“Yeah. I can’t make out more than moving colors and bright lights. Barely even those. It’s how it might look if you were standing on the other side of fogged glass.”
She clicks her pen, scribbling something down on paper. It’s strange how loud everything becomes when you don’t have as many senses to work with anymore. “And you’ve been like this since first waking up?”
“Yes. I keep blinking and shutting my eyes while counting. I open them and it’s no better than before. Did I lose my eyesight in the accident?”
“It’s hard to be certain without further testing. There could be many factors at play here.”
“Such as?” I say in a strong attempt at trying to steady my voice.
She clears her throat, her steps closing in on me. “It could be a trauma response. Your body has been through a lot this month, but it could also be from the head trauma you experienced.It’s possible it caused neurological damage and short-term blindness.”
“You’re saying it could return?”
“I wish I could say for sure, but until we do more testing—”
“Let’s do that, then,” I say abruptly without meaning to. “Sorry, I didn’t realize I was actually saying the words until I was finished.”
A hand pats me on the shoulder. “It’s okay, dear. I know this is a tough situation to be in. We’ll do our best to get all the answers we need to help you.”
“Okay.” I tuck my shoulders in, shrinking in the bed. “Can I maybe get a shower too?” I guess I’m looking for anything to make me feel more human and normal right now, instead of like a fictional character from a horror film.
“Sure. Let’s get these wires protected and we’ll have two nurses come in to see how you are on your feet. Physical therapy will be coming in the next hour too.”
“Physical therapy?”
“Yes,” she says quietly in my ear. “You haven’t moved from this bed in two whole weeks, and with the brain injury—”
“My mobility might be affected too,” I finish for her.
“Yes,” she says with a sadness in her tone, and suddenly I’m feeling bad for her when I’m the one sitting in a room I can’t even see. “I’ll go put those orders in for X-rays and scans. Are you hungry? Can we bring you a tray in the meantime?”
“Yeah. Food might help.” My stomach protests with a loud growl and an uncomfortable shift.
“Food does sometimes make things a little better.” Her fingers squeeze my shoulder and then her footsteps rush away. A different set approaches, and as the person drags their feet, I recognize the way they move their body. Travis. He’s back.
“I got your water, baby. Want me to help you sit all the way up?”
I look around, feeling my way around the bed and pressing on all the wrong buttons. The TV turns on and I mute it. I then hit the call button and lay the head of the bed all the way down with a low groan.
Travis chuckles. “Here. Let me help, and then I can take your hand to show you where everything is.”
“I’m glad one of us finds this humorous.”
The bed jerks as it lifts, and a small, hard object is slid under my hand. It’s the remote. The buttons are bubbled up to make it easy to press, and I brush my fingers over them, closing my eyes and remembering the blue and red colors from the last time I was at the hospital. It wasn’t as a patient. I never thought I’d be closing my eyes in order to see what I was once able to see when they were open.
“Aren’t you the one who said if you didn’t laugh, you’d cry?”
“Yes, but it’s different if it’s me doing it,” I say snidely, and I can picture him smiling sadly at me. It was a sympathetic look he gave me whenever I cut myself on scissors or was having a bad day. This is worse than a bad day. This is a nightmare. And it only gets worse too. I’m on a liquid diet, so I’m only able to have Jello and some bullshit broth.
Not seeing the point of continuing to eat, I shove the tray away, and when they come to help me get in the shower, I struggle to balance myself on my feet. My legs forget how to move, stiffening up when they finally get me to stand. It takes four people. They put me in a wheelchair and help me slide over into what they call a shower chair.
“It will get better once you start your therapy,” nurse Jillian says, and she tells me what she’s doing as she turns on the water.
I want to ask what all will get better, but I know I won’t hear the answers I’m waiting for. I want to wash myself, but I can’t reach the shampoo and conditioner bottles. For all I know, I’ll be washing my hair with iodine. What I really want is to wakeup and be back on my way to the restaurant. I want to let Travis change the station and not care so much about listening to that damn Christmas song. I also want to close my eyes and stay in bed forever when they finally tell me what I don’t want to hear.
My retinas have detached. I have a little bit of light and color perception in both eyes, but that’s it, and they aren’t sure it’ll ever improve. As they’re telling me all this, I face where the light is shining the most and disassociate, wishing that when I’d last looked out the window, I’d taken the time to appreciate it more.
Two
