Still seems dim. I try to blink the confusion out of my eyes; it is resilient. Mud-colored walls surround me. Air seems hazy, thick with darkness. Unfamiliar. Strange.
Fear wells up inside me. I search for a familiar object. Something. Anything. There is none. Just the thick air. Just the mud-colored walls. Just me. I’m alone. I’m alone in this… room. How did I get here? Where have I been? I grasp at threads dangling just beyond my reach… they vanish. My mind feels sluggish, heavy. Restrained. I want to ask someone. But whom? I am alone. In this… room. I have to get out!
I try to move. Panic. An incomprehensible weight ensconces my body. My body. Where is my body? Am I dead? Where are my hands? Where are my legs, my feet? Panic. Someone has taken my body and filled it with sand. Dark, heavy sand. I feel my body, but it is only a whisper; a shadow cast behind me on the gravel road; a reflection in a rippled pool. Maybe I am dead. Maybe I am separating from my body.
My head is filled with sand, too; the thoughts struggle through the heavy grains, pop out into existence, then vaporize, are sucked back into the greedy darkness.
I try to lift my head. Pain sears through it, down into my neck.
Pain. I must be alive.
I try to call out. I can make no sound. But I feel my mouth. Swollen tongue. Dry. Jagged teeth. Pain. There is something in here, in my mouth. Sharp. Glass? A rock? I try to spit it out, but cannot find the air to expel it. I cannot determine whether it has made it past my lips.
Just as my terror peaks, I catch sight of one familiar object. Winnie. My Pooh bear. He could only have been sent by God to assure me I’m ok. Winnie the Pooh’s been my symbol of comfort, solace, safety, since I was a baby. I’ve slept with Winnie tucked under my chin -- just as he is here, in the muddy room -- every night of my life for the past seventeen years. Sleepovers, vacations, trips, if I were going somewhere, Winnie came with me. That’s it! I’m not lost. I’m not dead. If Winnie is here, I must be asleep. Of course. I must be dreaming! If I just go back to sleep, this will all go away. A bad dream. Just a bad dream. When I wake up, everything will be fine.
Words, enveloped in sound, drip down through the haze, splash into me. They seep through my brain.
“You’re OK,” the words tell me. “You’ve been in an accident. But you’re OK now. You’re going to be just fine.”
Of course, I knew that. God told me so. Or maybe it was Pooh. Somebody told me, or was it a dream?
A familiar shock of red hair, my mother’s face, hover over me. “You’re in the hospital. You’re OK now.”
My mind strains. Hospital? Am I sick? What's happened to me?
My mother’s smile stretches so tightly her face threatens to crack, to crumble. Warm, soft fingers touch my forehead, stroke my hair, just as Mom used to do when I stayed home, sick, from school. Fear wanes, lapsing into mild confusion.
“Can’t decrease… morphine… confusion… incoherent…” a deeper voice rumbles from above. The words pop through my head in bursts like gunfire.
“Everything is OK now. You’re going to be just fine, honey. Can you hear me?” I cannot force the “Yes” in my head out through my mouth.
“Don’t talk. Don’t move.” Edges of the smile push her cheeks up high, crinkling her eyes enough to hold the wet pools in them from spilling. “You need to rest so you will heal.”
So I close my eyes, drift back into the blackness.
Posts
