Chapter 3 Reinventing the Wheel
After transferring Grissom from her Denali to his wheelchair, Catherine paused to catch her breath. Maneuvering Grissom in and out of a vehicle and wheelchair had been difficult enough for two men the previous day, but Catherine managed to pull it off. She wiped beads of sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand and then searched her pocket for her keys.
Grissom was also breathing heavily, winded from the exertion.
She began to push the wheelchair up the walk to his front door.
"So, your next appointment is in a week?" she asked.
"Yeah, Jim said he'd take me to the next one," Grissom explained.
They'd reached his doorway, yet Catherine lingered, seemingly reluctant to enter his house.
"Sara said she's coming by sometime," Catherine tentatively mentioned.
"No," he strongly responded.
Her eyes registered surprise at his tone. "Gil, she wants to help. We all do. Don't shut us out."
"No," he repeated, softer this time, almost sadly. He couldn't bear the thought of her seeing him like this.
Slightly sarcastic, she replied, "I'll guess you'll have to tell her yourself."
She placed her key into the lock and turned it. Grissom's eyebrow arched. When did she get a copy of his key? Before he could question her, she swiftly pushed him into his living room.
"You need anything?" Catherine didn't sit down; suddenly she seemed wired. Since she'd just finished a shift and had a heavy workout, lugging Grissom around, in addition to her personal responsibilities, she had every reason to be tired.
"I'm okay Catherine. Thanks," he mumbled.
She twisted her hands together. "You sure?"
No. He wasn't okay. In fact, he was desperately ashamed that part of him wanted to beg her to stay, even just a while. He tried valiantly to quash those disturbing emotions.
"Yeah. I'll be fine," he spoke with more assurance than he felt.
Looking towards the door, she apologized, "I gotta run."
"You don't need my permission."
She strode towards the door then looked back towards him. "Gil, if you need anything."
"I know, I know." He'd heard this mantra multiple times over the last twelve hours. "Go."
The front door closed behind her.
Catherine didn't seem like herself. She'd talked too fast, as if she was nervous and her facial expressions didn't seem genuine. But he wasn't himself either. He didn't know the man he'd become. He didn't like him very much.
This morning, the visiting nurse, who had stopped by to check on his head wound, gave him valuable advice about how to perform minor tasks, given his current limitations. It all sounded deceptively simple when she described things; he was finding out that it was not. Getting dressed had been a major undertaking. Who was he kidding, every task he'd faced that entire day had felt as if he were tackling major obstacles.
The nurse had offered to stay that morning to assist him with bathing and dressing, but he'd dismissed her. He was tired of being taken care of by strangers; he wanted his privacy back.
He hated feeling so weak and dependent upon other people. He was bound and determined to master as many skills as he could to take care of himself. If it took an hour to get dressed, well, he had no place in particular to go. And hopefully he'd improve with practice. It wasn't going to be easy.
Sweat poured out of his body, every motion he made seemed to require great reserves of energy. He was weary, and he wanted to take a long hot shower to feel cleaner. The nurse had brought by a plastic chair for him to sit in while in the bathtub. Yet, that seemed a little too complicated for him to manage for it involved such skills as getting in and out of the bathtub, and keeping his cast dry. Maneuvering in the bathroom just to use the toilet was a nightmare.
And it was absolutely impossible to consider, just looking in the general direction of his bathroom invoked his gag reflex. Okay, no showers for now. He could handle sponge baths, although he'd no idea how he was supposed to wash his hair. He didn't really care.
Those were only the beginning of his concerns. As he'd rested in his hospital bed, he couldn't think clearly, it was as if a smokescreen had covered parts of his brain so his neurons and axons couldn't communicate properly with one another. He kept telling himself that it had to get better when he left the hospital. It had to, or he'd lose his sanity.
Although his outer surroundings had changed, his prison remained the same. While he could think more clearly than last week, his concentration was shot. That morning he tried to read a forensics journal, to utilize his off-work time effectively. After fifteen minutes of struggling with the first paragraphs, he dejectedly gave up. It was even difficult for him to follow some television programs.
His mind felt like a dull blade scrapping away trying to make a clean cut but only able to make a feeble gnash; completely ineffective and useless.
His brain, his primary source of pride and joy, was a mess. He felt as if an essential part of him had been left on that bathroom floor. Would he ever get it back?
He idly pushed his wheelchair about the living room; he had no idea what to do with himself. His intellect had always driven his pursuits. His wealth of books and species were useless to him at this point, unless he just looked at the pictures. He couldn't bring himself to sink that low.
He tried to put some music on the stereo; that was usually soothing. Yet, he couldn't reach the system from his wheelchair and he was conserving his strength for using the crutches under more pressing circumstances.
He'd never spent much time at his home. Other than a rare visit from Brass or Catherine, he'd never entertained. He'd never wanted to. No date had ever set foot in here. Most of his social needs, along with his intellectual stimulation, were more than fully satisfied at work. Even his pets were at the office. The lab was more like his home than his town house had ever been. This was the place he slept, where he kept his belongings. And now it had become his world.
It would be tempting to go to the lab, just to be where he felt most comfortable. But he didn't have that option. The pure humiliation of having his team see him in such a sorry state was sufficient to squelch any of those impulses. Besides, he'd only be frustrating himself even more; he wouldn't be able to comprehend what was going on there either.
En route to his doctor's appointment, Catherine had tried to ask him some simple procedural questions; she was filling in for him during his extended absence. She swiftly backed off as she realized that he didn't have answers
God must be laughing at him, he thought bitterly, for an asinine quote taunted him,
And all he could do was to sit, sit, sit, sitAnd he did not like it,
Not one little bit. (Theodore Geisel)
Being bored was a foreign concept to him; he'd never experienced it. Now the two of them would become well acquainted. He'd also never felt especially lonely, in terms of just companionship. He wasn't one to call another person up just to chat. So why was he feeling anxious for company now?
Ouch, his neck ached. That's what he deserved; falling asleep slumped over like some old geezer in a wheelchair. His healing body didn't want to adjust to an eight-hour sleep cycle; instead, it mercilessly demanded sleep in intermittent intervals, whenever it wanted. Supposedly this was part of the recovery process. It wasn't too much of a hassle for him, since he was used to working night shift, and he was also accustomed to catching sleep at odd intervals, whenever he could. Yet, being home, alone, without a clear demarcation between day and night, could present some problems.
What did other people do when these types of injuries occurred? How did they take care of themselves? He knew the answer to that. They had families. Devoted wives of fifteen plus years, brothers or sisters, or even adult children. It wasn't as if he had no family, his mother loved him. But with her advanced age, it was difficult for her to even attempt to visit him; taking care of him was out of the question. Besides, it wasn't a mother's job to take care of her nearly 50-year-old son. It was a wife's.
Why was he thinking about this stuff anyway? It wasn't as if he had any strong candidates for the position. His last association with a woman had been anything but traditional.
He still berated himself for sleeping with Lady Heather. What was he thinking? Talk about potentially messing up his professional reputation, he certainly hadn't been using his brain then. But, somehow, she knew the burden of his secret, of his impending deafness. She knew, and that eased the unbearable weight for him. She didn't need him to tear his heart out for her, to share his entire life with her. She accepted him as he was. The fact that she was good-looking, smart, and considered him attractive was merely icing on the cake.
It was a safer outlet for him too. A chance for sex with no other messy attachments; he didn't have to make any deep emotional connection with her. He was in completely in charge in that relationship, he called all the shots, and he had all the power. She knew the rules. It was an irresistible setup.
While he cared for Lady Heather and he was physically attracted to her, his heart had nothing to do with that association. She couldn't hurt him. But she couldn't help him either. He didn't envision her coming over with chicken soup to visit him. The relationship, if you could call it that, had no future; it hadn't lasted long. Besides the last time he'd slept with her, he'd inadvertently called her another woman's name
Terri Miller had been a more promising candidate; beautiful and his intellectual equal in the field of science. Once again, the demands of his job had effectively quashed any potential relationship. Now she was happily married to a teacher.
There had been a few dates here and there. Nobody special.
You know, by the time you figure it out, you really could be too late.NO. He almost covered his ears with his hands. NO. He couldn't think about her. He had even less to offer her now.
"You want a beer?" Brass offered.
Grissom laughed ruefully, "You've got to be kidding, with all the medication I've got in me."
"Sorry."
The two men were sitting in Grissom's living room, sharing a pizza. Grissom mostly picked at his, he wasn't very hungry. Brass tried to make himself comfortable on the couch as he flipped through the TV channels.
"Hey, the Giants are playing."
"I hate sports," Grissom replied, devoid of emotion.
Jim left the game on, sensing that nothing would please his friend. He'd been surly during his entire visit.
"So, what have you been up too?"
Grissom sighed, wondering if he should tell the long version or the short one. He'd go with the short one, he was feeling irritable and tired.
"Besides my doctor's appointment and sleeping, not much."
"Can't enjoy your life of leisure?" Jim half-joked.
Grissom rolled his eyes, "I can't concentrate."
Surprised by his friend's admission, Jim tried not to make a big deal of it. "Hey, you've been through a lot. It's gonna take a while to get back to normal. And you don't have to read forensics journals. Why don't you try the newspaper or do simpler crossword puzzles? Until you're back to your old self."
"I don't know. I just want to be myself again," he dejectedly responded.
"Nick and Warrick want to know if you'd like them to come by sometime to play poker."
"No." It was bad enough for Jim and Catherine to see him like this. He didn't think he could handle anyone else knowing what he'd become.
Jim misunderstood his reluctance. "C'mon Gil, you've seen all sorts of freak accidents. You of all people know this stuff can happen to anyone, especially in bathrooms. The EMTs respond to tons of calls for bathroom related accidents, which happen to people of all ages. This could've happened to anyone."
Grissom didn't respond.
"Besides, it's probably the drugs that have your head messed up. Once you're done with them, I'm sure you'll be yourself again."
TBC