Chapter 2 An Unexpected Variable
"Mr. Grissom? Mr. Grissom?" a male voice pressed, with some urgency. "Can you hear me?"
A large hand grasped his forearm, exerting light pressure.
"Mr. Grissom?" The voice became more insistent. "Can you open your eyes or squeeze my hand?" A hand was roughly inserted into his.
At that point, Grissom was so confused that he didn't care who it was or what he wanted. He was exhausted and he wanted this guy to quit shaking him and leave him the hell alone. Several voices murmured about him, some male, and some female. Some whispered and one was muffling sobs.
His befuddled brain tried to make some sense of the situation. Had he finally died? Was this his funeral? Was he in heaven or hell, or some other type of celestial waiting room? He didn't have the energy to even budge his eyelids, more or less squeeze some stranger's hand. Frankly, he didn't care; he wanted them to go away so he could fade into oblivion.
His wish was granted; the surrounding sounds became muted as he drifted back into unconsciousness.
A sharp pinprick in his arm brought him to attention, his eyelids fluttered open. A smiling older woman wearing a crisp white nurse's uniform greeted him.
"Welcome back honey."
She finished her adjustments to the IV tube in his arm then proceeded to check his vitals. She continued to chatter amiably as she worked; yet her words didn't fully register as Grissom took in his situation.
"…a lot of people worried about…."
He wasn't dead. He couldn't fully accept that, it just didn't make sense to him. It wasn't logical. His mind couldn't comprehend that he was really alive, and apparently at the hospital. He was clad in a hospital gown, his chest tightly bound with ace bandages. His ankle was hoisted up in a sling, still horribly swollen. As he tentatively raised his hand to his temple, he felt more gauze wrapped about his head.
"…poor girl must've been here all night…"
The excruciating pain had been reduced by the doctor's ministrations, but it was still a major force to be reckoned with. Instead of screaming agony, now he experienced constant dull throbbing. It was an improvement, in any case. His ability to think clearly was definitely diminished. His brain felt as if it was filled with a hazy fog.
He tried harder to focus on the nurse again, wanting to understand her words, sensing she was conveying important information, but he was feeling so tired.
"…she'll be back soon."
Taking a closer look at her patient, the nurse advised, "Rest now." Her words faded as he drifted back to sleep.
The next time Grissom opened his eyes, Warrick greeted him.
"Hey man, it's good to have you back," the younger man smiled with relief.
Grissom examined his surroundings as Warrick pulled his chair closer to the bed. Sunlight was flooding through the windows, though he'd no idea if this were even the same day.
Shadows hung under Warrick's eyes and his clothing was wrinkled. He muffled a yawn as he asked, "How are you feeling?"
Grissom had to think about that. "Better than I was."
"I'll bet."
Although it was difficult to concentrate, Grissom pushed himself to focus. "How did…how did I get here?"
Warrick sighed, looking down towards his hands, as if he didn't want to think about it himself.
"I just can't figure out how." Grissom was frustrated by the dullness of his mental faculties.
"Catherine found you on Thursday morning after her shift. Lindsay's been getting into trouble again, so she wanted to talk with you about making some changes in her work schedule. It was really bothering her, that's most likely why she decided she couldn't wait for you to get back to the lab. She got impatient and dropped by your house." He paused a moment, then almost mumbled, "Thank God your door wasn't locked."
Grissom heaved a cautious sigh of relief. Catherine, it figures. She'd always made herself at home, even when she wasn't invited. The fact that she'd discovered him in such a compromising position didn't even register to him. She was the variable that he hadn't accounted for. She'd saved his life.
Finally he'd discovered the answer to his nagging question. A tangible sense of release overcame him, like a gust of fresh air. He could close his eyes again.
The days Grissom spent in the hospital blurred together, it was difficult for him to distinguish one from another. At first, he was under close scrutiny since, as he'd suspected, his dehydrated state had led to a coma. He'd revived momentarily in the emergency room, and then lapsed back into unconsciousness for another day or so. His head wound had developed an infection as well.
After it was determined that his condition had stabilized, he underwent orthopedic surgery to insert pins into his ankle to re-align the bones so they would mend properly. Some of the bones had to be re-broken for correct alignment. Under normal circumstances, the surgery would've fascinated Grissom, even though it was the sickening crunch of his own bones being broken. Yet, he'd been so heavily sedated that the surgery barely registered in his mind.
The constant medicating made him dull. He couldn't think, though at that point he didn't especially care. He was completely drained of energy, most of the time he was only alert for brief intervals before oblivion reclaimed him. His doctors continued to assure him that this was normal after all that he'd suffered, and that these drugs were necessary to facilitate his recovery. Everyone who visited him advised him to rest, to regain his strength.
A few cards and a vase of flowers were on the dresser, but he'd no idea who sent them. He couldn't turn on his side; more or less take four steps across the room to the dresser. He still felt as if he were straddling the barrier between the world of the living and that of the dead.
During that time, visitors appeared at random intervals, sometimes solo, sometimes in clusters. All of them were members of his lab. Most of the time, he faded in and out of sleep, with only faint recollections of any interactions with his company; he wasn't able to handle more than a few moments of light conversation. While he couldn't recall exactly who had visited and when, he was touched that every member of his team had stopped by. He didn't particularly understand why they'd come, but he was secretly glad that they did.
Fortunately, within days, the crushing weight of exhaustion began to lessen. He managed to keep his eyes open for more than a fifteen-minute stretch. Some of the horrible fuzziness within him had dissipated, but not completely. Not nearly as much as he had hoped. The pain was duller, yet omnipresent.
Although he still couldn't follow an involved conversation, he could remember bits and pieces. The inane joke Greg shared with him earlier that day was a complete mystery to him, but at least he could recall the man's crazy smile as he'd delivered the punch line. He could also recollect from more recent visits: Catherine's forced smiles, Sara's puffy eyes that avoided meeting his, along with Nick's good natured teasing, Warrick's supportive remarks, and Jim Brass's loyal presence.
Being alert for longer intervals was a mixed blessing. It was a sign that his body was healing, that he would be returning to his life, to the land of the living. Yet, it left him time to realize that he wouldn't simply be waltzing back into his old routines. This awkward transition was going to be horribly difficult and time consuming; he wasn't sure that he could handle it. The prospect was daunting.
His emotions, which were usually easy to ignore, confused him. Shouldn't he be thrilled just to be alive? Didn't most survivors of tragedies claim it renewed their zest and appreciation for life? Why didn't he feel that way? Instead of overwhelming relief or gratitude, he felt….well, he didn't feel at peace. Rather than having this second chance, he just wanted his life to be as it was before, and that was impossible.
As the days passed and his body continued to mend, extreme irritability overtook him, he become embarrassed that his lab members were seeing him in such a sorry state. He started to discourage their visits, even though part of him longed their company and their care.
He just wanted to be himself again. He wanted to be able to recall lines from Shakespeare, at will. He wanted to remember the odds of being hit by lightening on a golf course, or getting a certain poker hand. But most of all he wanted to be able to get up to go to the bathroom on his own again.
Nick and Jim hung back as a nurse gave detailed instructions to Grissom, who didn't appear to be very attentive. With impatience she gestured to several bottles of pills, which were on his bedside table.
"Just write it down, I'll figure it out," he snapped irritatably.
After the nurse finished, she left the room to get a wheelchair. Nick and Jim approached their friend, who was fully dressed and cautiously sitting upright for the first time in over two weeks.
"You ready for this?" Brass asked.
Grissom was still unable to put any weight on his ankle, though the fact that he'd finally gotten a hard cast, which effectively immobilized the bones, helped him with the pain. Due to his broken ribs, he'd only be able to use crutches for brief intervals. For now, Grissom was effectively an invalid, confined to a wheelchair.
"I don't know. You don't have to do this, you know," Grissom replied shortly. He'd become embarrassed to have his co-workers assisting him with such menial tasks. It felt degrading. He was also beginning to feel humiliated about how he'd injured himself. He felt it made him look like a fool, an old fool.
Nick sensed some of his boss's feelings and tried to distract him as they waited for the nurse's return. "You know, when I was a senior in high school, I broke my leg. Now, if it had been during football practice or better yet, a game, that would've been acceptable to me. But, I got drunk and tripped over a curb. Talk about embarrassing."
Grissom didn't seem to be responding but he plunged on anyway.
"You'd think the girls would know the difference, but they didn't. It was a drag being in traction, flat on my back for a month and a half. Then I had to use a wheel chair at school. But the girls were fighting each other for the chance to help me. By the time the prom came, I had beautiful girls asking me to go. Every cloud has a silver lining, Griss."
Grissom merely grunted.
"Be glad you're alive," Nick gravely reminded him.
Grissom bit his tongue; he was getting sick and tired of being told to be grateful to be in this miserable state.
Within minutes, the nurse appeared with the wheel chair and the men gingerly transferred Grissom into it. It must have taken five minutes and three people to perform the process. And it hurt like hell. How on earth was he going to cope with simple everyday tasks?
The trip from his hospital room to Nick's Denali was sensory overload for him: the sounds, the smells, and all the voices. After all, he'd been isolated from the world for over two weeks. He tried to discretely cover his ears with his hands to muffle the assault of the noise.
After safely transferring Grissom into the vehicle, the men drove to pick up a rental wheelchair and crutches, then on to his townhouse. During the drive, he managed to rest some; even with this limited exertion, he was wiped out.
As he rested, he thought that perhaps it would be better to be at his house. All those doctors and nurses at the hospital, poking and prodding him, waking him up whenever they felt like, were grating his nerves. Perhaps he could get more comfortable at home, with peace and quiet. Maybe that would help him feel more like himself.
Yet, as the SUV approached his townhouse, he started feeling nauseous. Had one of his many drugs enhanced motion sickness? Regardless, when the vehicle finally pulled into his driveway, Grissom was practically choking on the bile rising in his throat.
What was wrong with him? Had the doctors made a mistake and released him too early? Or was there yet another medical problem for him to deal with? He tried to remain calm and not panic.
Nick and Jim got out of the SUV then struggled to unload and unfold the wheel chair.
Damn, he was even having trouble breathing; he closed his eyes and attempted to slow it down. He didn't need to further humiliate himself in front of his co-workers. His body was drenched in sweat from the efforts of the day. He needed a shower.
"What's wrong?" Brass came to the window. He'd just finished assembling the wheelchair. He was concerned by his friend's lack of color and rapid breathing.
Grissom didn't say a word. He couldn't vocalize the dread building up inside of him, nor did he want to attempt it.
Jim wasn't sure what was going through his friend's mind, but he tried to reassure him. "It'll be okay. Take it one step at a time. We're here for you."
With great effort, he and Nick transferred Grissom into the wheelchair and brought him to the door of his townhouse.
"I hope you don't mind," Jim explained cautiously, fully expecting vehement objections. "We had copies of your key made for us, so we could help you out."
Grissom didn't respond at all. He was privately struggling with his overpowering urge to vomit.
Jim and Nick exchanged surprised glances. Nick shrugged then used his key to open the door. As he wheeled Grissom in through the doorway, Jim carried his suitcase and crutches into the bedroom.
Grissom couldn't help himself; he was staring towards his bathroom. Nick noticed immediately, and came closer to him.
"It's okay. We cleaned it up for you. It's as good as new. We also picked up some food for the refrigerator. Can I fix you something to eat?"
Strangely enough, the intense waves of nausea disappeared as rapidly as they'd started. A deep sense of gratitude flooded Grissom. Perhaps it was just anxiety about facing the 'scene of the crime' that was bothering him. However, as much as he appreciated Nick's generous offer, he just wanted to go to sleep.
In a much kinder tone, Grissom replied, "No thanks Nick, I think I just need to lie down."
Jim and Nick helped him to his bedroom. They offered to help him change clothes, but Grissom refused. After transferring him on to his bed, they arranged the wheelchair and his crutches for easy access for him. They clipped his cell phone onto his pants. Grissom was drifting off during the entire process.
"Do you have any meds you have to take?" Jim asked.
Grissom grumbled something.
Jim reminded him, "You've got a doctor's appointment tomorrow. Catherine will be by to take you to it. Also, the visiting nurse will be by early to help you figure things out. I'll stop by later tomorrow to see how you're doing. Hey, Gil." Grissom was fading fast. "Anytime, anything, you call me, okay?"
"Thanks Jim."
TBC