And thanks as always to Leslie for her greatly appreciated input.
Chapter 4 A Poorly Designed ExperimentThe blaring of a television infomercial woke Grissom from dead slumber He had to stop doing this; his neck became so stiff when he slept in the wheelchair. He hadn't planned on falling asleep, fully clothed, in front of the television; yet somehow he'd managed to doze off for several hours. Ironically, he never felt refreshed or energized after sleeping; somehow he remained trapped in a constantly groggy state.
The wall clock showed that it was a little after five in the morning. Although it was still dark outside, it would be useless to go through the effort of getting into his bed at this point. He wasn't looking forward to facing yet another uneventful, plodding day. Time seemed to creep by so slowly; he'd never experienced that before. He didn't know what to do with himself.
At least yesterday, he'd had the nurse's visit, his trip to the doctor with Catherine, and Brass brought over dinner. And that had been challenging to deal with. The prospect of facing an entirely new day without any outside diversions was disturbing.
His crew would be finishing their shift soon. Perhaps he could call one of them to drop by to join him for breakfast? What was he thinking? He couldn't figure himself out. When he was by himself, he felt incredibly lonely, craving the presence of another human being. However, when people were actually with him, they grated his nerves, he found himself purposely being unpleasant so they wouldn't want to stay long. What was wrong with him? These contradictory feelings didn't make any sense, it wasn't logical.
Resigned to facing the day by himself, he wheeled himself over to the refrigerator to pour a glass of orange juice. The carton felt light; he was almost out. Damn, he hadn't thought out the whole grocery thing, yet another obstacle to deal with. He'd figure it out later; it wasn't as if he needed many supplies, he hadn't had much of an appetite anyway. He knew he should try to eat something, especially with all the medication he was taking; but nothing seemed appealing to him. He'd make himself eat some soup or a sandwich, later, for lunch.
Grissom reached for the plastic pill dispenser on his kitchen counter. The nurse had arranged his medication for him, placing each day's pills into an appropriate box. Time and frequency for each drug were noted on a post-it attached to the lid. Curious, he perused the note, wondering what he was actually ingesting. One appeared to be an antibiotic, which made sense. Another was possibly a sedative, he wasn't entirely sure; as if he needed to sleep more. And at least two others seemed to be for pain, which included several daily doses; that seemed a bit excessive.
He placed the presumed antibiotics in his mouth and chased them with a swallow of orange juice. Hmm, wasn't there something about the acidity of orange juice interfering with ability of the stomach to metabolize drugs? Or maybe it was grapefruit juice? Like so many other facts locked away in his mind, he just couldn't grasp it. His frustration was rapidly giving way to despair. Yet rather than feeling sorry for himself, what could he do about it?
Another swallow of orange juice followed the possible sedative. As he was about to place the two final pills in his mouth, he paused. Did he really need to take two drugs for pain? Frankly, he'd been feeling much better in that respect. Rather than pain, the blasted vagueness of his mind was plaguing him. Perhaps…perhaps he could reclaim part of his brain by cutting back on non-essential medication? And if the pain came back, he'd just take the pills. No problem.
A piece of his brain tried to argue that there was something inherently wrong with this strategy, but he couldn't hear it. Nor did he want to. Finally, something he could do to improve his predicament.
He returned the pills to the dispenser and closed it, and then he rolled into the living room. He supposed that he should bath and change into clean clothes, but the fact that it wasn't even light outside discouraged him from that activity. Later, he'd do it later. He picked up a newspaper Jim had brought over last night, and attempted to read.
"Hello?"
Grissom started, he must have zoned out for a while; sunlight was spilling in through the windows. He placed his newspaper in his lap.
"Hello?" a female voice called.
His front door opened. How many people had copies of his keys? Oh God, it was Sara; his heart beat faster in his chest. She closed the door behind her and walked towards him. She'd come directly from work; she was wearing her CSI vest with her photo identification badge clipped onto it.
"Hey, how are you feeling?" She smiled nervously.
"Lousy," he mumbled as he tried to avoid looking at her. His stomach was bothering him more than usual.
A full-scale war was also waging within him. Part of him was thrilled to see her and overjoyed by her company, while the other portion was mortified beyond belief that she was seeing him in such horrendous condition, especially since he'd slept in his clothes and hadn't bathed in two days. His pride was deeply wounded.
As usual, Sara tended to ramble when she was anxious. "I'll bet it's great to be back home after being in the hospital so long. It must be nice to be sleeping in your own bed again." Some intense emotions threatened to erupt as she said, "It's so great to see you in real clothes instead of that hospital..gown." She swallowed hard to regain her composure, and then she tried to be more upbeat. "I brought you some breakfast." She held up a bag. "Pancakes sound okay?"
Grissom was so consumed by his thoughts he didn't notice that her hands were trembling.
"I'm not really hungry." The mere mention of food was making him gag.
It was completely unacceptable to him that she was seeing him looking like a helpless old man. Maybe if he ignored her, she'd just go away. He could feel his cheeks becoming warm, as his shame increased.
She placed the bag on the kitchen table and began to remove its contents.
"C'mon, you need to eat. You gotta get your strength back." She tried to remain cheerful, but his less than enthusiastic reception disturbed her. She turned to the kitchen cabinets, "Where do you keep your plates?"
The humiliated portion of him was rapidly winning this battle. "No." He was firm.
Sara always was perceptive; she recognized that she wasn't wanted. She bit her lip as she abruptly shoved the food back into the sack. "Fine, have it later." She opened the refrigerator and tossed the bag inside.
"Do you need anything?" She sounded angry, but even in his pathetic condition, he knew better. If only he could avoid her eyes, the hurt there was searing through him like hot coals. No matter what he did in the next moment, he would be a complete jerk.
"No, just leave me alone." As he expected, his dismissive tone and those words were the final nail in the coffin.
"Fine," she gasped hoarsely. She strode towards the door, while taking a deep breath.
He'd gotten what he wanted; he'd driven her away. And she'd most likely never come back. Somehow, it didn't feel like a victory at all.
Suddenly, the other part of him, that responded to the emotions reflected in her eyes, mutinied. It desperately wanted to rectify the harm that he'd just inflicted. It wanted her to stay, regardless of his poor condition. He shocked himself by shouting after her.
"Sara!"
"What?" She'd just reached the doorknob, and she was equally surprised by his call. She sniffed and discretely wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand.
What could he say? He couldn't handle much at the moment. He needed an excuse. Deliberating trying not to sound grouchy, he asked, "Could you get me some orange juice? If it's not too much trouble."
Confused, she agreed. "Okay. You need anything else?"
It was as close to an apology as he could muster. He just hoped that she would recognize it for the pathetic attempt it was. "I don't know, I just feel so rotten. I'm not that hungry."
Apparently, it was accepted. "We'll figure something out when I get back." She smiled meekly as she left.
After he finished reading what he could of the newspaper, Grissom had drifted back to sleep. His dreams were disturbing; he tossed and moaned. Yet waking up provided no relief for him. Cold sweat covered his body; he was practically shaking as waves of raw pain washed over him. The nerve endings in his ankle and near his ribs burned as if they were on fire. It was as if he were back on that bathroom floor, lying in agony, waiting to die. In fact, his addled brain wasn't fully convinced that he wasn't still lying in a pool of his own blood.
He was terrified to move, remembering how it had knocked him out for such long periods of time. All rational sections of his mind had shut down, only the purely animalistic emotional side ruled. Thus he couldn't remember what caused this situation. He was also incapable of rationally deciding to get his medicine himself, or even using his cell phone to call for help. He was scared and he didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to make the horrendous pain go away.
It could have been minutes or hours before he heard her.
"Oh my God! What's wrong?" He heard a panicked cry as footsteps raced towards him.
"Make it stop, please make the pain go away." He begged in a raspy voice; he was too far-gone to have any remnant of pride holding him back.
"Where are your pills?" The question was repeated several times, rather insistently, before he was able to point towards the kitchen.
He heard her frantic voice speaking with someone over the phone, although he wasn't able to follow the details.
Within minutes, pills were placed in his mouth, followed by the lip of a glass of water to sip from. Unfortunately, it could take at least an hour to begin to build up the clinically effective levels of painkillers in his bloodstream. Thankfully, relief was in sight.
"Why the hell do you do that?" Sara sank down on his couch, opposite him. After she'd effectively handled the emergency, her emotions overcame her. Her body trembled as tears spilled out of her eyes. "Why didn't you take your medicine?"
He didn't have an answer for her; he himself couldn't remember his rationale at that particular moment.
Sara dabbed her eyes with a tissue, yet her tears just trickled faster down her face. "Do you want to die?"
He was besieged with pain, and still having trouble differentiating between reality and his previous ordeal. His protective barriers were no longer functioning. His raw emotions poured out. "Of course not, I fought it as hard as I could. But then I reached a point where, I didn't have a choice any more. I accepted it. I was ready to die. So why the hell am I still here? Why? It doesn't make any sense."
"Do you really want to die?" her anguished voice sadly repeated, filled with confusion.
The intensity of his emotions was crushing him, leading him to despair. His voice grew hoarse. "I don't know. What's the point of being alive like this? What good am I to anyone? I can't do anything. I can barely think."
"It takes time, you know that." She grabbed his hands and tried to reassure him. She massaged his palm with her thumb as her eyes fixed onto his cobalt blue ones.
Something in those brown eyes spoke to him, reassured him. He held her gaze as he blurted out his fear. "What if I'm never the same person?"
She spoke softly, trying to comfort him. "Then you deal with it. You have to take things one day at a time, Griss. I know it's frustrating but it takes time to heal. You have to give yourself time."
He shook his head as other fears that he couldn't even name filled his mind. Fears that haunted his dreams and tormented his thoughts. "For God's sake, I'm even afraid of my own bathroom. What the hell is wrong with me?"
Instinctively, Sara sprang forward to put her arms around him and hold him, which was a bit awkward to coordinate when one person was in a wheelchair. She ended up gingerly perched on his lap. Even if Grissom wasn't ready for her embrace, she couldn't restrain herself; she hated to see him suffering. She gently rubbed his back with her hand as his head pressed against her shoulder.
"I don't have any answers for you, I wish I did. I haven't been through what you have. I have a feeling that your reactions are perfectly normal. I think you need professional help."
Even half-out of his mind, Grissom objected to this. Pulling back to look her straight in the eye, he said, "No."
Sara explained, "Let me put it another way, no one can help you if you don't try to help yourself. You need to eat better. You need to take your medication properly. You need to take better care of yourself, with bathing and changing your clothes. I can help you with some of these things, but I have no clue how to help you work through dealing with coming that close to dying. Please."
He grabbed her hand tightly, as if he were a drowning man clinging to a life preserver. He felt as if he was sinking fast and she was the only anchor in sight. Whatever he recognized within her sparkling brown orbs was his lighthouse beacon, guiding him to safety.
"Okay."
Later on, he'd wonder how on earth she'd talked him into it, for it went against his principles, and every fiber of his being. Men didn't need to talk about their feelings. That was completely unnecessary and just plain wrong. Yet once he agreed to see a psychiatrist, she refused to let him weasel out of it.
Sara had calmed down enough to take care of her patient. "We need to get some food into you. Your doctor wants you to take an extra sedative so you can rest until the painkillers become effective. Can you try some soup?"
"I guess so." Grissom wasn't overly enthusiastic.
Sara heated up some chicken soup and brought it over in a mug for him to try. She coaxed him to drink at least half of it, and then she helped him get onto his bed. Once he took the sedative, he rapidly fell asleep.
His bedroom was dark when he opened his eyes again, only a few beams of light from the hallway streamed into the room. He'd lost almost an entire day. The excruciating pain had finally dissipated, replaced by the nebulous mind-numbing foggy sensation. He actually welcomed it with open arms. His memory of the ordeal earlier that day was vague though he remembered Sara's insistence that he needed to take better care of himself. He also remembered that she had saved him. And strangely enough, for the first time since his accident, rather than feeling humiliated, he was grateful.
He tried sitting up, he was groggy but he needed to use the bathroom.
"Hey." Sara came to the door. "Need a hand?"
Since he was so weak and partially asleep, he allowed her to help him into to his wheelchair. For a slight woman, she was surprising strong. Once he reached the bathroom door, he grabbed the crutches and half-smiled at her. "I think I can handle it from here."
After taking care of business, Grissom wheeled himself into the living room where Sara was sitting on the couch, reading one of his forensics journals.
"Don't you have to work tonight?"
"Um…yeah, but Catherine's covering for me."
His eyebrow arched. He didn't feel comfortable with her missing work on his account.
She defended her actions. "I'm not leaving here until you've stabilized. You have to stop scaring me like this."
He wheeled closer to the couch.
Trying to change the subject, Sara explained, "I made an appointment for you with Dr. Walker. It's tomorrow afternoon. You'll see him weekly. I'll take you to all your appointments so it will be private."
He started to object but the glare she shot at him made him change his mind.
"I also made arrangements for a male visiting nurse to come by every other day to help you with bathing and other things you might need."
Grissom was suddenly too tired to object.
More gently, she asked, "Is it better? Has the pain gone away?"
He nodded. "Yeah."
She rose to grab the handle of the wheelchair. "Let's get you back to bed. The nurse is coming tomorrow between eight and nine o'clock and I'll come by after noon to take you to the doctor."