"No, it's up to the people who care about Greg. Is that you...or are you just going to lose the remaining member of your family as well?"
Jon Sanders stood up angrily, but words wouldn't form, and he just watched her retreating form, until she turned around and looked at him directly, before leaving.
The doctors said he'd be out in a couple of days. They said he'd be fine, they said everything would get back to normal, they said he would come through it, and to trust them, they were doctors after all. But they were only talking physically, and mentally his world seemed to be ebbing away slowly. Everything had changed. The images wouldn't extricate themselves from every thought he had, and the feeling of helplessness had hung around at the back of his mind. Those things came into themselves at night, dancing around his mind, taking over, haunting him. And they would do forever. He couldn't get away from it, no matter how hard he tried, he might as well not bother for all the good it did.
Every time Marc, Nick, anyone made him laugh, tried to cheer him up, he felt guilty. Karla would never laugh again. His mother would never laugh again. Tom and Justin would never laugh again. And it was his fault- so how dare he laugh, as if he didn't even care that they were gone, as if he was over it...
Or perhaps it was easier not to care about anything anymore. That way you can't get hurt. But then...if you don't care about life, what's the point? He stared at the clipboard at the end of his bed, even though he couldn't actually see it. He knew it was there, with a bulldog clip roughly holding his chart; he could picture it in his mind. He could almost feel its sharp edge digging into his wrist, the warm blood dripping-
"Hey Greg"
Sara said as cheerfully as she could without being tactless in the face of his recent loss.
"Hey Sara."
He replied, smiling slightly. The charade of a pleasant conversation continued until she was gone, and his dark thoughts returned whilst a nurse chattered at him incessantly at the same time as doing her job.
TBC...
Chapter 9
"Post what?"
Nick said in disbelief at the doctor standing confidently in front of him, expression unreadable.
"PTSD - Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It means he may experience realistic...hallucinations if you like, and other symptoms related to the incident, panic attacks, nightmares, depression, it varies from patient to patient. I haven't noticed depression as such on Mr. Sanders, but certainly panic attacks and nightmares. There is little we can do, and under these circumstances I feel the best thing to do would be to wait."
"And...what do we do?"
Catherine asked. The doctor shrugged.
"Give him the support he needs at a time like this; make sure he knows you're there for him, most likely what you would do anyway."
The doctor's last statement reminded Catherine of Greg's father and his last visit to the hospital. Her expression was one of incredulity. PTSD- that happened to other people. Not Greg. Not the young vibrant lab tech she knew. After a little while the doctor left the CSI's staring into space, until they realised he was no longer there and looked at each other instead. Somebody would have to tell Jon Sanders. Catherine realised it was the perfect opportunity to talk to him and left.
At the knock he looked up slowly. Ambivalence played within him, but eventually he chose to ignore the knock. He heard the muffled voice of a woman and his eyes shot to the door.
"Jon Sanders? It's Catherine Willows..."
After a few moments more turmoil inside, he decided to continue ignoring it.
"I have news of your son, of Greg."
To this he got up and let her in, this time without hesitation. He suddenly realised how he must look to her. He hadn't shaved since he'd found out and the dark room he'd been hiding in was in such a state of chaos he felt slightly embarrassed inviting her in. Hiding. Away from life, the truth, his own actions against his son. Part of him wanted to clear up whether he really thought it was Greg's fault, or not, but a stronger part of him didn't want to think about it at all. It was easier to blame somebody he could yell at; a focus for his hate.
She looked him in the eye, and he was cut short by the strength and determination emanating from her. He couldn't help but feel immediate respect for her, though he tried to pretend he still felt that same burning anger he'd felt before. In truth it had fizzled to a burning pain and loneliness.
She stood, staring at him, trying to work out if his feelings had changed.
"Come in"
He said, almost in a daze. He hadn't spoken for a while, his voice sounded strange to him.
"I don't know what you hope to achieve by coming here but..."
"Your son has PTSD."
"What?"
"Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The symptoms are nightmares, depression and realistic flashbacks, panic attacks..."
She found her voice sounding colder and more detached than intended, and tried to remember what Jon Sanders had been through.
"Mr Sanders, I know you are looking for someone to blame, but it is not Greg's fault. The sooner you understand that the better, because right now he needs you- you need each other. If you want somebody to blame, try James Roe. You know inside it isn't Greg's fault."
His face displayed his inner turmoil as he sat down. His voice was quiet and shaky as he asked,
"Is there anything the doctors can do for him?"
"No, it's up to the people who care about Greg. Is that you...or are you just going to lose the remaining member of your family as well?"
Jon Sanders stood up angrily, but words wouldn't form, and he just watched her retreating form, until she turned around and looked at him directly, before leaving.
The doctors said he'd be out in a couple of days. They said he'd be fine, they said everything would get back to normal, they said he would come through it, and to trust them, they were doctors after all. But they were only talking physically, and mentally his world seemed to be ebbing away slowly. Everything had changed. The images wouldn't extricate themselves from every thought he had, and the feeling of helplessness had hung around at the back of his mind. Those things came into themselves at night, dancing around his mind, taking over, haunting him. And they would do forever. He couldn't get away from it, no matter how hard he tried, he might as well not bother for all the good it did.
Every time Marc, Nick, anyone made him laugh, tried to cheer him up, he felt guilty. Karla would never laugh again. His mother would never laugh again. Tom and Justin would never laugh again. And it was his fault- so how dare he laugh, as if he didn't even care that they were gone, as if he was over it...
Or perhaps it was easier not to care about anything anymore. That way you can't get hurt. But then...if you don't care about life, what's the point? He stared at the clipboard at the end of his bed, even though he couldn't actually see it. He knew it was there, with a bulldog clip roughly holding his chart; he could picture it in his mind. He could almost feel its sharp edge digging into his wrist, the warm blood dripping-
"Hey Greg"
Sara said as cheerfully as she could without being tactless in the face of his recent loss.
"Hey Sara."
He replied, smiling slightly. The charade of a pleasant conversation continued until she was gone, and his dark thoughts returned whilst a nurse chattered at him incessantly at the same time as doing her job.
TBC...