DRIFTING
by LIMELIGHTER
RATED FRPT |
 |
Gordon's experiences
in the aftermath of a life-changing accident.
Author’s Notes: Many
thanks to the TIWF for their encouragement, and to LMB for
once again being my literary crash dummy and helping me out
with this right from the beginning. Big thank you for the
title as well!
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter One
There is a woman.
She has curly red
hair and green eyes. A light shines just above her head and it
makes her look like an angel. That’s funny, and normally I’d
make a joke; but I’m too tired.
There’s a lot of
noise. People are talking, and moving, and saying lots of
important things, but the woman is silent.
She’s staring down
at me, and holding a bag next to my face which she squeezes
every few seconds.
The bag is yellow,
and hisses whenever she squeezes it.
The room is getting
blurry.
She’s talking to me
now.
She keeps telling me
to stay awake.
I don’t listen.
I’m not sure how
much time has passed.
I vividly remember
that woman with the red hair, and then an odd sinking feeling
that seemed to last forever, but after that there is an
indeterminate gap where I can remember nothing at all. Only
darkness.
I’m not sure when I
arrive at the path, yet I find myself walking along it now as
though it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The path is an old
dirt road, with hayfields on either side. There’s no noise
here, just the soft occasional breeze that sweeps past me and
moves the grass gently. The sky is blue and clear, and the
sunlight is so warm and hazy it seems to have a physical
presence. It’s just like where we grew up, only better -
heightened somehow - with all the best bits and none of the
bad.
I walk down the road
and I’m filled with the same sense of confidence I get when I
play a practical joke on my brothers.
I’m being bad by
following this lovely path. But not bad in a terrible way,
just like I’m being cheeky and mischievous, like a naughty
schoolboy disobeying the teachers. That sounds just like me.
For a long time the
mood is calm and indulgent, and I can just enjoy my journey in
relative peace. I’m happy here, and I don’t want to give in to
the people who are a bit cross about my journey.
I still have no idea
what I’m walking towards, but I know that with every step, I
become more and more relaxed. I keep thinking about how mad my
brothers will be when they find out what I’m doing, and I feel
like laughing…but that feeling doesn’t last long.
As I continue to
walk down the path, I begin to realise that I’m really
upsetting people.
At first, that’s
fine; I don’t really care what anyone else thinks. I’m tired,
and it’s nice here. It’s a nice, easy route and I can just
drift away if I want to.
That’s what I’ve
decided to do.
It’s my path and I
decide the rules. I’m too tired, so I’m going to enjoy myself,
and drift off to the comfy place.
I walk on, at peace
with myself and my surroundings. And yet something is starting
to change. I can feel the humour slowly draining away. The
mood, which had been so loving and tolerant before, is now
angry and scolding.
I immediately stop
walking and try to listen. It’s a strange sensation. I can’t
hear anything, but somehow I know that Dad is mad at me. I
don’t want him to be. He doesn’t get cross unless I’ve done
something really bad.
As soon as I realise
this, I come to my senses a little. I look ahead to the
horizon - my goal - and somewhere deep down, I register that
this is really wrong.
I shouldn’t be
joking about this, and I definitely shouldn’t be on this path.
I’m in serious
trouble, and I need to listen to Dad.
So, I stop messing
about and do as I’m told.
I turn around.
Going back is
incredibly difficult, for some reason. It’s agonisingly hard
to pull myself away from that comfortable place, but I force
myself to continue.
It feels like I’m
hauling myself, flat on the ground, with only my fingernails
able to propel me forwards.
After a lot of time
passes, the path slowly disappears and dissolves into darkness
and I feel like I've achieved something.
Now, there are brief
periods of awareness, where voices filter into the inky
blackness. I can’t hear what they’re saying; just the sound of
their voices. Sometimes they’re familiar, and that brings me
some comfort, but I’m far too weary to respond.
Most of the time it
just sounds like a low echoing murmur, a wonderfully familiar
hum that sounds exactly like being underwater. I don’t think I
am underwater though. Because, as good as those periods of
wakefulness are, I always return to a numb and silent sense of
drifting.
The whole thing is
very confusing.
I try to understand
why I’m feeling like this, and I come up with nothing.
I eventually recall
the woman with the red hair, and someone else talking urgently
to me. There was a helicopter, and water…but then there are
lots of pictures that don’t seem to make sense.
When I think about
it, nothing really makes sense at the moment. I know I need to
return to somewhere…but for the life of me I have no idea how
to do that. As I become gradually more aware of my state of
mind, I get more concerned. I’m not frightened, as such,
there’s just a nagging sense of doubt at the back of my mind…I
shouldn’t be like this. Things shouldn’t be this confusing.
Something bad has
happened.
I try to think: to
understand how I got to this point.
It takes a long
time, but distantly, a picture forms in my head and I begin to
remember.
The hydrofoil had
crashed.
I had been fighting
to save it. Something had gone wrong, and there hadn’t been
time to figure out how to fix it. I could feel the adrenaline
surge as I desperately tried to correct the problem, and then
I remembered that sense that I was losing the fight - and I
had to give up trying to stop it happening.
I was going to die.
I didn’t panic, and
I didn’t pray. I wasn’t even scared…just sad. All my choices
were taken away, and there was nothing more I could do but
die.
I thought my life
would flash before my eyes, or I’d see Mom waiting for me, but
nothing like that happened. I just remember feeling sad, and
closing my eyes.
That’s the last
thing I can clearly recall. After that it gets hazy
…Is this death?
I’ve never tried to
define death before, but I’ve always assumed it was a stop; a
definitive, and conclusive cutting off of life.
This can’t possibly
be death.
Things are different
now, but I’m fairly sure I haven’t stopped. I’m still me, I
think…So what’s happening to me?
I’m in a strange
kind of stasis where I’m aware, but at the same time
completely oblivious. Part of me knows that I have to return
to the place where my family are, but another, stronger part
of me just wants to drift in this void and mend.
There’s no pain
here, and I know enough to realise that that is a very good
thing. I can dimly recall screaming, and blood, and agonising
convulsions… but that's all gone now. Here I can just relax.
I feel weak. And I
need strength for this…so I sleep.
Chapter Two
I don’t like this
feeling.
It’s exhaustion like
I’ve never felt before. A bone weary, enervated sensation that
I can’t escape from no matter how hard I try. Facts, ideas and
meanings slip from my grasp despite my best efforts to think
normally.
Stringing together
even the simplest of thoughts is almost impossible.
I feel a strange
sense of detachment about everything I’m experiencing. If I
had the energy, I think I would be in a state of frantic
terror over my situation, but as it is, I’m too tired to
indulge in wild emotions like that.
Time passes.
Time doesn’t really
mean much to me at this point, but I’m aware of it. That’s
what’s so easy about this place. No specifics. Nothing as
complicated as facts or emotions. Just a vague sense of
things.
I like the periods
when I can hear the voices - even if I can’t understand what
they’re saying; their presence brings a vague sense of relief
that is quite soothing. The voices remind me that I’m still
alive, and I try to hear them more often, but that is a
monumental struggle. For some reason pushing myself to do
anything other than drift takes a great deal of concentration
and effort, so I do nothing for a long time, enjoying the
stillness.
I could happily stay
this way forever.
After some time
passes, a voice permeates the darkness. Its quiet and sombre
tone holds my attention; though I’m not sure why. I can’t
recall the name of the person talking - or even his connection
to me - but I know I don’t like hearing him cry. He’s speaking
softly, his deep voice intimately familiar even in the
confused state I find myself in.
I haven’t really
tried to do anything for a long time, but for some reason
hearing that voice galvanises me into action. That voice is
important to me, and I want to hear it more clearly. I want to
talk to him.
I decide to fight a
little harder, and sacrifice a little of the numbness I’m
feeling. I devote all my energy to fighting to pull myself
closer to the voice. It’s draining, but I feel that if I relax
for even a moment, then I’ll sink further into the darkness.
Sometimes, I think back to the path and how relaxing it had
been, and the idea of just letting go is so inviting; but I
know I have to continue on. I don’t have a choice.
Eventually all the
struggling pays off, and there is a small success: I become
aware of a new sensation.
There is a heaviness
that wasn’t there before. It’s difficult to describe the
sensation, as it’s something I always took for granted before;
the feeling of being present in one’s own body. I focus on
that indistinct sense of weight for a long time, trying to
remember how to use it to my advantage. Nothing happens, but
there is a familiarity to the sensation that is comforting,
and it means that I’m a little closer to coming back.
When I begin to hear
that deep voice again, I find it clearer and sharper than
before. I still can’t really understand what the person is
saying, but I don’t think it’s because I can’t hear him; I
think it’s because I can’t focus enough to listen to the
words. Does that make sense?
This is my first
real achievement since the hydrofoil, and I feel like I should
celebrate…but I’m tired.
Time passes.
I only begin to
listen again when I realise that the voice has changed. This
new voice is quite soft and quiet, and I find myself
connecting it to all sorts of strange things in my head. The
voice reminds me of the smell of oil paints, for some reason,
and music. Calming music.
In a flash, I am
taken back to my childhood. I’m ten, and the owner of the
voice is picking me up and throwing me into a pool. The memory
comes back so strong and immediate that I can almost taste the
chlorine. I remember the splash as the person jumps in after
me, laughing along with me as I surface and splash him in
retaliation.
It’s a tiny,
insignificant memory, that has now become more important to me
than anything else in the world. I cling onto that memory for
a long time, remembering that sensation of happiness as
different voices fade in and out.
It’s a little easier
to focus now.
That fuzziness that
made thinking impossible is now gone, and I can concentrate on
hearing. I’m quite content as I listen, but one thing I begin
to notice is that these voices never sound happy, and I never
hear laughing. That’s strange. I’m used to laughter.
That’s who I am - I
think - I’m the guy that makes people laugh.
Maybe that’s why the
voices are unhappy, because I’m too tired to tell jokes at the
moment. I don’t mind that they’re sad though, because any
noise is nice - or at least it would be nice, were it not for
the regular interruptions.
I don’t know how
long it’s been going on - maybe I just wasn’t aware of it
before - but the strange woman turns up pretty regularly now.
She asks me to do things; little things, like squeezing her
finger, or opening my eyes. Even if I were able to do what she
asks, it’s impossible to fathom why she’s asking me to do
something so stupid and trivial; so I don’t respond.
She doesn’t like
that.
Whenever I don’t
respond there’s a sharp pain from somewhere, and I can feel
myself jerk in response. I think she’s doing that to me to
punish me for not responding the first time. What kind of a
cruel woman would do that? And why are the other voices
letting her do it?
See, it’s things
like that which make my existence at the moment incredibly
confusing. I don’t like feeling confused.
I really feel like I
should be making a joke about this. If my brain would work
properly, I’m sure I’d come up with something genius.
I think that it’s
time to wake up.
I’ve never been a
patient person, and I’m sick of things not making sense. I
don’t want to just hear the voices, no matter how clear they
are. It isn’t enough any more. I want to feel everything.
There are people who are waiting for me, and I want to see
them.
My thoughts spur me
into action, and I once again struggle to claw my way back.
It’s draining. I can’t describe the mental strength it takes
to return. Small flashes of consciousness and memory begin to
merge together out of time and sequence, and soon I start to
feel a little more like myself. I find myself focussing on the
most trivial of recollections, simply to give me the will I
need to continue on.
As time passes, I
begin to feel myself recover.
I remember my
brothers’ faces, and my gold medal hanging on the wall, and
dozens of little moments in my life that I’d almost forgotten
about, but I first notice something is different when I think
about my father. Up until now that word has just been a vague
term that I didn‘t really associate with myself, but now I can
picture him. My Dad. He has blue eyes and a quiet, chuckling
laugh that sounds exactly like mine. He always listens to me,
even when I’m being an idiot, and he ruffles my hair when he’s
proud of me.
I don’t know how,
but somehow I know he’s sitting right next to me, willing me
on and supporting me, just like he always has. He’s waiting
for me to come back.
It gives me renewed
strength, and I take comfort in Dad’s unwavering faith in me.
I sleep
intermittently, and each time I awaken, I feel a little more
like myself.
There’s still a
comforting sense of numbness, but now I can feel the important
things.
There’s a whole
world that I’m now aware of. I can not only hear new sounds
and noises - but I can also connect those sounds to tangible
things; to facts.
There’s the
billowing sound of a curtain blowing in the wind to the left
of me, and a steady beeping noise from a machine beside me.
There’s the hum of a computer, and something that sounds a bit
like bellows. And then there’s a voice. I can understand them
now, and it was worth the effort.
I’m filled with a
delirious sense of euphoria that my fight is nearly over: I
can finally hear my brother.
It’s Alan. Alan is
speaking to me. I feel like jumping for joy at the sound of my
little brother’s voice, and allow myself a moment just to
relish in my own achievement. I want to hear him talk about
that ridiculous red sports car, and all those little
mechanical details that he rambles on about. I want to know
how his last race went. Did he win? I must have missed so
much.
I’m so happy and
excited that it takes a moment for me to realise that
something isn’t quite right. I pause, listening to him as best
I can.
Alan sounds
exhausted.
That elated sense of
triumph slowly fades as I concentrate on my brother’s hollow
voice. I’ve never heard him sound like that before. He sounds
as tired as I feel, and his voice is almost completely devoid
of feeling. Why is he talking like that? I try to focus on
what he’s saying, instead of just the sound of his voice.
“ …He wasn’t happy
about us making him leave, Gordo, you should have seen his
face.”
He sounds like he’s
smiling, but there’s no humour in his voice.
“He needed the
sleep, though,” he continues numbly. “We’ve all been a little
off the past few weeks…if I were you, I wouldn’t want to wake
up to the atmosphere round here…”
He tails off into
silence. I wish I could see him. Knowing Alan, he’ll be
fidgeting and trying not to look at me. He was never good with
heart to hearts. I want to tell him a joke to cheer him up,
but there’s nothing funny about this.
“He’ll be ringing
soon to check in with the doctors,” he continues, his voice
still in that quiet dull tone that sounds so unlike him.
“Would you like to talk to him on the phone? He’d love to talk
to you again. Imagine if you woke up at the one time he leaves
you. That’d be some practical joke. Your best ever…all you
have to do is open your eyes.”
I think about that.
He wants me to open my eyes. It doesn’t seem like something
I’m capable of. I try a little…I can’t do it. I can almost
feel Alan’s eye boring into mine as he wills me to respond,
and I so want to do what he asks, but I can’t.
There is a long
silence.
“…Please open your
eyes, Gordon.”
Alan’s plea is
whispered so quietly it’s almost inaudible. There’s a
desperation in those words that shocks me to the core. I try.
I really try to force my eyes open, but I can’t. It’s like I
can’t connect my thoughts to my body; the numbness is still
stopping me.
There is silence in
the room, and I can sense Alan is waiting for a response that
will not come. I hear him sigh quietly, and he doesn’t speak
for a long time.
I don’t like this.
I don’t like making
my brother sad.
Why can’t I move?
I listen to the
silence, straining to hear Alan say something else, but he
doesn’t. I can hear a hitch in his breathing, and then a
sniff; then there’s a quiet breathy noise as my little brother
cries beside me. The sound is muffled slightly. I think his
hand is over his mouth to remain as quiet as possible. He
doesn’t want me to hear.
I don’t like this.
I thought I wanted
to hear the voices, but this hurts. I want to talk to Al and I
can’t. Why can’t I do it? What’s happened to me?
I start to panic.
I want to see Al and
I can’t.
What’s happened to
me?
I try to take a deep
breath but I can’t do that either. Something is in my throat.
I can’t breathe. A machine starts beeping loudly next to me,
and I can hear Al shouting something.
I’m upset.
I can’t breathe.
I want to wake up.
Why can’t I wake up?
Chapter Three
When I come back to
myself, the first thing on my mind is Alan. I hope he’s okay.
I don’t mean to make him upset like that, but I can’t help it.
I don’t know how
much time has passed since he spoke to me and, for the first
time, I find that alarming. How long have I been putting him
through this? Alan never cries, and that emotional outpouring
must have been building up since this first happened.
Guilt weighs heavily
on me now. Alan is upset, which means the whole family must be
upset too. Without realising it, I’ve been making them all
miserable.
I’m so caught up in
considering the events of earlier, that I almost don’t notice
the change in sensation that has occurred.
The darkness is gone
and soft light penetrates my eyelids. It’s strange to see
light after so long in the dark, and it takes a little while
for me to adjust. I want to open my eyes so desperately, but I
still find myself unable to do so.
I listen out for any
familiar voices around me, for some indication of where I am,
but I find myself in a silent room; well, not completely
silent. There is still the sound of a computer, and that
beeping noise, but if anyone is sitting with me then they
aren’t in a talkative mood. I can hear movement though; I’m
sure someone is standing right beside me. I gradually become
aware of the scratch of a pen on paper, and then a rustling
sound as the person moves around me. A woman’s voice breaks
the silence and I listen closely.
“Mr Tracy, it’s
Doctor Bradley. It’s time for your GCS tests again.”
She has that same
dull tone that Alan had before, only she’s a little better at
hiding it than Alan. She’s not fooling me: she doesn’t want to
be here any more than I do. It’s strange how I can hear little
things like that in a person’s voice now. I don’t think I’ve
ever been so perceptive: maybe it’s a superpower? I feel like
laughing at the thought as the doctor moves around me, and
eventually stops, sighing wearily.
“Okay, let’s get
this underway. Can you feel my fingers on your hands?”
I can’t feel my own
fingers, let alone hers. What a ridiculous question. And why
is she calling me Mr Tracy? That’s my father. I’m Officer
Tracy…or Gordo, if you like. She sounds quite pretty actually.
I wonder what she looks like?
I’m thinking about a
tall blonde woman with blue eyes when there’s a sharp pain
from somewhere. Without thinking, I yank my arm away from the
pain. That hurt! Suddenly Doctor Bradley isn’t sounding all
that hot, why did she do that?!
“Very good, Gordon,”
she commented brightly. “Your father will be pleased with
that. You’re up to a four now.”
A four in what? What
am I a four in? I wish she would stop talking in riddles.
First she’s causing me injuries, and now she’s confusing me
with random numbers. I’m starting to feel tired again, and she
is not improving my mood in the slightest.
“Next one is a
little trickier, Gordon. Can you open your eyes for me?”
I pause and think
carefully about what she’s asking. She’s not the first person
to ask me to do this recently. I really want to open my eyes,
if only to prove to Alan that I’m still in here…but with every
passing moment I’m growing gradually more weary. Even if I
weren’t so tired, I don’t think I could bring myself to do it.
There’s a loaded
pause, until the woman moves again beside me.
“Guess not, huh?
Don’t worry, you’ll get there eventually. How about speaking?
Do you think we can get some noise out of you today? Can you
say your name?”
Gordon. My name is
Gordon. I say it over and over again but the numbness prevents
me from making a sound. It’s frustrating to the point of
madness. I can’t help but think that if I could just keep
myself awake then I could do as she asks, but that's proving
difficult.
“If you can hear me
make a sound…just a little sound, that’s all I want.”
I’m screaming,
desperate for her to hear me, but she remains completely
oblivious.
I hate this.
I don’t like this
Doctor Bradley, and I don’t like having my limitations laid
out so bare in front of me. All these questions have exhausted
me. I don‘t want to think anymore. This is a miserable state
of affairs, and I want to sleep again.
If Doctor Bradley
asks anything more of me, I don’t hear it. I’m completely
drained and, for once, I welcome the darkness as it sweeps
over me once again.
Time passes
When I wake again,
the first thing I am aware of is a familiar voice talking in a
monotone. It is muffled at first, but becomes gradually more
audible as I return to this peculiar state of consciousness. I
can hear him clearly now, and I realise that I haven't heard
his voice in a long while. It’s a similar feeling to when I
first heard Dad; hearing my big brother’s voice is incredibly
comforting in a way it has never been before.
I listen to him
speak for a while, and feel a little like when I used to wake
up after a training session in the pool. I ache, but not to
the point of agony. It’s just a sense that I’ve been working
hard, and my body is letting me know that it disapproves. I
used to love that feeling, but now it seems out of place. I
haven’t done anything to warrant feeling like this.
Slowly, I stop
listening to Scott and turn my attention inwards. It takes me
long moments to realise why I ache like this.
Suddenly, I want to
cry in relief.
I ache all over, and
I can’t move, but for the first time since this happened, the
numbness is gone, and I can feel again. I’m lying on something
soft, and I can feel my chest gently rise and fall as I
breathe. There is a dry sensation at the back of my throat,
and someone has taken my hand and is running their thumb up
and down it. It’s not just that, though. Something else feels
different. Something in my head. I’m not just stringing
together facts anymore. Instead, I can connect those facts to
memories and sensations. For the first time in a long time, I
feel like Gordon Tracy.
I’m elated, and
desperate to share my happiness with the people around me. I
want to jump for joy! That’s probably pushing it a bit,
though. I think I’ll wake up before attempting any complicated
acrobatics like that.
Scott is reading
from a book about marine life. I can hear him turning the page
as he talks about deep sea exploration. He sounds incredibly
bored, and I really want to laugh at him. That’s one good
thing about being sick, I can get my brothers to do things
they’d never normally do.
I’m tempted to
torture him for a little while longer, and let him read right
to the end of the book, but I think the poor guy’s been
through enough.
No excuses now. It’s
time to respond.
I’m not going to be
beaten by a silly little carbon fibre boat that didn’t even
work properly in the first place.
I’m a Tracy. And I’m
not going down that easily.
My first step is
something simple. I’m going to move my hand. Moving is almost
impossibly difficult, but it’s not painful; I’ve just
forgotten how to do it. I think for a long time about it,
trying to familiarise myself with my own body again. That
sounds strange, doesn’t it? But it’s true. I’m just not sure
what muscles I need to move anymore. After long minutes of
being unable to move, I begin to think about the injuries I’ve
sustained...what if I’m paralysed?
I banish that
thought from my mind as quickly as it appears, and focus all
my attention on my right hand: I need to move my fingers. I
try to picture myself moving through water, trying to mimic
the movement, but that doesn’t work. That hand just doesn’t
want to respond. The person holding it is oblivious to my
struggle. He is gripping it softly, moving his thumb steadily
up and down. Somehow I know it’s Dad. He hasn’t said a word
but I know it’s him.
This is my final
struggle.
I steel myself, and
summon all I have left, channelling all the energy I can
muster into forcing my fingers to move. Success! I can feel my
index finger jerk in response at first, then my hand slowly
curls around Dad’s. I feel him jump, and the room goes quiet.
“What is it?”
Dad is silent,
gripping my hand experimentally.
“Dad, what is it?”
Scott repeats.
Come on, Dad, tell
them. Tell them I’m here.
Dad is apparently
ignoring all the questions, and he’s leant closer to me,
whispering my name hesitantly.
“…Gordon?…Can you
hear me, son?”
I can. I can hear
you. Why can’t I talk? I’m so tired after that effort. I want
to drift again, just for a little while, but Dad is still
talking to me.
“Son, come on now. I
know I didn’t imagine that.”
“Imagine what, Dad?
We- “
“Hold on, Alan,”
John interrupts. That’s not like him at all.
Dad’s voice is quiet
and determined as he continues, “Gordon, I know you’re tired,
but…you can hear me. I know you can…Squeeze my hand again,
son. You can do it.”
He wants me to do it
again? It was difficult enough the first time, but my father’s
unwavering faith in me makes me steel myself to try again. Now
I know the parts that need to move, I remember a little
better.
I try for several
moments with no response, and I can sense my brothers sitting
back in their seats, clearly thinking their father is going
insane. Dad is silent, and I know why; he’s waiting for me to
act.
That spurs me on
and, drawing from reserves of energy I didn’t know I had, I
curl my fingers slowly over. I hear a choked gasp from
someone, and a beep as someone else presses a button by my
head. The boys are all moving around me again.
“That’s good,
Gordon,” Dad continues, his voice still lovely and calm. He
sounds like he’s smiling. “That’s really good. Can you open
your eyes for us?”
Eyes. Right. This
time I’ll do it. I try, but my eyelids feel incredibly heavy.
I don’t succeed, but there is an audible reaction from the
people around me. Clearly I did something.
“Come on, Gordon,
keep trying. You can do it.” That’s Virgil! Are they all here?
I try again, and manage to open them just a crack, the blurry
lights flickering in my sight for only a moment. The light is
painful, so I shut them again almost immediately, but the
reaction from everyone is amazing. They cheer, whoop and laugh
loudly, and the noise is completely overwhelming, until Dad
hushes them.
When the room is
once again silent, I open my heavy eyelids slowly, blinking as
I get used to the new sensation. The room is blurry, but
becoming clearer with every passing moment.
There are people
standing around my bed. They slowly come into focus. Dad is
there, and all my brothers. They’re all looking at me with
tears in their eyes. There’s another man, too. He’s wearing a
white coat.
“Hi, Gordo,” Alan
says. He looks nervous. I try to smile at him, but that’s
difficult. Now I’m awake the tiredness has hit me like a
freight train. I breathe in, and feel something in my nose
that’s supplying me with oxygen.
I try to respond to
Alan, but my voice so cracked and hoarse it’s barely audible,
even to me. I feel like there’s barely enough strength in me
to even stir the air. Dad turns to the doctor, still holding
my hand gently.
“Can I give him some
water?”
The doctor nods and
Dad turns away from me, only to return a moment later with a
glass of water.
“Sip it slowly,” he
gently instructs, putting a straw at my lips as dad works his
hand under my neck and gently lifts my head.
I do as he says, and
sip the liquid slowly. The cold water is heavenly but, as I
swallow, I feel how dry my throat is and I can’t help but
cough weakly. I am reminded of the aching sensation throughout
my entire body, but I am somewhat removed from it now; I don't
know whether that's tiredness, or if it's due to whatever
medication they have put in the IV…or it could be a sign of
something worse. Before I can even begin to dwell on that, Dad
takes the drink away and lowers me gently back onto the
pillows. He quickly resumes his position in the chair beside
me, taking my hand between his.
“Better?” he asks. I
try to nod, but can’t find the energy. I try to say ‘thank
you’ but it just comes out as a murmur. Everyone smiles,
though. I think they understood.
I look at Dad
wearily as the doctor steps forward and starts to examine me.
Dad looks tired and worn, and since the last time I saw him it
would seem he’s lost weight. The lines on his face are etched
deeper than normal. I look at him and try to speak, but again,
it seems to be quite difficult. I wonder why? Dad notices the
movement, and smiles, looking as though he’s about to cry. I
just watch him as he gets his emotions back under control.
“You’ve done so
well,” he says gently, brushing a strand of hair from my face.
“I’m so proud of you.”
I shut my eyes, just
focussing on the feeling of his hand in mine as the doctor
checks the many monitors around me. I curl my fingers around
his again gently, and he squeezes back. It’s strange how that
little action takes so much energy.
I know that I’ll
sleep soon, but there’s one thing I need to do first, if only
for myself.
I slowly open my
eyes again and look over to my brothers, all of whom look as
though they’re torn between bursting into tears and exploding
with excitement. I smile without even thinking about it, a
lopsided, weary smile that sums up how the entire room is
feeling.
The boys all grin
back at me, though it’s apparently too much for Scott, who
quickly turns his back to me. Virgil laughs and puts a hand on
his shoulder sympathetically. Scott’s never been big on public
displays of emotion. John has tears running down his cheeks,
but I don’t think he’s noticed, and Alan is just grinning from
ear to ear; I can’t help but respond in kind.
“Welcome back, bro,"
Alan says, still grinning. I slowly inhale the cool oxygen,
and sigh.
“Thanks,” I breathe.
My voice is slurred and cracked from lack of use, but it
doesn’t matter: I’m back with my brothers. There’s a choked
noise from Scott as I speak, and Virgil nudges him in a half
affectionate, half joking manner. I laugh breathily at that.
There’s so much I
want to say, but the effort of waking has finally caught up
with me.
I know that, now I’m
awake, the real recovery begins; but I don’t worry about any
of that. I close my eyes and drift into a calm and contented
sleep.
I know that my
family will be here when I wake up. |
