It was hot in July of 2001, as is always the case in July; but it was especially so in Oklahoma where the land is desolate and the heat has nothing to do but to fester like a malignant tumor. It was so hot that I could almost see the steam rising from the pavement into the nighttime sky. I climbed into the back seat of the car next to my girlfriend and got comfortable. I was going to sleep. I had stayed up on purpose because I knew that I was going to sleep first and my brother was going to drive first. I could tell both he and his wife were a little annoyed that this was the case. After all, my having to go to work the next day was the reason we were leaving in the middle of the night instead of staying in the hotel room that was already paid for. But I didn’t care. Too often I thought only of myself and my own convenience.
The moment I was comfortable in my seat belt I was asleep. I dreamed pleasant dreams: of the wedding we’d just come from, the fun we’d had; of days past in high school when I’d last seen many of the wedding’s attendees; of the drive to Oklahoma from Huntsville, Alabama.
Then there was nothing. Nothing is impossible to imagine because by using one’s imagination one is doing something, the very opposite of nothing. I cannot describe it. There was just nothing. No darkness, no coldness; no light, no warmth; nothing. It was like death.
Waking up was startling. I was no longer in the car. I had concept of neither time nor place. I didn’t know if an hour had passed or a year. Besides where I was not, I was aware of only one thing: pain. My face and head felt like a building would feel after a meeting with a wrecking ball. My head hurt, my jaw hurt, my cheeks throbbed; even my eyes hurt. No, not my eyes – my eye sockets! I tried to move, but was unable to budge. I could move neither my arms nor my legs. My head and neck did not even respond properly to the demands of my brain. What had happened?
I attempted to collect my thoughts. I looked around the room slowly, moving only my eyes. This process was painful, but I had to know what was going on. I quickly noticed that it was a hospital room. I’d been in many before, although few from a patient’s point of view. My head was elevated, so I could see that I was strapped to the bed so that my movement would be very limited. I could see the television perched high on the wall and the tubes running into my arms. I could see my parents.
There was no better time for them to be within my sight. Just the thought that they were going to be there through this ordeal was too comforting for me to express. Had I functional tear ducts I may have cried. I looked at my father and a thought occurred to me: he was a very busy man. Maybe he would not be there throughout the entirety of my hospital stay. I knew my mother would not leave the room until someone made her, but my father’s presence was not guaranteed. I spoke to him.
“How long are you going to be here?”
A severe pain rudely accosted me as though we had been formally introduced. However, I was previously unaware of its existence and the sensation threatened to drag me into unconsciousness. Before I was taken back under, however, he answered my question.
“We’re going to be here as long as you’re here.”
And I was out.
This sleep fell somewhere between the dream-filled one I’d previously enjoyed, when I first got behind the passenger’s seat in my brother’s 1996 Nissan Altima, and the nothingness from which I’d been yanked in the hospital. There were no dreams, but somehow I knew I was not dead.
When I awoke again, I noticed that I was still harnessed to the bed like a rotisserie chicken. Briefly I wondered if I’d been turning and cooking, and how close I was to done. The thought made me smile, and I was reintroduced to the pain that had knocked me out the last time we met. I was better prepared for it this time, however, and was able to resist falling insensate again.
This time as I looked around the room I saw more people. My aunt and uncle were there. My sister was there; so was my brother. I spoke.
“What happened?”
My father, always the mediator, spoke. In retrospect, he probably felt it was his duty even though my brother, who was driving the car, must have known the details better than he.
“John fell asleep while he was driving. You guys went off a little cliff.”
My mother, always playing the nurse, spoke. She must have been impressed with her responsibility to update everyone’s health status.
“April is alright; she separated her shoulder, bruised some ribs and had a minor head injury. John just bruised some ribs. Your girlfriend broke her left collar bone and left femur.”
My mind raced. Femur, femur… that’s in the leg right? Wait a second – I have a girlfriend?! I made a mental note to ask my mother that question when the room was clear, but first I had to know about myself. Again I spoke.
“What about me?”
My father spoke again. This was not a good sign.
“You broke some vertebrae in your back, some bones in your face, you bruised a lung and a kidney, and you had severe brain trauma.”
His mention of brain trauma brought a realization to my injured mind: I felt a little slower than normal. I did not notice then, but I later realized that many otherwise obvious facts eluded me until someone brought them to my attention. I also found it difficult to concentrate on more than one thing at a time. Remembering things was nearly impossible. In fact, I am told that I had to be reminded on several occasions of the very reason for my being hospitalized. Telling someone how he was almost killed once, as difficult as that may be, cannot compare to having to repeatedly inform someone of his near demise. I do not envy the task my parents had to undertake in those first few days.
“What day is it?”
“Wednesday,” Dad said.
It was Monday when the trip began. I was very late for work.
“Did someone call my job?”
“Yes, we took care of that, Paul,” Dad replied, almost chuckling at the silliness of my question. There were much more important things to deal with than the status of my part time employment as a cashier at Costco.
“What bones in my face?”
“Your jaw, cheek bones, nose, eye sockets…” Mom and Dad chorused.
“Eye sockets?” I asked, flabbergasted.
“Yeah. You haven’t noticed?” My sister chimed in.
I realized at that moment that I was seeing double. My left eye socket was completely shattered, so the eye on this side was sitting considerably lower, at least an inch, than its counterpart. I knew my jaw was broken, although it hadn’t hurt in a while, and the throbbing I’d previously felt in my cheeks testified of their destruction. However, this pain was also conspicuously absent.
“What do they have me on?”
My aunt, the actual nurse spoke. She was not a nurse like my mother, only possessing a nurse’s instincts. She actually had three degrees to prove that she was a nurse, and chaired the nursing department at my alma mater. She remains to this day the most brilliant person I have ever encountered.
“Demerol.”
The word was like music. It danced in my ear like a Mozart symphony. My favorite music is hip hop, but hip hop generally does not dance in my ear. It kind of accosts my auditory canal, landing on my ear drum with a thud. It is my favorite because of the beats and the lyrical prowess of my favorite emcees. Classical music, however, is much more sophisticated and light. It has the capability, when performed properly, to change my entire mood and brighten the very appearance of the sun. This is what the word did. It was suddenly daytime in that little intensive care room in Arkansas. I tried it.
“Demerol.”
The word even tasted good. There are words that roll off the tongue in such a way that they leave behind a residue of their presence that is nearly palatable. This word did just that. Even now when I say her name, although I no longer experience the pleasure she brings, I can still sometimes taste a little of that leftover residuum. It makes me lick my lips. Always the comedian, I thought of a joke.
“And on the 8th day, God created Demerol.”
The room was in stitches. I decided then that I would be on stage for the entire time I was in the hospital. Excluding the day after my facial surgery, when I was in recovery and could do little but moan aloud while I was awake, I was in a wonderful mood for the remainder of my hospital stay. The laughter of my visitors as well as the personable and talented nursing staff helped me to feel as though, for brief periods, I was not even in the hospital.
Coming soon – The On Purpose Part II: The Surgery
The On Purpose Part III: The Recovery
