side, he found the other arm to be the same. Wondering if his whole appearance had altered since he’d been recuperating, he realised that he hadn’t looked in a mirror since before the accident and became curious as to what demeanour he now possessed.
It was to be another day of silence, punctuated only by short naps and two, that he knew of, visits from the nurses. They glanced at his charts, checked his blood pressure, filled in the bottom of the form and left. On the second of these visits he wanted to speak; to get one of them to do something about the itching which still plagued him, but trying to open his mouth, his jaw flopped open and a dry rasping sound passed his lips.
“Shhh, try to rest, there’ll be plenty of time for talking later,” one of them told him.
He started to despair. Having lain in the hospital bed for long enough he’d had more than enough resting and wanted out. The conversations in his head started to become a constant dialogue between the optimistic and pessimistic sides of his character. One making plans and determined to put in the effort to be out of hospital quickly, the other saying that he’d be there for years, and then only to live the rest of his life as a cripple. The truth he thought, was probably somewhere in between and he found himself becoming the chair in his own internal debate, a third character in his head and the voice of reason.
A tear manifested itself at the corner of his eye and slowly trickled down his face, into his ear. It tickled. Before long it was joined by many others and the tears flowed uncontrollably onto his pillow leaving damp salty patches. Iain, wracked with sobs, cried himself to sleep.
She came to him in the middle of the night. Bleary eyed in the fog of sleep and morphine Iain was aware of the figure standing over him, a silhouette in the gloom of the darkened room. Without breathing a single word, the figure un-tucked the bed sheets and gently lifted the bottom of Iain’s standard issue hospital gown, exposing the red hand shaped welt on his left leg, unnoticed amongst all the other abrasions and bed sores. She scratched in exactly the right place where the itch had been driving him insane. He tried to smile and say thank you but found he could not. She placed a gentle finger to his lips to shush him and whispered into his ear, her head next to his, “Stay strong.” Planting a soft kiss on his forehead, she retreated away from his bed and out of the room.
Who was she? Iain thought to himself. He wished all the doctors and nurses could be so nice, so angelic even. Too tired to think about it he drifted back into sleep with a smile on his face, grateful that his leg no longer itched and feeling warmed by a deep sense of comfort, the likes of which he hadn’t felt in a long time.
Chapter Seven
The Long Road to Recovery
“How are you this morning?” Dr Goodman smiled at him.
Iain nodded.
“Any unusual dreams or experiences?” she was studying the charts which hung from the end of the bed.
“No” croaked Iain. He had spoken. His throat was sore and the word didn’t come easily but he beamed at having accomplished the little feat. He wanted to praise the nurse who had visited him in the night but for now, one word was enough and he was happy with that.
“Good. You have your voice back too. Excellent.” She moved to the top of the bed and scrubbed out the words ‘nil by mouth’ and scrawled in their place, ‘fluids only’. “Try sipping some water.” She poured some water from the jug which had appeared at some point in the night, into a small cup and held it out to Iain.
Feebly, he took it. His arm was a little shaky and some spilled over the side. Taking his hand in hers, she guided it towards his mouth. The water tasted good and soothed his parched throat, gliding down like nectar.
“I shall be back in again in the morning to see how you’re getting along.” For now her brief visit was over and she went to carry
It was to be another day of silence, punctuated only by short naps and two, that he knew of, visits from the nurses. They glanced at his charts, checked his blood pressure, filled in the bottom of the form and left. On the second of these visits he wanted to speak; to get one of them to do something about the itching which still plagued him, but trying to open his mouth, his jaw flopped open and a dry rasping sound passed his lips.
“Shhh, try to rest, there’ll be plenty of time for talking later,” one of them told him.
He started to despair. Having lain in the hospital bed for long enough he’d had more than enough resting and wanted out. The conversations in his head started to become a constant dialogue between the optimistic and pessimistic sides of his character. One making plans and determined to put in the effort to be out of hospital quickly, the other saying that he’d be there for years, and then only to live the rest of his life as a cripple. The truth he thought, was probably somewhere in between and he found himself becoming the chair in his own internal debate, a third character in his head and the voice of reason.
A tear manifested itself at the corner of his eye and slowly trickled down his face, into his ear. It tickled. Before long it was joined by many others and the tears flowed uncontrollably onto his pillow leaving damp salty patches. Iain, wracked with sobs, cried himself to sleep.
She came to him in the middle of the night. Bleary eyed in the fog of sleep and morphine Iain was aware of the figure standing over him, a silhouette in the gloom of the darkened room. Without breathing a single word, the figure un-tucked the bed sheets and gently lifted the bottom of Iain’s standard issue hospital gown, exposing the red hand shaped welt on his left leg, unnoticed amongst all the other abrasions and bed sores. She scratched in exactly the right place where the itch had been driving him insane. He tried to smile and say thank you but found he could not. She placed a gentle finger to his lips to shush him and whispered into his ear, her head next to his, “Stay strong.” Planting a soft kiss on his forehead, she retreated away from his bed and out of the room.
Who was she? Iain thought to himself. He wished all the doctors and nurses could be so nice, so angelic even. Too tired to think about it he drifted back into sleep with a smile on his face, grateful that his leg no longer itched and feeling warmed by a deep sense of comfort, the likes of which he hadn’t felt in a long time.
Chapter Seven
The Long Road to Recovery
“How are you this morning?” Dr Goodman smiled at him.
Iain nodded.
“Any unusual dreams or experiences?” she was studying the charts which hung from the end of the bed.
“No” croaked Iain. He had spoken. His throat was sore and the word didn’t come easily but he beamed at having accomplished the little feat. He wanted to praise the nurse who had visited him in the night but for now, one word was enough and he was happy with that.
“Good. You have your voice back too. Excellent.” She moved to the top of the bed and scrubbed out the words ‘nil by mouth’ and scrawled in their place, ‘fluids only’. “Try sipping some water.” She poured some water from the jug which had appeared at some point in the night, into a small cup and held it out to Iain.
Feebly, he took it. His arm was a little shaky and some spilled over the side. Taking his hand in hers, she guided it towards his mouth. The water tasted good and soothed his parched throat, gliding down like nectar.
“I shall be back in again in the morning to see how you’re getting along.” For now her brief visit was over and she went to carry
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