Hello, all. I want to start by saying my computer is effectively useless at the moment. Somehow, my screen got cracked, and I can honestly say I have no earthly idea how. To make matters worse, the screen is a touch screen, so the computer thinks I'm touching it where the crack is, meaning I can't even so much as restart it. That being said, I'm currently giving you a chapter update from my work computer (don't tell anyone) and will have to do it this way likely for the next month or so.
Regarding the story, these next few chapters are by no means my favorite chapters. Despite my best efforts, I could not write them to my satisfaction. That being said, I had to track Cristina's progress slowly. I didn't want it to go from completely catatonic to perfectly normal, talking, walking around Cristina, so just know that these little embarrassing snippets have a purpose. Hopefully, you all enjoy.
Owen was darting around Cristina's hospital room, frantically gathering his files into a brief case. The MediVac was leaving in ten minutes, and he still had files strung out all over the room. He had spent the last 36 hours juggling Cristina's medical care and legal dealings with the crash. The last call had taken significantly longer than he expected, so he was rushed to make it on the chopper in time. He stuffed the last of the files into his bag, and rushed out the door.
Mark's condition improved significantly after his surgery. Turns out being a nonsmoker with excellent genetics really does pay off. He scheduled the MediVac to get there at 6:00 so they could be back in Seattle before dark. He looked at his phone: 5:58, it read. He raced up the stairs, taking two at a time, and arrived just in time to watch the chopper grow smaller and smaller as it headed west for Seattle. "Dammit," he screamed, unlocking his phone. He texted Richard: Call me as soon as you land. Urgent.
He made his way down the steps and out of the hospital, cursing under his breath as he called for a taxi. He called five companies, growing more frustrated each time they told him it was "rush hour," and it would be at least an hour's wait. He had wasted twenty minutes outside the hospital, trying to get someone to show up in a reasonable amount of time, and finally, on the fifth phone call, he lost his temper and screamed, "No thanks, I'll walk," into the speaker before hanging up.
He looked around dejectedly, throwing his hands up, and started walking. It was about a two hour walk, so he would make it to the airport in less time than he would waiting on a taxi. As he headed in the direction of the airport, he started thinking about his staff.
Derek was surprisingly optimistic when Hunt visited, considering the last time he was given bad news about his career. Derek claimed it was the drugs, and Hunt feared he was right. He prayed for a miracle, not only for the sake of the man's career, but also for his own sake. If Derek could no longer operate, he would be out a world-class neurosurgeon. He decided that he would visit Derek first, effectively trading places with Meredith.
The wood door made a clacking sound as he knocked against it. "Have time for a visitor?"
Derek smiled his trademark smile. "Well, I guess I have no choice, considering you're my boss."
Owen chuckled. "Well, it wouldn't be a firing offense, but you'd definitely be out of my good graces." He sat in the chair next to Derek's bed. "The nurse tells me you're a pretty good patient. 'Perfect,' is the word she used, actually."
Derek laughed weakly. "Yeah, it's the drugs. I'm a terrible patient." He pointed at Hunt. "You of all people know that."
Hunt smiled, nodding in agreement. "Yeah." He stood then, taking a look at his chart. "Webber tells me your sodium levels are a little low still, but they should be up by day's end, by the looks of it." He looked up at Derek again. "I wanted to let you know we've arranged for a MediVac to come-"
"Bailey came in and told us earlier," he interrupted. "Back in Seattle by 7:00 tomorrow, right?"
Man, Bailey really did know everything. "That's the plan."
The two men paused then, knowing exactly what the other was thinking about. "Oh, before I forget. How's Cristina doing?"
Hunt nodded, accepting that everyone was going to want to know how Cristina was doing. Maybe if he said it enough times, he would get used to the idea. "Cristina's stable. They're calling her condition 'reactive psychosis.' She's wasn't responsive at all yesterday, but today she seems to be doing better."
Derek furrowed his eyebrows. "Reactive psychosis? She was fine when they loaded us up. She was delirious, but we all were. In fact, she saved Meredith and myself from getting left behind." He waited thoughtfully for a moment before continuing. "What's her behavior like?"
Hunt arched his eyebrows. That was interesting. She saved them from getting left? He hadn't heard that yet. "She, uh, well yesterday, she wouldn't acknowledge anybody or anything, she only reacted to touch, and she reacted violently." He scratched his head. "She wouldn't make eye contact and seemed only capable of using her arm. The rest of her body was deadweight. Today, she's moving her eyes a little; making eye contact."
Derek shook his head. He raised his eyebrows, and his bottom lip jutted out. "That just doesn't make any sense. Because believe me, she was very responsive yesterday when we were rescued. She's a loud one, that one."
Hunt laughed. "Yeah…yeah, she can be." His face took on the same look of acceptance as it had before. "It's not something I've ever dealt with first hand. It's a Psych thing, but they say it should resolve itself in a month, or less." He rolled his eyes then. "If I ever get a moment's grace, I plan on doing some research on it, but it's looking like time's going to be hard to come by in the upcoming weeks."
Derek's lips curled into a half smile, lifting his injured arm. "I've got nothing but time. Give me two days, and I'll have all the research you could possibly need."
Owen scrunched his eyebrows in surprise, nodding. "I'd appreciate that."
"Well…honestly, Meredith's going to be a pill if we don't get her something concrete, so I'm doing it as much for you as I am myself. You'll have to remind me though. Y'know," he pointed at the IV in his arm, and the two men laughed.
Hunt snickered recalling the conversation. He had expected a much more volatile conversation, but Derek had surprised him. Sure, he still didn't know that Owen was the one who inadvertently put them on that plane, but he was enjoying the companionship while it lasted. He feared he and Derek would never have a good relationship, working or otherwise, once he found out. Nonetheless, he didn't doubt for a second that Derek's drug-induced confession about Meredith was true. He felt guilty that she found out the way that she did. He assumed Bailey had told them. Hell, she'd told them everything else under the sun, and he was sure Meredith asked about Cristina, so he was surprised to find Meredith with her knees on the bed, trying to shake Cristina into coherency when he walked back in to his wife's room.
"Wake up, Cristina. Wake up!" He put a hand on her shoulder, causing her to turn around, and shook his head. It was not the time for that. She slumped, tears filling her eyes.
"I don't know what to do," she squeaked out.
"We just have to give her time. You can't rush these things. It doesn't work that way," he said sympathetically.
Meredith turned back to look at Cristina. "She has to come through this. She did so much out there to just…and she's…we can't lose her is all I'm saying."
Hunt nodded. "Believe me, I know. I-" he sighed. "I know." He tried to change the subject. "Hey, I ran into Bailey in the hallway, and she said Zola's looking for you."
Meredith nodded, wiping a stray tear from her eye. "Right. Of course." She rose from the bed, and allowed Owen to help her back to her room.
She had come by before they shipped out, this time acting much more accepting of Cristina's condition. She had brought Zola by and sat and talked with her for several hours before they had to be back in their rooms for the pre-flight sedation.
Hunt couldn't help but shudder at the amount of pain he had caused with unquestionable negligence and one flick of the wrist. He tried to take his mind off of it, knowing he would be doing a lot of thinking and talking and dreading over it for the foreseeable future. He hadn't gotten a chance to talk to Arizona that day, as when he came to visit her, she had been resting. Early this morning, however, Dr. Sheehan had paged him regarding Arizona's scans. She had spiked a fever, and the scans showed what they had suspected: infection. Hunt shook his head, miserably. She had made it four days in the wilderness with a mangled leg, and Cristina, it seemed, tended to it adequately enough to prevent infection, according to her initial scans. They had managed for four days, and now, when they were in a sanitary, well-equipped facility, after she was supposedly 'out of the woods' so to speak, she develops an infection.
"The extensive bone injury, along with the degree of soft-tissue infection is…troubling," Dr. Sheehan said as the pair hovered over the scans, evaluating them intently. "No matter what we do, it's-"
Hunt finished her sentence, solemnly. "if the infection goes to the bone, it'll be hard to treat.
She nodded, looking up at him. "And eventually, you're looking at bone loss." She looked back down at Arizona's scans. "I'm going to have to say…" she paused, searching the scans one more time. She nodded, resolutely. "Officially, I'm recommending amputation."
Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of a sliding curtain. They both turned to find that Arizona had managed to reach over in her weakened state and push the curtain back. She grunted in exhaustion from such a seemingly painless movement. She pointed at the scans, and said icily, "Show me those." Hunt hesitated, not wanting to unnecessarily upset her. She raised her voice, an agitated rasp prevalent as she spoke. "Show them to me." She leaned back in her bed, waiting for Hunt to comply. He begrudgingly took the scans from Sheehan and walked over to Arizona's bedside, handing them to her. She moved her eyes rapidly from Hunt to the scans, making multiple cycles before looking up at him and forcing her words out. "I withhold consent," she breathed heavily, speaking between breaths. "I withhold consent. Before you drug me or sedate me, I give n-'nobody' permission to cut off my leg." She paused, garnering the strength to force out her final say. "And certainly not some yahoo in Dump Truck, Idaho." Her voice grew softer then, pleading with Hunt. "I want to go home to Callie. She'll know what to do." She made one final plea. "Just take me home." She was choking up, urging herself not to cry.
Hunt looked at her, torn, but eventually agreed. "Okay," he said in a whisper. He knew she wasn't stable enough to travel now, like she had been the day before, but he said it again to reassure her. "Okay. The MediVac gets here at 6:00."
"Thank you," she whispered nearly inaudibly.
Hunt gave her a quick smile, squeezed her hand, and walked out.
He knew the leg would have to be amputated, but she just wasn't going to accept that. Maybe Callie can convince her, he thought, but he was not optimistic. She had a very long road ahead of her, longer than anyone else's, aside from Mark's, maybe. He thought back to Cristina, marveling in the miracle of her injuries. A laceration to the head, and a dislocated shoulder, when Lexie ended up trapped beneath the bottom half of a plane just one seat back? He thanked the heavens above for that stroke of luck.
That just left her psychological injuries. According to the statements the remaining three coherent survivors gave, Cristina stepped up as ring leader. He felt a mixture of pain, pride, and guilt as he read through them, each of them detailing her leadership. She allegedly was the only stable-minded one of the group in the initial hours following the crash. She initiated almost all of the procedures, improvising with what she had, and doing so successfully. Cristina pulled Meredith out of the way of falling debris immediately following the crash, performed a C-spine stabilization in the field using only a piece of particle board and electrical tape, used a belt and a shard of metal to stabilize Arizona's leg, carried Derek along with Meredith from the woods to the crash site, diagnosed a cardiac tamponade with nothing but her knowledge and her instincts to guide her, guided Meredith in a pericardiocentesis, singlehandedly dragged Mark over half a mile back to the main crash site, organized camp, dug maggots out of Arizona's leg, and cured Mark's arrhythmia, all with one good arm, no food, no water, no sleep, and a hell of a will to live.
After he walked Meredith back to her room, he walked swiftly back to Cristina, hoping she hadn't regressed from Meredith's breakdown.
He walked to find her exactly as he'd left her, staring blankly at the ceiling. He almost approached her, but thought better of it. He hoped she hadn't seen him. He wanted to try something.
Hunt walked to the cafeteria and picked out the most easily-swallowed, easily-digested foods he could find, and brought them back up to Cristina's room. The day before, they had had to feed her through a tube, as they couldn't get her to open her mouth, but she had progressed since then, and now it wasn't some nurse. It was him.
He approached cautiously, deciding to test the waters before setting the food in front of her, in case Meredith's panic attack had triggered her. "Hey," he said, walking toward the bed. She turned her head slowly, her face stoic and unchanging. It was a good sign, Hunt thought, that she had looked at him. He laid in Meredith's former spot, propped himself up on one elbow, and cradled the back of her neck, running his thumb up and down her cheek with the other. He was slightly elevated, not quite at eye level with her, so he knew she wasn't looking at him, as her eyes were locked dead ahead. "Cristina," he said softly. "Can you look at me?" he said a little louder, tenderness coating his voice. Slowly but surely, she moved her eyes to look up at him. He smiled warmly down on her. "I'd really like for you to try something for me." She continued to stare at him. "I brought some food up. I'm going to bring it over, and I want you to try to take a few bites." She lowered her eyes back down to his chest then. "Okay," he said, leaning down to kiss her temple.
Hunt first brought over the Styrofoam container of tomato soup, along with a spoon, a napkin, and a cup of water. He maneuvered her to a sitting position, pulled her bed table out, and set the water and soup on it. He sat across from her on the other side of the table, scooping out a spoonful of the hot, red soup. He held it over the cup, careful not to spill it. "Okay Cristina, you can do this. Open your mouth." She stared at him blankly, as she had been doing for a long while now. He watched as some of the soup dripped back into the cup. "Come on, Cristina. You're safe here. I'm here for you, and I need you to eat, okay?" She displayed no signs of letting up. He set the spoon back into the container. "Sweetheart," he said standing and moving to the other side of the bed where she sat. Bailey was nice enough to bring her hygiene products, including a brush and ponytail holders. He decided to utilize them then. He slowly and carefully brushed through layer after layer of black curls, speaking patiently to her. "If I can't get you to eat, we'll have to put you back on the feeding tube. I can't-I don't want that to happen, Cristina. I hate seeing you like this." He finished brushing her hair, and pulled it back, keeping it in place with an elastic holder. He went back around to the other side then, assessing his work. It was a little lopsided, but it served its purpose.
He returned to his former position across from her, gazing into her absent eyes for a moment. "As long as it takes, I'm here. Just keep trying." He scooped the soup into the spoon once more. "You don't have to open it all the way, just enough to eat." He waited patiently, watching for any movement in her lips. After a few moments, he placed the spoon back in the cup, and just sat. They sat like that for nearly an hour. Periodically, Owen would give her words of encouragement, but otherwise, they sat in silence, each of their eyes, boring into the others'.
Owen never took his eyes off of her, needing desperately for her to be able to be self-sufficient in this realm. Every other aspect of her care, he could take care of himself, but she had to do the eating and breathing on her own. He refused to stick that tube down her nose ever again. Truthfully, he had forced himself into the mindset that he was simply doting on her by helping her bathe, get dressed, and brush her hair, among other things. While he knew the circumstances were much more morbid than that, and he couldn't possibly imagine how humiliating and appalling this was for her, if she was even coherent enough to process it, imagining it that way helped him cope with the whole thing. Before all of the problems arose in their relationship, he had done that frequently. He would wash her hair when they showered together or would feed her bites of food while he was cooking or rub her feet after a long shift at the hospital. She was always too proud to admit that she liked it and always protested, but Owen could tell she enjoyed being taken care of. He smiled, remembering. That was one of many things he was looking forward to when she recovered. He wasn't even considering the possibility that she wouldn't want him back at this moment. He had to stay positive, for both of their sakes.
It happened in the blink of an eye, and Owen had to stare for a moment to ensure he was actually seeing what he thought he was seeing. Her lips had parted a mere fraction, but Owen could see black between her top and bottom rows of teeth, so it would suffice. He briefly looked at the monitors to make sure she hadn't just stroked out. Upon realizing that she was still stable, he quickly spooned out a portion of soup and slid the spoon through the gap. He had considered that even if she did ever open her mouth, she wouldn't be able to close it again, or swallow for that matter, and it turns out he had been right. Soon enough, he saw the red soup drip down her chin. "It's okay, it's okay," he soothed, more to himself than to her. He acted quickly, wiping up the drainage with a napkin. "Perfect," he told her. He filled the spoon less this time to avoid spilling it again, and set it against her teeth, not wanting to hold it in her mouth for an extended period of time, fearing her gag reflex. "Now try to close your mouth." It took a few minutes, but she eventually found the strength to slowly bite down on the tip of the spoon. "Good. Now open again," he said. She did immediately, and he slid the spoon in. She didn't need instruction at that point, almost as if the muscle memory had kicked in for her, and she bit down on the spoon again. Owen clumsily slid the spoon back out of her mouth, and watched for signs that she had swallowed the contents. At first he saw no movement. "Cristina, swallow," he said gently. He started to worry that he would have to make her spit it out, but then he saw the muscles in her throat contract. He smiled. "Thank God," he said, sighing.
It took an extensive amount of time, considering she could only take very small bites at a time, but eventually, they finished off everything Hunt had brought up. The feeling of relief that washed over him was euphoric. That was just one less thing to worry about, and it meant she had made significant progress already. After the last bite, he wiped the excess food from her lip, and smiled at her. "Thank you, Cristina. That is a huge weight off my shoulders." He cleaned up the containers and utensils, then positioned himself in the bed next to her once again. He had so much to do, but right then, all he wanted to do was be with her. He played with her hair absentmindedly, gliding his fingers along the soft strands, watching her eyelids start to droop. It was her kryptonite. She was out within ten minutes. He leaned over and pressed his lips to her head then, lingering; reveling in her peaceful sleeping form. He turned his eyes toward the ceiling then, and leaned his head on hers.
Progress was a beautiful thing.