The shit vehicle we were assigned for patrol had no protective combat panels. It was an open jeep with a turret rifle mounted in the back. I was in full battle rattle, manning the turret, scanning the area for sniper activity. Then we were so busy trying to return fire that the driver didn’t see an IED until the front tire hit it.
The last thing I remember was flying through the air, in slow motion, like in a scene from The Matrix, before I smacked into a concrete wall headfirst and the lights went out.
The combat helmet saved my life, but I’d hit hard enough to crack it in half like a walnut. The impact knocked me out cold. Because they weren’t sure if my brain would swell, the medical personnel kept me out and under observation for twenty-four hours. I freaked out when I woke up in a flimsy hospital gown, with a severe headache, smelling like dirt, antiseptic, and unwashed gym socks.
My smart-ass teammates had taken my cracked helmet and strung the two broken pieces together with cord, gluing dead brown weeds and sand on the outside, turning it into a gigantic coconut bra.
I must’ve dozed off because a hand on my shoulder gently shook me awake. “Mrs. Dawson?”
I blinked groggily at the nurse in blue scrubs. “I’m Mason’s fiancée. Mercy Gunderson.”
“The doctor would like to speak with you.” She glanced at Lex, who sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Do you want me to stay out here with your son while you go back?”
“No, he’s coming with me.”
“That’s fine.” We followed her. She coded in a number on the keypad and swiped her ID. The big doors opened.
It was eerily quiet in the ER. I expected people to be yelling and machines to be beeping. Nurses and doctors racing about. But the action seemed to be centered on banks of monitors. The overhead lights were dim. I caught sight of medical personnel with their feet up on the desk, heads back, taking a nap in the lull. One person wearing vibrant purple scrubs dotted with horses restocked a medical supply cabinet. Another person changed the physician’s name on a white dry erase board.
Along the corridor were rooms with curtains drawn and rooms with doors shut and rooms with doors open; empty gurneys lined the hallway. So much to look at I nearly ran into the back of the nurse as she let us into a tiny cubicle-like office.
The man offered his hand. “I’m Dr. Jeffers.”
“Mercy Gunderson, Mason Dawson’s fiancée. This is Lex, his son.”
“Have a seat. I know it’s been quite a few hours since Mr. Dawson was brought in, but we needed to observe him before we decided on a course of action.”
“Has he regained consciousness?”
Dr. Jeffers shook his head. “That’s not necessarily a bad thing. Here’s why: the impact with the bull caused massive swelling in his brain.”
I felt like I was going to throw up right on his neatly ordered desk.
“At this point we have no idea if there’s brain damage. In the first hours he was under observation, the swelling increased significantly.”
“What does that mean?”
“We needed to take immediate action to stop the swelling. We gave Mr. Dawson an IV with Mannitol, a chemical compound that helps suck water out of the brain and reduces intracranial pressure. This procedure alleviated some of the pressure. Then my colleague, Dr. Masters, an anesthesiologist, recommended Propofol, a sedative used during surgery, to put Sheriff Dawson into a medically induced coma.”
“Coma?” Lex repeated.
I gently squeezed his shoulder.
“There is some controversy surrounding choosing this method, but I spoke with colleagues after our first corrective attempt didn’t produce the hoped-for results. We believe a medically induced coma is the best course of treatment because Sheriff Dawson is young. He’s in excellent physical condition. Putting him under allows an opportunity for the brain swelling to recede, which limits the amount of brain tissue that can be permanently damaged.” Dr. Jeffers gave me a considering look. “Do you want to hear all this now? I know it’s late, and you’ve been here for hours.”
“I’m fully awake, so fill me in.”
“The benefit of this type of treatment is that the coma is reversible. We can adjust the amount of Propofol entering his system and bring him out of it at any time. Naturally, we want to do that only when his brain has had a chance to heal. During a brain injury, the metabolism of the brain is altered. With drugs that put the brain at rest, we can try to keep it from shutting down other important body functions. But because the main effects of the sedative are outside the brain, that also means he’s on medication to keep his blood pressure up and to keep his heart pumping. He’s also on a respirator, so we can mechanically control his respiration rate. We are closely monitoring his EEG-his brain waves. Any questions so far?”
About ten million. “Any idea how long he’ll be under?”
“There is no set time. I’ve dealt with this situation before, and if I had to hazard a guess at this point, I’d say we’re looking at around six to seven days. Obviously, we want Mr. Dawson brought out of it as soon as it’s safe because of the other potential health issues associated with his being in this state.”
“What other health issues?”
“Pneumonia. Blood clots. Muscle paralysis. All conditions that stem from patient immobility during the coma and that could linger after he regains consciousness.”
I closed my eyes. So many thoughts racing through my head. Would Mason ever be the same? And if he wasn’t… would he push me away? Would he think I couldn’t handle him being less than perfect?
“I understand it’s a lot to comprehend, Miz Gunderson. And the ‘wait and see’ diagnosis is never ideal, but it’s the only one I have right now.”
“Thank you. Thanks for… working to save him.” That sounded lame, but I really didn’t know what else to say.
“You’re welcome. I’ll be monitoring his condition personally. And I’ll keep you as up-to-date as possible.” He looked at the chart. “This cell number is the best way to reach you? Do you have a work number during the day?”
“I’m a federal agent with the FBI, but that number is your best bet for reaching me at any hour of the day or night.”
His eyebrows rose, and he looked at me a little differently after I disclosed my occupation.
Lex blurted, “When can I see him?”
“He’s in ICU,” the doctor started. “It’s been a long night, and maybe if you come back tomorrow-” Dr. Jeffers stopped speaking when I shook my head.
“We need to see him. If only for a minute.”
After a couple seconds he nodded. “I’ll arrange it. But you should pass on the ‘no visitor’s’ policy to other family members.”
“His coworkers, too?”
He nodded. “The slightest infection is deadly for him. So if either of you develop even a case of the sniffles, you’d best stay away.”
“Understood.”
“I’ll take you up to see him right now. That way I can answer any questions.”
“Sounds fair,” I said to Lex. “I know you’ll make your dad proud and follow all the rules, right?”
Dr. Jeffers talked to Lex, trying to put him at ease. He led us out of the ER through a maze of hallways until we were at a bank of elevators, a different set than the ones I’d used before.
We stopped on the fourth floor and took a left. The doctor spoke briefly to a nurse, and she directed us to an area where we put on protective clothing. Surgical masks. Latex gloves. Plastic gowns. Once we were suited up, Dr. Jeffers stopped in front of room 406.
I froze outside the door, waiting for courage to muscle past my fear. Waiting for Dawson’s gentle hand to touch my face, urge me to open my eyes and reassure me that this was just another bad dream.
Come on Mercy, wake up. It’s me. It’s just us here, remember?
But the hand clutched in mine was small. The doctor had tried to prepare Lex for what he might see once we were in the room, yet I’d in no way prepared myself.