A man lies thinking while paralized
I used to think the most terrifying thing in the universe was the loss of function and control, but I was mistaken.
It’s been a year and a week since they laid me here, 372 days and at 2PM it’ll be 8,928 hours, but no one has mentioned the time so I can’t calculate it exactly. From the breakfast noises it’s between 8:30 and 10:00 AM.
I spend most of my time with my eyes closed and live in the world of sound, building images in my mind about what’s happening. I don’t know when I’m being fed unless they forgot to close my eyes, then shadow figures screw with a PEG tube. I heard them explain it to the love of my life, Mavis. Medically speaking it’s a Percutaneous Endoscopic Gastrostomy tube, used to inject some kind of ground-up slop into my small intestine.
Based on the sound of their voices I create peoples faces to look like what I think their personality's are. One nurse always shows up with a negative attitude, angry about something. I’ve made her image with frown lines and a scowl, but pretty because her periodic laugh rings like a child’s voice and gives me internal smiles. Others range from older and stern to bright and young.
I think one is a candy-striper or a fresh-out nurse, her voice is young and in my mind she’s beautiful. She tells me about what’s happening in the world I no longer live in while she bathes me. I know when she washes my butt and other things, I can’t feel it, but she apologizes,
“I know this is embarrassing, but we have to do it. I promise I won’t look.”
I wish I could thank her for what she does and tell her I appreciate her gentle and kind demeanor, but I don't have words any more. She treats me like I’m a real person and I wish I could tell her I love her.
I could see the ceiling for the first two weeks, it’s acoustical tile with holes resembling dark stars in a white universe. They used drops to keep my eyes moist and left them open long enough for me to figure out the patterns and count the holes. At first glance they seemed random, but they're not, each tile has the same hole pattern and they rotate them to appear random. When I noticed the hole pattern was the same I counted holes in one tile then counted the tiles I could see then multiplied them. I can’t move my eyes. I was an engineer and math problems help me stay sane.
There’s a pattern to them that forms clusters I call galaxies and I named all of them. I named a couple hundred stars too and it amazed me how many I could remember or even think of unique names for. The only control I had was a mild ability to defocus my eyes and the star field became three dimensional giving it depth so it closely resembled looking up at the universe.
There were 230,400 visible stars in my very confined universe. Now that’s gone and the world is a blur of grey fuzziness when my eyes are open. They flush them to clean then put the salve in they use now. It goes dark when they shut them.
My family comes to visit, but most only once a month, except Mavis, beautiful, loving, Mavis, she’s here every day and sleeps here many nights. I wish I could tell her to go on. I wish I could just die so she could, but I can’t, a damned machine breaths for me.
It wouldn’t work anyway, you can’t stop breathing long enough to die, your body takes over and makes you live again. If you could call being a fucking carrot living. They should paint me orange and dye my hair green. I yearn for a power failure, but there's backup power on the ventilators so all I can hope for is that someone kicks the plug out and it’s not noticed in time.
I've never believed in gods, but now I wish there was one. I beg for it to just let me go, kill me, and I do not give a particular damn if it hurts, but nothing happens. A month after I got here a nurse was cleaning my eyes and I heard her say, "Look, tears, he must be sad." She laughed after that and I prayed for her death. Me! Praying! What a joke.
I forgave her later, how could she know. I don’t want anyone hurt, but they have no idea what it’s like beIng aware of everything and unable to tell them. I hate the nights, I get very little sleep.They salve my eyes because I can't blink so everything is a vague, grey blur if they don’t close them, but at least there's shadows of activity and light.
“This must be how Stephen Hawking lived,” is a thought and I wish for his mind, his ability to visualize the entire universe and walk around in it. That must be how he kept his sanity. He could communicate though, I can’t. I am holding more in my mind now and so far I think I’m okay, but I've read you can’t know if your insane.
Two detectives came while I was in the emergency room and showed me pictures of the guy that did it, asking if I knew him, I didn’t and couldn’t respond anyway. They discussed it and said he was 200 yards away and probably fired his 22 randomly into the air from a parking garage because he was pissed at the government. Pure chance it hit me.
A damned .22 caliber bullet, why couldn’t the geeky little bastard have used a 9mm and killed me. Hell, I’ve been pissed at the government for decades, but I never shot anyone. I think about the damage two and a half grams of lead and copper can do.
One tenth of an ounce traveling a couple hundred feet-per-second entered my head at the base of my skull and severed my spinal cord rendering me totally paralyzed. A vegetable, while that bastard can still laugh and enjoy life. I heard he got ten years, but he’ll be out in six and all I can hope for is he becomes Bubbas girlfriend and they take a lot of pain filled time killing him.
His name is Tony Ellis and he’s a tooth-pick thin, ugly little shit that hates the world because it didn’t give him what he wants. If I could talk I’d tell him, “Most of the world doesn’t get what they want, asshole, but they don’t shoot anyone. Get the fuck over it!"
For the first time in my life I hate. I detest that son-of-a-bitch so much I hope and crave, dream for an excruciating, long-term death for him. Not because of me, for what he’s done to my family. My partner, Mavis, the most, this is destroying her.
I was always stronger than any situation I ran into so I never feared much. I knew my strength and used it to help, not destroy. The only thing I really dreaded, was being paralyzed and conscious and not being able to communicate. What I should have feared was time.
That gentle old man with the sweet, longing smile and long, silky white beard and robes. We all felt sorry for him because the baby new year had arrived and he was on his way out, “Lying bastard! It’s not a gentle exit!” Time is what I dread now. I have a very deep emotional understanding of that word as I unblinkingly stare up into the dark, sometimes fuzzy grey universe I live in.
But wonderful, beautiful Mavis, the bigger half of my soul and the place I could always go, curling into her warm embrace until whatever was bothering me faded. Mavis talks to me all the time, reads to me and comforts me which I think is the only reason I’m still mostly sane. I adore her. She believes I’m still here. She’s reading all of Hawking’s books to me now and today she finished The Dreams That Stuff Is Made Of.
“I know you’re there, Ian, I love you and I’ll be here until you don’t need me any more.”
The need to not need her, to die, eats at my mind like acid. My only real hope is that totally paralyzed patients typically only live for two years and I’m half way there.
I beg at times, grovel and plead, “God, if you’re there and compassionate, please let me die and send me to wherever I belong so Mavis can move on to a life.
But, there’s never an answer; there never will be.