Post 4 Technicolor

Day 6: John: Yelling At a Man In a Coma.

“So hey Drew. It’s morning. You’ve been here six days. I parked in the medical center garage, stopped for coffee in the Trauma Center lobby and took the stairs to the seventh floor.  I might as well try to get in better shape for when you come home.”

I’m having to fake my optimism at this point. It’s been a discouraging few days.

“You’re in the UCSF Trauma Ward. I can’t be sure what you’ve heard, but you got pretty banged up. But they assure me that you’re not in any pain.” We sit for a while, quietly. I try to make sense of the accident, our fight that morning, of what will come next.

I reach for my coffee and lose my grip, sending a torrent of hot liquid onto my shirt and jeans. I stand, shaking coffee from my hands, brushing it off my pants and losing my temper.

“Goddammit. I hate this. I had seeing you like this. I hate that we argued about the fucking tile. I wish my last words—words to you then---had been nicer. I hate it that I can’t know what you’re  hearing  or if you’re in pain. I want you to wake up, Drew. Even open your eyes. One eye would be fine. That, or squeeze my finger. Just a little. Please.”

            Alone in my sadness, sobbing, I am afraid the morning nurse will catch me crying and, worse, try to console me. I dry my face on my shirt sleeve and sop up the puddles of coffee with napkins and a few small white towels that always seem to be near Drew’s beside.

            “Your realize, of course, that this is the first time since we met that I’m in complete control of the conversation, right?” Humor has always been my go-to fix-it, especially following a fight or a disappointment. I always seemed to find a way to lighten things up a bit. It’s meant to reset the scene, the feeling, the frustration. It’s my way of telling Drew, “I’m sorry.”

            I take a deep breath. Usually, humor works. Drew’s part of the script is to laugh, understand my unspoken penitence and move through the trouble. Today, my usually effective defense mechanism is met with the quiet whirr of Drew’s respirator.

            I’ve been yelling at a man in a coma. I feel awful.

Day 7: John: “How Do We Know?”

“You gave us quite a scare yesterday morning.”

I pause automatically, half expecting Drew to jump in. Reminded by the silence that this is a monologue, I continue.

“You had quite a lot of pressure building up because of your head injury. But, all fixed now. They did have to shave your head, however, but not to worry. You look very edgy. All you need is a beret.” More humor. More silence.

            “C’mon, Drew. Work with me.”

Drew’s morning nurse appears. Tears welling uncontrollably, I implore her.

“He would have hated this. I’ve got his medical directive here. No life support. No machines. When is it time? How do we know?”

Day 7: Drew, The Dream: All of Seventeen.

I wish I could console you, my love. Honestly, it’s not so bad here. Gratefully, it seems that here, between living and whatever comes next, the most amazing thing is happening. I’ve found the voice of recollection in my head. Currently, it’s the only voice I have. But it seems only I can hear it.

Memories appear. In Technicolor. And Cinemascope and Surround Sound. Some are 3-D.  I wish you could see this. This—the movie—the memory is so real you can reach out and touch it. I realize all this could be the result of the brain injury or the morphine or both. I don’t care. It’s all so. I don’t have words for it.

In the first one, the dream, I’m back home, where I grew up. Mama and Daddy’s house. On one of those warm, windy, not-quite-yet-sticky June nights in Virginia before summer had fully set in.

 And now another voice, annoyingly pulling me back: “Now, Mr. Carter, we’re going to raise you up a bit and adjust your breathing tube.” It’s the Southern, female voice. She draws out “Carter” when she addresses me. So formal. It’s just Drew, I want to tell her.

And, by the way, just take the breathing tube out. Hasn’t John already told you I don’t want any heroic measures? No? 

The female voice is silent and the tube is still in place.

If you can’t do what I want, then at least let me sleep.         

The dream continues, and brilliant images play like a movie directly in front of my eyes. The humid, sticky summer of 1972 unfolds before me.