What is today? Have I been unconscious for a couple hours or a couple days? Also, why am I no longer hungry or thirsty? Did the wreck cause my body to kick into some survival mode where I conserve food and water?
Final question, where am I? I was just in a car wreck, but I swear I saw a ceiling in the corner of my eye. I crack my eyes open again but the light is too bright. Not seeing where I am feels like finding presents before Christmas day when they’re already wrapped. They’re right there in front of you but you know you can’t have them yet.
Without having to open my eyes, something happens that gives me answers — or perhaps more questions — as to where I am and why. It’s the sound of footsteps. Sneakers hitting a hard, tile floor. A hospital floor?
The footsteps get closer and I only hope whoever is coming is here to help and not hurt me. A five-year-old girl could win a fight with me now.
The steps stop when they are right next to me. It’s only then that I notice I must be in a bed. The feeling beneath me is soft and comfortable. There’s a plush pillow underneath my head. Yes, I must be in a hospital.
I try to open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. I can feel whoever is beside me, not by any of the main five senses but by the feeling that someone is watching me. I nudge my finger the best I can, hoping they see it and know I’m awake. They evidently don’t because I hear their footsteps walking away and out the door.
Now that it’s just me again, I go back to thinking about what I know. Starting with the most recent thing I can remember, I know I was in a car crash. I know I was in a mysterious black car that I wrecked to avoid hitting a cat named Tabby who had previously saved my life. I know my body was badly damaged already from a run-in with a crazed dog I called Cujo who seemed to show up every day around six in the evening. I even remember waking up on a Tuesday, anxious to give a presentation to my bosses, only to discover that nobody was there. Yes, I can recall a lot of what happened to me recently.
What I can’t remember, though, is much about the week or two before everyone disappeared. The last thing I can remember before then is celebrating my anniversary with Abby. How long was that before the disappearances? I’m not even sure. I remember going out to a really nice dinner, a fondue restaurant that was dark and intimate, and serving each other strawberries dipped in hot chocolate. I remember thinking it was one of the best times I’ve ever had with Abby. Conversations when you’re married can be stagnant at times… How was your day? Good, how was yours? Good. This night was different. I remember we talked about life and what we wanted to do together in the future — places we wanted to go and things we wanted to see. Even though we’ve been together for several years, on that night it was as if we were on our first date.
If Abby and I ever get to be together again, I hope we have more dinners like that. There may still be hope that will happen. The nurse is the first human contact I’ve had in over a week — a huge step in the right direction. Granted, I never really saw her, and I’m not even sure it was a her. It could have been some alien life form getting me set up for an anal probe. I hope they know I don’t do well with things being inserted into me.
I’m going to assume it was human. I try opening my eyes again, and when I do I hold them open long enough to see a bright fluorescent light. There are also ceiling tiles similar to the ones I remember seeing in schools growing up.
After a few minutes with my eyes closed, I open them again and look to my right. I’m hooked up to an IV.
Of all the things I should be worried about, I’m most bothered knowing I have some sort of needle stuck in me. The thought makes me nauseated and the last thing I want to do is throw up.
Trying to take my mind off the IV, my thoughts turn to where I am and how I got here. I’m almost certainly in a hospital, but I have no idea which one. I know I didn’t check myself in so someone must have brought me here. I’ve had a suspicion that someone has been around me. How else did my picture of Abby end up in the black car? Did that same person take me here?
When I open my eyes again, I’m able to keep them open longer so I look around the room. It looks like your typical hospital room, although this room has a lot of gadgets around me; I must be really messed up. There are no visitors, no parents or friends to greet me. I look all around me for a button to press to call in a nurse but can’t find anything. I try to call out — scream if I can — but the sounds I make are barely audible.
I continue to look around the room for signs or clues. As luck would have it, I see one. On the TV stand is a little gray football helmet. Having grown up in Ohio, I know that can only mean the Ohio State Buckeyes. How can that be, though? I crashed somewhere around Tennessee, two to three hundred miles away from Ohio. Even in the black car, that’s more than a two-hour drive. Besides, I searched through a good part of Ohio and there was no one in sight. Of course, the Buckeyes helmet doesn’t have to mean I’m in Ohio, but I think it’s a pretty good indication. Why would another state have an Ohio football helmet sitting in one of their hospital rooms?
I’m still at the point where I can only wiggle my feet and hands. I don’t think I have any chance of getting up and walking yet. I don’t feel any pain, although that could be because I’m pumped with medication. I can keep my eyes open now as my pupils seem to be adjusted to seeing light again. I consider for a moment looking at my arm to see what kind of IV they have me hooked up to, but I know for sure that will make me throw up whatever I do have in my stomach.
Being in a hospital and having no recollection of getting here is scary. I’m anxious for answers and my wish is granted when I turn to my right and see a nurse walk in.
She’s dressed in all white from top to bottom — how cliché. When my eyes make their way up to her face, my first thought is how pretty she might be if it weren’t for the facial expression she’s giving. It’s a look of total shock and horror, as if a dead body at a funeral got out of the casket and started walking around.
“Oh my God. You’re awake!”
I don’t like the tone of her voice when she says this. Was she not expecting me to ever wake up? I try to speak, but nothing comes out. She rushes toward me and checks the monitor sitting behind me. I have no clue what all the lines and numbers mean, but based on her expression I think she’s pleased. Surprised, but pleased.
“I’ll be right back.”
Without giving me the chance to protest, she storms out of the room. She comes back a couple minutes later, this time accompanied by a balding man in his late fifties. He’s thin, which I like; I’ve never had much respect for obese doctors. He looks at me like he’s trying to hold back a smile.
“Andrew, how very good to see you! How do you feel?”
I open my mouth and try to respond, but he quickly interrupts me.
“Oh, of course. Don’t worry about trying to speak. It’s perfectly natural that your voice isn’t back yet. The good news is it should be soon. Nurse Jackie tells me that your vitals look good.”
“The best I’ve seen from someone just coming out of a coma!”
The word coma seems to put everything together. I was in a coma? For how long? The facial expressions of the doctor and Nurse Jackie change from glee to somber seriousness. I don’t think the doctor wanted me to receive this information so soon, but now that the news is out he improvises.
“Yes, you’ve been in a coma, Andrew. You’ve been in here for a little over seven days now. But it’s nothing to worry about. I have the utmost confidence, just by looking at the monitor, that you’re going to be OK. Nurse Jackie and the rest of the staff have taken very good care of you and have been giving you healthy doses of food and water. We’ll run some more tests, but I have no doubt you’ll have a full and healthy recovery.”