| T O P I C R E V I E W |
| candance |
Posted - 04/08/2006 : 18:46:32
I'm all alone again, sitting on a cold steel table, waiting for the doctor to come back. I've already read all the posters on the wall, deciphered the uses for all the equipment, even played Tetris on my cellphone until the nurse took it away. Now, with nothing to do but wait, I sit still, fidget with my gown, play with my hair.
I don't want to think about my future until the doctor tells me everything; no use getting myself all worked up on maybes. So I work hard to keep my mind somewhere else. I turn to look behind me, and there is my purse. Ah ha! Surely something of interest will be in there.
Slowly, painfully, I ease off the table and tiptoe across the floor. The smooth tile is as cold as the table. By the time I get there I'm wincing, but it's worth it. My small black purse, usually light, is hard to pick up. Then I start the process to get back to the table.
At last I'm settled in. My fingers, still smeared with blood, pull weakly on the buckle. The purse falls open, revealing cash, cards, and makeup. The money is worthless to me right now; I'm looking for pictures. There it is-my only picture of Mark. I pull it out, careful not to get blood on it, and sit it on my lap.
I hear the door creak open, and I throw all my stuff on the floor. The doctor is back. He's a good-looking guy, and he seems to be nice. I guess he'll tell me the truth.
"Miss Diller, sorry that took so long."
"Call me Sophie. What's going on?"
The doctor is looking at me and forcing a smile; I can't figure out how to read it. With my picture of Mark gripped tightly in my hand, I'm ready to hear anything.
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| 3 L A T E S T R E P L I E S (Newest First) |
| vern7us |
Posted - 06/04/2006 : 22:36:09
i must have slept for hours without realizing it. i slapped the alarm clock and went in search for the coffee. i was out as usual so i had to go to a gas station to get a cup. for some reason the coffee you get at a store is never as good as what you make yourself.
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| candance |
Posted - 04/16/2006 : 13:10:16
The sun is starting to shine in through my window, and it's waking me up. Slowly, reluctantly, I open my eyes. It was so good to sleep. But morning means it's another day, so I have to move on.
I lay in my bed for a while, listening. In the silence, I can hear a hundred little noises; the fridge in the kitchen, the air cutting on and off, the traffic outside. I never heard this before because my house has never been this quiet.
I close my eyes again, and suddenly I hear footsteps coming into my room. I jump up and spin around.
"Mark! Is that you?" My eager eyes search the room, but no one is there. Was I hallucinating? Maybe it's time to get out of bed.
So I force myself to stand up. My body is weak and aching, my knees nearly buckling under my weight. I grab my dresser for support and make my way around. Just wait a few minutes, this will go away. I push myself to find some clothes, and then to head to the bathroom. And just like always, my body begins to perk up.
It's been getting worse, though. As much as I hate to admit it, Dr. Russell was right, I'm getting worse. Once in the bathroom, I stop and look at myself in the mirror.
No wonder people think I'm dying; my face looks like death's very image. My skin is pale and thin, my eyes bloodshot. Tears well up in my eyes again, but I fight them off; if I spent all day feeling sorry for myself I'd never get anything done.
Now I'm back at the hospital. The morning fatigue is mostly gone, and after a trip to the drugstore, I look pretty much normal. I walk briskly through the lounge, nodding at all the staffers. ICU is on the third floor. I greet the nurse at the station, who calls Mark's doctor. Dr. Leftwich, an older man with a quiet demeanor, leads me into a small room.
I tiptoe into the room, which is filled with all kinds of equipment. There are several noises and a dozen blinking lights, all centered around the bed. Mark is comatic. I grab his hand and whisper to him. But of course he doesn't move, so I don't know if he hears me or not. My mind goes back to the footsteps in my house.
"I've been waiting for you." The voice comes from behind me. I can feel myself tense up as I turn around.
"Jackie! Have you been here all night?" Jackie is Mark's stepmother; I don't have much use for her.
"Bobby and I promised him we wouldn't leave until he wakes up. Bobby even took a week off work." She approached the other side of the bed, looking down at Mark. Her words, though spoken in a tender voice, were meant to hurt me. "But we understand...you know. You can go home whenever you like, there will always be someone here for him."
The nerve of that woman! Using this as a chance to curry Mark's favor. But that was always Jackie; selfish and competitive. I should have seen this coming.
"What if he doesn't wake up?" The words come out before I even think of them, flat and without feeling. But I don't regret saying it. I gave Mark more love than anyone else, so I deserve to be honest about his future.
Jackie looks at me like I'm some kind of monster. "Why don't we go outside, we need to talk."
Bobby is in the family waiting room. Is he really sleeping in this tiny, cramped room, with the small couches and the tacky carpet? It must be killing him to be away from his king-size bed.
We all sit around and make small-talk, Bobby acting like he just met me on the spot. He doesn't mention my condition, and I don't mention his infidelity. As Jackie so artfully says, "we are all here for Mark, so he should be our only concern."
Those two are acting like they actually care about Mark. It's making sick. After twenty minutes of chit-chat, I'm starting to lose my patience. I get up to leave.
And that's when I find out the real reason they're talking to me. Bobby pulls out some papers and hands them to me, him and Jackie holding hands like some happy little couple.
These are custody papers. I can't believe it. Bobby has it all planned out: if Mark wakes up, he wants full custody. They are trying to softly explain it to me, giving all their logical reasons, and I feel myself getting angry. I'm squeezing the papers so tight they're starting to rip.
Bobby falters for a moment. I use the silence as my chance to act, ripping the papers into a thousand shreds and stomping on them. I've lost my temper now, yelling and stomping and threatening them. Some nurses come in and grab me and lead me out. Before I know it, we're in the lobby again, and they're telling me to go home.
I can feel my blood pressure going up, my hands start to shake, my eyesight going in and out. Not right now! God, have mercy, I don't need this right now. Getting upset has brought on an episode.
When I wake up, I'm on the floor in the lobby, a bunch of staffers looking down on me. I can tell they've given me some drugs. I try to speak, but the words come out slurred. A man picks me up, carrying me in his arms like some damsel in distress. I try to fight but I can't. They don't understand; this is just the kind of thing Bobby needs to beat me.
I hear them talking about my visit to the ER last night, and I hear someone name Dr. Russell. They put me into a bed and stick a needle in my arm. I'm too tired to fight them. As I'm drifting off to sleep, I hear Bobby's voice enter the room.
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| Chelsea Renee |
Posted - 04/15/2006 : 11:21:46
"I'm sorry, Miss Diller... Sophie," comes the doctor's much quieter voice suddenly, his smile slowly fading away from his face. Seeing his smile fade, feeling a strange new aura in the room, I feel my heart slowly sink within my chest. A numbness goes through me. "It's... it's worse than before," the doctor begins again. Gently, he walks over to me and picks up my left hand first. With a small paper towel in his hand, he begins cleaning up the dried blood from my finger tips. Once that hand is clean, he reaches for the other. My eyes remain upon his face though his eyes stay away from mine and down upon my hands.
"How is it worse?" I can not help but ask in a quiet voice. The doctor's eyes remain still upon both of my now clean hands. I can tell something horrible lives in his mind and I see him trying to put together words with quite difficulty. A quiet sigh elapses his lips before he finally and slowly meets his eyes with mine once more.
~~
"Mark! Mark! Are you ready yet!"
"I'm coming, mom!" A small boy with dusty brown hair and wide, bright green eyes comes running out from his bedroom and stands at the top of the stairs. Upon his face is a happy smile, a happiness that can also be seen within his eyes. At the sight of my pride and joy standing before me, I can not help but smile.
"Ready?" I ask him with a quiet voice. Mark's eyes seem to glisten at the word I have just spoken.
"Yeah!" He cheers as he bolts down the stairs, skipping every other step before landing at the bottom just before me. I open the front door for him and watch as he runs out into the yard toward the old, tan-colored van door. I step out onto the porch and close the door gently behind me, making sure it is locked before shutting it tight. Mark looks back to me and grins.
"Come on, mom!" he calls to me. "Let's go!" I smile as I take careful steps down the walk of our big house. Pulling out my car keys, I click the button gently, unlocking the door for Mark, who wastes no time climbing into the front seat.
We drove together in silence, the bright colors of the new spring day zooming by the windows as we pass them. Every now and then, my eyes glance over to my son, who is sitting as peaceful as ever in his seat with his seatbelt strapped safely around him. His eyes are out the window at all the children and people going by. He watches as the trees in bright bloom zoom by quickly, leaving only a blur of green behind.
My eyes leave my son and fall back upon the road once more. Just ahead I can see our final destination for that morning: the park. How Mark loved to visit the park. How he loved to run and play and throw ball each weekend of the spring and summer days. And this was our ritual. Every Saturday morning just before noon we would drive to the park and play for a few hours. I would pack a lunch for us, which we would eat only after Mark had a chance to run around the playground once or twice. I would bring along my little brown-covered journal and write another chapter or two of the story I was writing. And if I ever got writer's block, I would bring along my knitting and knit for a little while until Mark would run up to me and try to get me to play with him. Every Saturday was the same, and I loved every minute of it.
"We're here, dear," I say to my son as I pull into the small, almost completely empty parking lot of the park.
"Daniel's here!" he calls out when he recognizes the familiar red car parked a few spaces down. Without hesitating at all, Mark jumps out of the car and races over to where his best friend was waving wildly near a shaded picnic table. Slowly, after gathering up all of my things, I climb out of the car as well and start toward the picnic table.
"Good morning, Sophie," Daniel's father says to me as Daniel and Mark rush off playing.
"Hello, Jon," I reply as I sit my book and yarn down upon the table. Tired after the journey from the car to the table, I quickly collapse onto the bench, close my eyes, and take in a deep breath. Even with my eyes closed I can feel Michael's worried eyes upon me.
"Are you-"
"I'm fine, Jon," I answer him even before he gets the question out. I reopen my eyes and met with his again. This time, upon my face is a smile, a smile that I hope will give him comfort in knowing that I am all right.
"Dad! Dad!" calls Daniel to his father before Jon even has a chance to question me otherwise. The smile still remains upon my face, telling Jon to turn to his son. "Come play with us!" Jon smiles brightly, forgetting all about me, and runs out to where Daniel and Mark standing waiting.
"All right!" calls Jon. "What should we play first?"
"Let's play with the football!" suggests Mark. Jon picks up the football and throws it to first his son, who throws it immediately to Mark. The three stand in a triangle and throw the ball for a while before they finally start running and jumping in order to catch the ball.
I watch them for a little while before I carefully pick up my book and open it to where I last left off the Saturday before. Without hesitation, I pick up my pen and begin writing, losing myself in the world of my story where everything is wonderful and happy, not a pain in the world that could cloud the visions of my characters happiness...
~~
Slowly, I walk through the door of my old, quiet home. My eyes are distant as I stumble my way to the small table near the door. Without a care, I drop my car keys down as well as my seemingly-heavier, black purse. With lost thoughts, I manage to make it into the large, empty kitchen where I collapse into the nearest chair of the table. As though all the energy left me, I lay my head down upon the table and stare blankly into the light of the nearby window.
This is where I remain as the day slowly disappears and the light of the window slowly fades away. My eyes have fallen shut as I feel the small puddle of tears upon the table. Carefully, I lift my head and wipe the dried tear stains from my eyes and face. With eyes falling outside the window, I can see nothing but the darkness of the night. Slowly, I stand again, this time I head back the hall and toward my bedroom where I collapse quickly onto the bed. Without even time to think, my eyes grow heavy once more and I lose myself in a sleep... |
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