Disclaimer: BJ doesn't belong to me, and I didn't create it, and I won't try to sell this story. Just for fun.
Chapter 3
He's not sure if he is awake or asleep. The door just closed, didn't it? How long has he sitting here? He has no idea how much time has elapsed. He recalls something about time and the speed of light from high school physics. He wonders what happens to time when there is no light. It seems time stretches out in the dark.
His thirst is certainly not waning as he waits. He wonders how he will wait until he is better. He is not sure he will survive the day. The only things distracting him from the slow passage of time are the searing pain inside his head and the desert that is his throat. He listens for a moment. There is a low hum from a fan or something above him. Muffled hospital sounds drift in through the door. There is nothing to suggest to him that someone else is in the room now.
Hoping he has some privacy he ventures to probe his face again, trying to ascertain the damage. He feels nothing unusual aside from the bandages around his forehead. He touches a finger to his lids, his eyeballs, eyelashes. It is so hard to believe they are open when there is no hint of anything in front of his eyes. His injured mind is grappling with the reality of what he sees, still tending toward the irrational belief that it is the room that is dark, rather than believing that he is in darkness.
His thoughts are still too muddied to consider the 'what-ifs'. The question makes a feeble attempt to make its presence known in his mind, but he buries it tiredly. Images of the bank flash inside his mind. He closes his eyes, and rests back against his pillow, wishing he had more water. There is Terry. The gunman. A shot. His breath catches. He wonders if it is his memory of the event that stops at that point or just his vision. It's impossible to know. He ponders his last conversation with Christie. If you could call it that. It was mostly her yelling and him listening, head held shamefully in hands as he wondered how he could have been so foolish. It had ended when she slammed out the front door. She had said she was leaving. Where is she now? The thought makes him feel a little nauseous again.
The throbbing in his head is approaching fever pitch, and he is starting to feel a little obsessed about water. He tries to remember the nurse's name, but it has already faded from his dulled mind. Had she shown him a call-button? He only vaguely remembers their interaction. The feeling of a woman's cold hands on his. His hand touching the hard surface of a table. Something plastic? He can't really recall what side she had been on. His thinking is like treading in quicksand. His hands scuttle over the rough sheet that covers his legs. He reaches out to the sides. In an instant his right hand clangs against metal. Bedrail? He grips it; somewhat relieved to find something he can hold onto in this vacuum he finds himself floating in. In another instant, the left hand does the same. He lets his hand drift up and down the rail, searching for a button. He feels a slight bump on a plastic panel on the rail on his left side. He presses it. He hears a click behind him. He waits, presses it again. Click. He waits. Nothing happens. He inches his finger forward and finds another button. He presses it tentatively and cries out when a voice comes booming from above his bed. The sound ricochets inside his tender skull like a pinball and the unexpectedness of it has his heart in his throat. He presses it again, praying he can stop the sound. There is silence. He surmises he has found the television. Another inch forward. Another button. He presses it. He grimaces as the bed he is on hums to life and the head of it begins to rise. Another inch. Another button. The whole bed moves slowly upward now. He grits his teeth and emits a frustrated sigh. He lets his hand drop down to the bed again. It falls on a small plastic object and recognition slowly dawns on him. He turns the object slowly in his hand. A rubbery cord. A button. He has found it. He presses the button. He waits. After an eternity he flinches at the sound of the door opening. Again he finds himself wishing he could disappear. He doesn't know what to do. His eyes widen, searching fruitlessly for the person who is entering the room. Should he speak? Will they identify themselves, unlike Terry? He can't arrive at an answer, as his instincts don't exist in this realm. He has no frame of reference for behaviour in the darkness.
A familiar female voice chirps into his sphere.
"Mr. Dunbar? Did you need something?" He feels relief wash over him. Why can't he remember her name?
"I could really use some more water. I think I dumped the other one," he says hoarsely. His voice sounds strange to him. He sounds so tentative. He hears her come close to his bed. Fabric rustles. There is the soft sound of the empty cup being replaced on the table.
"Sorry," he says, feeling warmth spreading up his cheeks.
"It's no problem. I'll get you some more." Rubber soles squeak away from him. A tap goes on somewhere to his left. He hears a click. A light switch? Rubber soles approach. He tries not to jump when another Styrofoam cup is pressed into his hand.
"There is a straw," she warns him. He feels himself blush again. He brings his right hand up to the cup and finds the straw there. He reaches tentatively for it with his dry lips and drinks thirstily until he hears the slurp of the straw in the empty cup.
"Thank you," he whispers. He sets his head back against the pillows. He feels the cup being taken from him again.
"How's your head?" She asks, her voice coming from a little further away. He hears something rustling and then feels her hand on his arm.
"It hurts," he says simply. He is at a loss for anything more than rudimentary conversation.
"You need some more meds?" she asks, sounding bright; so incongruous with his view of things at the moment.
"I think so," he murmurs. He is still grappling with fatigue.
"I'm just going to take your blood pressure."
He doesn't respond. He hears her fiddling with something beside him and then feels something wrap around his left arm. He hears the 'hiss' 'hiss', 'hiss' of the cuff being inflated, and he notices she holds her breath as she lets the air out of it. Is she listening?
In a moment, the cuff is removed. Soles squeak away from him. Swish. The door is opening. Is someone coming in? He tenses against the unknown.
"I'll be right back with some morphine," comes the woman's voice from near the door. Click. He is alone.
She is back in a moment. She announces herself cheerfully as she comes into the room. He wonders absently if she has other patients in the same boat. He feels a tug at his IV tubing again and the brief burn as liquid oblivion slides into his vein again. He is mentally greeting it when a male voice startles him. It comes from his right.
His head whips toward the sound.
"Mr. Dunbar?"
It is the doctor. What is his name? Why can't he think straight?
"I've arranged the tests we spoke of. We're going to do two things. The first is an MRI, and the second is what we call visual evoked potentials. They are going to take you to MRI now. I'll come back and see you once everything is done. Any questions?"
"What are these tests for?"
"They'll show us to what extent your optic nerves are damaged."
"What does that mean? My brain's not working too well right now…"
"It will give us an idea of whether your vision will return, Mr. Dunbar."
Whether? Isn't that kind of like if? What happened to when? The questions fly through his foggy mind faster than he can utter the words. It doesn't matter. He is hearing the rubber soles squeaking away. Swish. Click. The doctor is gone.
He doesn't think about it any further. The door is opening again. He hears a man's voice. He doesn't recognize it. His heart steps up its frantic rhythm as hands take hold of him on either side. He flinches involuntarily away from them, striking his left wrist on the bed rail. He lets out a hiss of pain.
"Sorry, sir. Let me get the bedrails down. We're going to put you on a stretcher here and take you to MRI." The voice sounds like it comes from far above him. It is hoarse. Maybe a smoker? Metal clangs beside him. He feels his bed shudder. Suddenly there is a humming sound and he feels the bed rising slowly again. Then it stops.
"Okay. The stretcher is right here, on your right. Can you slide across onto it?"
He says nothing. He has no idea if he can slide across onto it. His right hand darts out, tentatively, scrabbling over the rough sheet. He feels a gap, and then the hard mattress of the stretcher. He shifts to the right, scooting over to the stretcher. He feels cold air on his legs as he loses track of the sheet. There is a sting in his left hand as his IV runs out of slack. He stops, hoping he hasn't pulled it out. He looks around, wondering if the nurse is still present.
He hears movement on the other side of the bed.
"Okay, Mr. Dunbar, I've got your IV."
He scoots further onto the stretcher, searching for the other side of it, wondering how high it is off the ground. His hand encounters another metal rail. He reaches behind him. The stretcher is flat. He reaches to his left, wanting suddenly to cover himself with the sheet. He is suddenly aware that he is not wearing much. His fingers tug at the short gown. The sheet seems to have disappeared into the darkness. He sighs inwardly and lies back on the stretcher. It shudders with his weight and he clutches at the rail on the right as he feels a wave of vertigo when the stretcher suddenly moves. He grits his teeth against the nausea. Pain is blooming beneath his skull with the brief exertion. He is feeling a little like he might faint. His head is swimming and he can feel himself tumbling back into the abyss. The rail on his left clangs as someone puts it up. He feels cold, rough fabric flutter down on top of his legs and chest. He is moving again.
There is the soft hum of rubber wheels on the floor. They are outside the room now. He is moving quickly. He feels like he is flying and it makes his stomach lurch. He can hear breath huffing out above him. The person pushing him is out of shape. He grabs at the rails again as he feels the stretcher make a sharp turn. He feels as though his brain is sloshing within his skull. It is louder here. Voices of men and women. A loud electrical hum is vibrating all around him. The stretcher jerks to a stop.
The noise is excruciating. He can hear his breathing in his ears as he lies inside the machine. It is fast, frantic. On top of that is the insistent clanging and buzzing of the MRI. The machine seems to be all around him. He wonders what could possibly make it so loud. He tries not to breath. Not to swallow. They instruct him to be still as the banging starts and stops all around him. Do they hear it? Is something wrong? He doesn't know if they can hear or see him, so he denies himself the comfort of asking what is happening.
The MRI is over. He has fumbled his way back onto the stretcher. He is someplace else now. A woman's voice is explaining the process as she sticks cold wet tabs onto his skull and into his hair.
"I'm going to flash a very bright light at you Mr. Dunbar. I want to know if you see anything at all. These electrodes are going to record any activity in your visual cortex."
His head is throbbing. He flinches for the umpteenth time as she places her hands on him without warning. She puts something over his left eye. He wishes she wasn't touching his tender skull.
"Ready?"
"Yeah."
He hears wheels on the floor in front of him. Is she sitting on a stool?
"Alright. We're going to start now."
A click.
"Anything?"
"No," he responds flatly.
Click.
Click.
Click.
There is nothing. She uncovers his left eye and covers the right.
Click.
Click.
Click.
There is nothing.
He endures the rest of the test, fighting off sleep. There is little to distract him from the fatigue that is once again trying to take him.
The ride back to his room is as vertiginous as the ride to the tests, only now he has a mounting fear. He is beginning to allow questions to take purchase inside his mind. It must be because he knows answers are soon to follow. He is tiring of the darkness. He feels as though he has been amputated from the world, and it is wearing him down. He fights madly against the thought that this might not recover. He has a new distraction now. His bladder is full.
Soon they tell him he is in his room again. He finds it curious that this is his room. He has no idea how long he has been in it. He has no idea what it looks like. He has no idea what floor it is on, or even what hospital this is. Has no one bothered to fill him in on these details or has his porous mind just let it all slip away? He doesn't bother to ask. He can't see the point.
As his stretcher and his stomach lurch to a stop in 'his room' he tries to work up the courage to find out where the bathroom is. He hears the rail clang down from the side of the stretcher and feels a rough hand on his arm tugging him upright. He shakes it off, ignoring the lightening bolts firing off in his head.
He clears his throat and lays a hand gingerly on his forehead. He keeps his face directed downward. He doesn't know where else to look.
"Where's the john?" he croaks.
He is surprised to hear the nurse's voice again. I'll take you Mr. Dunbar. His heart sinks. He had half-hoped she wasn't there. Maybe the man pushing the stretcher might have pointed him in the right direction.
He feels her light touch on his left arm. She guides him off the stretcher. His head swims as he stands for the first time in…he doesn't know how long. He reaches out with his other hand to steady himself but finds nothing to hold onto. There is only the void. He feels her reach behind him and fiddle. Must be the IV again. In a minute she has his left hand. He lets her guide it and she presses it around a cold metal pole.
"Hold onto the IV pole for balance," she instructs. He clutches it like a life raft. She tugs on his arm and he stumbles after her. She leads him forward, right, left. He hears a door swing open. He wonders if they are in the hall again, but she stops him abruptly.
She guides his right hand straight ahead to something cold.
"Here's the sink."
She takes him to the left and tugs his hand down in front of him.
"The toilet. The door is right in front of the sink. Will you be alright if I wait outside?"
"Yes," he grinds out, fear of being alone in this vacuum beginning to win out over his pride.
She is gone now. A door clicks shut behind him. He clutches the pole in his left hand and reaches down tentatively. He prepares to empty his bladder, and suddenly realizes he doesn't know where to aim. Hot tears burn his eyes. He gropes for the seat and sits down heavily. He holds his heavy head gingerly in both hands, wincing as he tugs on the IV line once again.
He feels tears trailing down his face and lets them fall. He shoves a fist harshly against his mouth; biting back a sob that is fighting it's way out of him. After a few moments he stands. He waits impatiently for the wave of lightheadedness to leave him. He pulls the IV pole forward. His right hand is outstretched before him. He is glad for the IV pole to steady him, as it feels like the ground is moving under his feet. He can't find his balance. A high pitched ringing tone joins the cacophony of his harsh breathing, pounding heart, and overwhelming fear inside his head. There is a hiss of pain as his left elbow collides with porcelain. He has found the sink. He reaches out his right arm. Where is the goddamned door? He moves further right until his knuckles graze the wall. His fingers flutter over the rough surface right, then left until he feels the doorframe, and finally the handle. He turns the knob and pushes the door open. He takes a tentative step forward, unsure of where he is now. Is he inside his room? Is this the hallway? His bed could be two feet in front of him or two hundred. Any sense of dimension is absent. He sags against the doorframe, fatigue overwhelming him again.
Rubber soles approach him. Cold fingers grasp his arm. This time they guide his hand to her arm.
"This is the best way to do it," she says confidentially, leading him forward. A hand takes his and guides it to the edge of the bed.
"Here you are. Can you get in?"
"Yeah." His voice is barely a whisper. He crawls into the bed, every movement setting off fireworks of pain in his temples. He settles back in bed and feels it shudder and clang as she puts the bedrail up.
He reaches out with his right hand again, groping along the bedrail and over it, searching for the table. He hears her move it and in an instant his fingers graze the hard surface. He is about to reach forward to seek out his cup of water when she presses it against the back of his hand.
"Here it is."
He takes it gratefully and swallows some. He lets his hand come down so the cup is in his lap. He doesn't want to pour it on the floor again. He is reluctant to let it go. In the silence of the moment he hears the nurse's soft soles moving about the room.
"I'm sorry, miss. I…can't remember your name," he says tentatively, hoping that a name might make her seem less like an apparition or disembodied voice.
"It's Julie. Don't worry, your head will clear once you have had some more rest."
"Thanks."
He closes his eyes for a moment, but then they fly open again and his head whips to the right. There is someone beside him, and it's not Julie. He can still here her moving about the room. He hears a breath catch just inches from him. His heart is in his throat again. He hears Julie's movements stop. There is a movement in front of him. He hears fabric rustling.
"Who's there?" he demands sharply, stung by the fact that someone has been watching him fumble his way back into bed and grope around for his water.
Julie is beside him again.
"Mr. Dunbar, your wife is here."
