One Needle At A Time

         The world narrows down; first the edges go gray, then black; and then the center grays, then black. The fork falls from my hand, my hands fall from the table's edge down to my sides, and then I slip sideways, down to the floor. I try to raise my hands, move my legs, open my eyes but nothing works, nothing responds. The sound of a dial tone and beeping of buttons being pressed comes to my ears.

         "He was just sitting there and, and, uh, well, he fell off his chair," my wife says.

         I assume she's talking to the emergency operator. The floor presses against me, cold and unforgiving on my bare back but my legs won't move to get me up. What is happening? We were getting ready to eat, at the table with food on our plates, a glass of water in front of me. I was getting up to get a fork, and now I'm on the floor. The smell of the food is making me hungry and I wish I could just get up and eat.

         "I'll check," she says and puts her fingers on my neck. "He's got a pulse." Silence for a few moments and then, "Yes, he's breathing. No, he didn't complain about anything, he just closed his eyes and fell off his chair. We were getting ready to eat. No, he's not a diabetic. Okay, I'll be looking for them."

         She puts her hand on my shoulder. "The ambulance is on its way." Her voice has a tremble. With her this close, the smell of her perfume is strong. It's the perfume she knows I don't like, I've told her so many times. "Can you hear me?" She shakes me. YES, I want to yell but my mouth won't open. Neither will my eyes. Doing a quick inventory I find nothing is working, nothing is moving. What is wrong with me?

         After what seems like a long time, I hear her get up and run to the front door. "Thank God you're here," she says.

         A man's hand grabs my wrist, holding it for a few moments before saying, "Fifty-six." The same hand wraps a blood pressure cuff around my bicep. I hear a machine whine as the cuff is inflated, and then slowly deflates. "Ninety-five over thirty-six." Even though I'm a computer programmer not a doctor, I know that's too low a number. Someone on my other side puts some cold liquid on my chest and presses into it. I hear a beeping sound and I know it's my heartbeat. "Looks steady, both Q's and ST's are good. Doesn't look like an infarction," a female voice says. A press against my forehead. "Ninety-eight three." The male wraps something around my bicep again; it's rubbery and he puts it on tight. I know what's coming next and try to pull my arm back but it still doesn't move. He wipes something cold on my inner elbow, the crook, and then inserts a needle. He does it painlessly and, if I could talk, I would thank him; normally my nerves send screams of pain to my brain when my skin is pierced.

         The sounds of something with wheels comes through the front door and down the hallway as my wife recounts the same story she told over the phone, but this time to a policeman. I know it's a policeman because a call is broadcast over his radio and he turns the volume down.

         "Have you and he been having problems," the policeman asks.

         "What? Oh, no. What do you mean, problems?" With my mind, I can see her standing there, folding her arms against her chest and then unfolding them, the way she does when she's talking to her dad or telling me something she really doesn't want to tell me.

         "In your marriage. Financial problems? Arguing?"

         "No," she says again, dragging the 'o' out a little too long. He's looking for things like that, I want to tell her, poking for the reason why her husband is laying on the floor. That makes two of us. "I mean, we argue, sometimes, but not more than anyone else. I guess."

         The male who took my blood pressure bends my leg until it is straight; I hadn't noticed it was under the other one before he straightened it. With the female supporting my head, something is placed around my neck and Velco straps are adjusted; I'm rolled onto my side and held for a few moments before being rolled back onto something metal and even colder than the floor. I feel a strap being placed over my chest and pulled tight. My legs have the same treatment. Something that sounds like aluminum foil is put over me, and then I'm being lifted into the air and placed on something that moves a little as I land. More straps. We roll down the hallway, bumping over the front landing, and out into the air, bumping over those breaks in the sidewalk I keep meaning to get fixed, bumping into the street, and finally bumping into an ambulance. The doors are slammed shut and then we start off. The siren screams its warning warble and we make a few corners so fast that my body presses against the straps hard; I pray they hold. We stop and back up and I know we're at the hospital. The ride seems like it took no time at all and I have no idea which hospital I've been taken to, but I'm pulled from the ambulance and wheeled inside.

         People are talking back-and-forth, asking and answering questions and new devices are hooked to my arms, hands and legs. I'm lifted up and feel a mattress under me which is a relief from that hard board I was on. The brace around my neck is removed. Another blood pressure cuff is put on my bicep and starts doing an automatic cycle, tightening and loosing on a regular interval. My shorts are cut off by a woman's hands and I'm left exposed; at least she could pull a sheet over me but she leaves me naked for what seems like forever before finally covering me.

         "Where's the strip?" A male voice.

         "Here, Doctor." Silence. His coat makes a rustling sound of starch and I hear him moving next to my head.

         My eyelids are pulled open, one at a time, and a light so bright it almost hurts is shined in. Before the light, I catch a brief glimpse of the ceiling, tiles with metallic strips between them and rough texturing on the tiles themselves. There's some plastic bags with liquid hanging over my head. When my eyelids are released, they close on their own and I'm in darkness again. I can't even keep them open. My mouth is pulled open and a wooden stick holds my tongue down for what seems like a long time but I know is only a couple of seconds. A hand rotates my head to one side and a plastic object is inserted into my ear; the rustling moves to the other side of the bed and repeats the ear exam. There's suddenly pressure on my chest, right on the center bone, something that feels like a finger only broader and harder. The pressure gets worse, building until I want to yell at him to stop but can't: my mouth still isn't working. The pain finally stops, but then starts again, worse than before. This time it feels like metal. The pressure builds again until it hurts so bad I desperately want it to stop but am powerless to do anything about it. It finally goes away and the relief from the pain is almost emotional.

         "Let me have that," the doctor says. I hear a snapping noise and a powerful smell of ammonia fills my nose. My head wants to jerk away from whatever it is, but doesn't move.

         "Huh." Silence again, and then, "Keep those fluids going and I'll be back." Rustling again and then he's gone. What is happening to me?

         In what seems only a few moments, the sheet around my feet is pulled back and a hand grabs my right ankle. A hard, sharp metallic object runs heel to toes and my foot wants to twitch, to pull away, but doesn't move. The process is repeated on my other foot. Same results. Someone lifts my leg up, bending it at the knee, and hits me below the kneecap with a hard object, then lowers it back to the bed. The sheet is pulled back over my feet and I hear metallic rings sliding on metal, the sound of a curtain being pulled. Low voices come from close by, maybe the other side of the curtain.

         "I would rate him as close to 1 on Glasgow."

         "Hmm. Yeah, it's definitely a coma, the question is the cause. His sugar is 105 so he's not hypoglycemic. O two is at 97 so it's not hypoxemia. Heart strip looks good so it's not cardiac. I'll order a CT to check for subarachnoid hemorrhage and a cerebral aneurysm and an EEG but I don't think that's the problem since he's still alive. The EMT's said he was sitting on a chair and slumped to the floor so I doubt its trauma related. We'll know more when the blood work comes back. Phyllis?"

         "Yes, Doctor."

         "Put him in a room and make sure he's turned every two to three hours. I want a CT stat, and EEG. Oh, and make sure that blood work tests for succinylcholine."

         It was noisy and I had to listen closely to hear their voices, but there was an unmistakable sound as the nurse drew in her breath. "Yes, Doctor, I'll call the lab."

         After what seems like hours but is probably only a few minutes, the curtain slides and the bed starts rolling, down a hallway, around a corner, and then stops. I hear a "ding" and then am pushed over a bump. Doors slide shut. The elevator rises for a few seconds and stops.

         "Hey, Jullian, how you doin'," a voice says.

         "Great, Cody, what's up?"

         Some tinkling of glass. "Lab run. You transportin'?"

         "Yeah, some dude that passed out."

         My arm is raised by the wrist, let go, and falls back to the sheet.
"You sure you don't want the basement?"

         Laughter. "Nah, he's still got a 'beat, man."

         "Hey, you goin' to Joleen's tonight?"

         "What for?"

         "She havin' a party, man."

         "What? Yeah, I'll be there."

         The elevator dings and the doors slide open. "Hey, call me later, I'll ride wit' ya."

         "Cool."

         The doors slide shut and we travel for a few more seconds. They open and I'm go over a bump again.

         "Got an extra room?"

         "553," a female voice says.

         "'k. Hey, you going to the party tonight?"

         "You mean at Joleen's?" Her tone softens.

         "Yeah. You going to be there?"

         "Well, I just might."

         "Mmmm. This might be worth going to." She laughs and the bed moves to the sound of humming; it's coming from the guy pushing me. "Too bad you're out of it or you might want to come, too. That's one fine looking woman," he says as we're moving. "And Joleen ain't bad, either." We stop, turn and go into a room. The bed is pushed against a wall hard enough that it bounces. "Sorry about that, my man. It got away from me a little. Don't worry, these are good people here. They'll find out what's wrong with you."

         Footsteps exit the room and I'm alone. Sounds of people talking in the hallway from time-to-time, and footsteps pass the room, some going slow and others rush. Otherwise, there's silence. How long I'm there, I don't know. Time stretches. What seems like a few seconds could be hours, I really don't know. Finally, two women come into the room and push me onto my left side.

         "Roll that up tight," one of them says.

         "Got it."

         The sheets are rolled tight into my back. I'm put on my back and then onto my right side.

         "Okay, got the sheets," the second one says. They leave me on my side and put something into my back to prevent me from rolling, cover me up and leave. Time stretches.

         Clocks used to tick so the passage of time could be marked by sound, if only by a tick at a time; digital and electric make no noise so time is lost if you're not able to see them. If this room had a clock, it was a newer one as there was no tick to mark the time. The women who rolled me on my side didn't even leave the television on so I could hear some dribble.

         Time stretches.

         "He's in here, ma'am."

         "Oh, Charlie, are you okay?" My wife's voice comes from behind me but I can't roll over to see her. Her heels click across the floor and something hits the bed and the back of my feet; probably her purse as the clicking continues around me and stops in front of my face. Her hand brushes the hair from my face. The sound of her voice makes me relax a little.

         "Oh, Charlie," she says again.

         "Mrs. Howard?" The voice comes from the doorway and I recognize it as the doctor from the ER.

         "Yes."

         "I'm Doctor Gutman. I saw your husband in the Emergency Room."

         "Do you have any idea what's wrong with him, Doctor?" The very question I'd like to ask him.

         "Not yet. We're in the process of running some blood tests to help us get a better idea. I've talked to the EMT's who brought him in, but could you tell me what happened?"

         "Well, we were getting ready to eat and he just slumped to the floor. He didn't say anything or act funny, he just went down, like he lost all control or something."

         "Is he a diabetic?"

         "No, he's never had any problems. In fact, I can't remember the last time he was sick."

         There was a pause and I could picture the doctor nodding his head, looking at some papers. "I've scheduled a few more tests and a CT scan-"

         "A CT scan?"

         "Yes, it's an X-Ray of his brain looking at the blood vessels, making sure there's no problem."

         "Oh, I see. So you think he has a problem with his brain?"

         "No, no, I don't mean to alarm you. We just want to cover all of the bases. His blood work should be back shortly and we may not need the CT scan if we see something there."

         "Oh, okay."

         "As soon as I know something, I'll be back."

         "Thank you, Doctor."

         "I'll close this door to give you some privacy."

         Her heels on the floor coming back to the bed made that clicking sound. Fifteen years together and I don't think she's left the house without wearing high-heeled shoes. Even to get the mail. The bed sinks down next to my stomach when she sits on it and she brushes the hair from my face.

         "I know you can hear me." She pats the side of my face. "Don't worry, it won't be long now, Charlie." There's a sting on my arm; it feels like a needle. Try as I might, I can't pull my arm away, can't move it at all.

         "I gave you the first part while you were sleeping this morning. Of course, I was worried that you'd wake up but you're such a sound sleeper, you never even stirred." The weight on the bed shifts and her purse snaps; putting the needle away, I guess. If I could move, I'd knock her across the room and ring for help. If I could move.

         "You couldn't get the second part until after they did your blood work. Right now you're just paralyzed but when they do the CT that second part I just gave you will make sure your brain fries like a steak. Oh, and it should leave your system the first time you pee." The weight shifts again. "I see you have a urine bag hooked up. Good. It'll be easier to get rid of after you're gone."

         She brushes my hair from my face, again. "After your brain is gone, it won't be long. A few days on life support and I'll reluctantly pull the plug. Oh, don't worry, I'll give you a great funeral. You left me a lot of money in life insurance."

         Her hand leaves my face and I can picture her brushing the hair from her own face. "I think I'll sell the house. Maybe move down south somewhere."

         "Charles Howard," a voice from the doorway says.

         She jumps from the bed as though I'd stuck that needle in her. "Yes," she says.

         "I'm here to take him for a CT scan."

         "Fine. Let me get my purse and you can have him."

         "Shouldn't be too long, ma'am. They're waiting for him so he'll get right in."

         "Oh, that sounds good." She kisses my forehead and whispers in my ear, "Goodbye, Charlie, I won't miss you." As the bed moves, I desperately try to move, to open my mouth, to scream. Nothing works.

         As we pass the door, a laugh, a wild laugh tries to escape my throat and stalls. The house is in both our names but we owe a lot more than she can get for it so if she sells it, she'll owe money. When she filed for divorce two years ago, I changed the beneficiary on my life insurance to Cheryl's name, the daughter from my first wife. After she changed her mind, I never changed it back. I'd love to see her face when she finds out.

1/2/2015 - 2/13/2015