Compass (Siren Songs Book 2) (14 page)

W
alking
down the halls of the third hospital in our tour around the state, I have to say this is, thus far, my least favorite. The lights seem dim; the walls need a fresh coat of paint, there are no people in the halls, it’s unnervingly quiet. Nothing about this place screams life, and I inaudibly wonder how many people simply come here to die. It doesn’t even have the typical sanitized smell—it’s musty, like old people.

I peek in the open doors as we follow the attendant pushing Moby’s wheelchair to his room. Maybe it’s simply because people who have strokes are typically elderly, or considerably older than Moby, but everyone I see looks like a wax statue. There’s no color in their skin; no movement in their bodies; no one is visiting with them. They’re just all old. Decrepit. Waiting to perish.

I can’t leave Moby here. There’s no way I can leave my bright, vibrant husband to die inside these walls. His spirit will never make it here, not for any length of time much less the four to six weeks the doctors are speculating. As soon as we reach his room, I immediately open the blinds to let in as much light as possible. The sunlight floods through the slats offering a slight different view.

I realize it’s not so much the room itself. Sure, it’s plain, with a standard hospital bed, stark white walls, a closet with a sliding door and a bathroom. The unique handrail all around the room allows the patient access to move some and get to the bathroom. The rooms and the halls look like death warmed over because no one is allowing any natural light to penetrate their fortress walls. Maybe someone should tell them darkness promotes depression.

“Baby, make sure you keep these open all the time. Well, not all the time but anytime there’s even a speck of daylight in the sky.”

He doesn’t ask why. “Okay.”

He doesn’t question me when I push the bed up against the right wall, forcing him to engage his left side. He watches me intently but says nothing. It’s amazing what little things you can learn on the Internet about patient care. There are so many ways to rearrange their house, their rooms, and anything else they use regularly to keep them from neglecting their weakness.

Men specifically are very good at training their good side to do all of the work to make up for the deficit of their less agile side. Not going to happen. Moby’s going to walk again. He’s going to lift weights again. He’s going to hug me with both arms and pick me up in a bear hug. It will happen even if I have to see to it myself.

I don’t like his nurse. The drama unfolding on Facebook is more interesting to her than caring for my husband, and when she sticks him with his shot of Heparin for the evening, he yells out in pain. He’s normally aware of the needle in his stomach, and I see him wince with just about every puncture, but never has he cried out. I open my mouth to say something but Moby warns me off with a sideways look. I’m not much of a fighter, but when it comes to him, I’ll take a bitch out. Mumbling some weak apology, she makes her exit right before my foot hits her in the ass—metaphorically speaking of course.

The only perk to this place is there are no visiting hours for immediate family members. I can stay all night if I want to but there’s nowhere to sit or sleep. I’ve been hanging out on Moby’s bed with him watching the idiot box and have already gotten a crick in my back from sitting funny. After the third yawn in as many minutes, Moby tells me to go home.

“I don’t want to leave you here,” I whine.

“Piper you have to go sometime. It’s getting late, and I don’t want you driving. It’s been a long day. Cam’s expecting you at work tomorrow.”

I pout at him, but he doesn’t relent. “I want to stay with you.”

“Tomorrow I start all these rounds of therapy. I have a busy day with physical therapy, occupational therapy, and speech therapy. I’m hoping I can test out of at least one.” He winks at me attempting to make light of the dire situation.

“I know. Hopefully, you’ll learn a lot you can show me when I get here tomorrow after work.”

“You can’t come at lunch?” Now he’s the one complaining.

“I’m afraid to. Cam’s been really good about allowing me to be out, and she hasn’t made me use PTO or vacation time. I don’t want to push it. If I don’t go to lunch for the rest of the year I can make up for the seven work days I’ve missed.” I chuckle because I know Cam’s not keeping track but I am.

* * *

I
f I thought being
in a hospital with Moby had been stressful, going back to work, dealing with the house issues, and Moby still being in rehab brought a whole new meaning to the word. I’ve only been doing this a few days but I’m so exhausted I’ve started talking to myself at night when I’m home alone.

I hope my loss of sanity is temporary, and I try to celebrate the little accomplishments, but I’m nearing a point where I’m going to be unable to function. Rationally, I know it’s transitory, but my ability to hold onto a positive outlook is waning along with my energy.

The weekend will only bring more of what I’m already facing. I have weeks of work to catch up on for Healing Wings, I haven’t cleaned the house or the condo in countless days, and both yards need attention before the neighbors start complaining. Jotting down my weekend to-do list, I begin to dread each new day starting. I fall further and further behind with each sun that sets.

The medical bills were already starting to arrive in the mailbox by the time we got home from Charleston. They are top on my priority list to try to figure out how to pay, but my bigger concern is the two mortgages relying solely on my salary. Rachel’s doing all she can to try to unload the condo, but it’s proving more difficult than we anticipated, and she hasn’t heard back from the girl looking for a cash deal.

My thoughts become a jumbled mess every time I attempt to get my bearings and make a plan. I don’t know how to do all this alone. In the months Moby and I have been together I have begun to rely heavily on him as a partner. I don’t want to make the decisions. I want to talk to my husband, and for us to make them together, but right now I’m on my own. I’m afraid of what the stress will do to his blood pressure, and I know what it’ll do to his ego. He feels like he’s failing me because he’s costing us money and not earning any.

Each day is more of the same, ten to twelve hours at the office without a lunch break, then to the rehab center to spend time with Moby until he kicks me out around ten, and home to attempt to do laundry, cleaning, sort mail, pay bills, shower, and try to get four to five hours of sleep before doing it again.

I realize my issues don’t belong to the people in our lives, but it surprises me no one, not one of my friends, not Moby’s, or anyone in our family has bothered to ask if I need help—if
we
need help. If there’s anything any of them can do. My answer would likely be no, but it would be nice if someone asked. They’re not going to see him either. If I knew he had company after I got off work, it would make it easier to skip a night here and there to come home and try to get something done, even if all I accomplish is a nap but I refuse to leave him without visitors in that horrid place. They all have their own lives and went back to living them while we were in Charleston.

I
hate this place
. I’ve only been here a week, but I can’t deny what it’s doing to me mentally. I see my personality changing, the darkness breaking my spirit, the long days of rehab doing nothing for my psyche but forcing me to acknowledge just how bleak my future is. Every day, I see a physical therapist for an hour, an occupational therapist for an hour, a speech therapist for an hour, a psychiatrist for an hour, and group sessions, that while they only last an hour seem endless. I’m the youngest person here, other than the staff, by at least thirty years. I have nothing in common with anyone surrounding me except they too have given up the fight.

It’s hard to stay positive, or even motivated when nothing in my body functions the way it did just a few weeks ago. If I hear one more time,
your brain has to form new pathways to relearn the tasks you once did
I may punch someone in the throat. I don’t want to learn new pathways, I don’t want to learn to walk again, I don’t want someone else to have to cut my fucking meat for me. I want to be whole. I want to be a goddamn man, not a fucking invalid dependent on other people for the most basic tasks.

Having to ring for a nurse to go to the bathroom is the most degrading thing I’ve ever had to do. Never in a million years would I have believed I’d need someone to essentially carry me to the fucking toilet like a child, yet here I sit in bed, waiting for some random individual to escort me to the restroom. The staff is minimal at night, so I’ve been waiting longer than usual. Squeezing my legs together to try to ease the pressure in my bladder, I ring for the nurse again. This feels like punishment, retribution for my sins.

Unable to wait any longer, I pull myself out of the bed with my right arm, using the handicapped rails lining the room. The path is longer than necessary because Piper insisted on moving the fucking bed against the wall to force me away from left side neglect. My left side doesn’t fucking work! I can’t utilize something my brain won’t access.

Steadying my weight on my right foot, ensuring my grip on the bar, I drag the weight of my non-functioning side, the lifeless arm and leg weighing my body down. It’s worse than any workout I’ve ever done to carry around the extra baggage but if I don’t get my shit together and start moving forward I’m going to piss all over myself.

Suddenly, the path to the bathroom elongates as my vision tunnels. What would normally take ten steps now seems miles from where I stand. Tired, I slide my hand down the rail to steady myself as I hop on my right foot, dragging the dead weight at my side. Each bounce taking me a little closer to my destination, my thigh burns, my hand hurts, such a mundane task turning into a momentous feat. My bladder so full, all I can think is, I need relief. Rounding the first corner, my balance shifts, as I scramble to try to catch the rail, my fingers lose their grip, sending me crashing to the floor.

Pain radiates through my left hip and arm, unable to brace myself for the fall, every ounce of my weight falls flat on the floor. Tears well in my eyes. I try to fight them off—will them to go away—when I feel the warmth spread across my lap and onto my leg, the tears win the war. Covered in my own urine, I lie on the floor, slamming my right hand on the tiles repeatedly, rage brewing.

“Can anyone fucking help me?” I wail into the soft light of the room, the liquid in my pants and on the tile floor quickly turning cold. “Hello?” I scream on repeat.

A nurse rushes into the room, obviously having run a distance to get to me, her cheeks burn a crimson red, sweat glistens on her forehead. “Mr. Cooper, what happened?” she asks breathlessly. Moving toward me, she tries to brace herself for a heavy lift, putting her arms under mine but I resist; anger getting the best of me, or maybe just embarrassment.

“I fucking pissed all over myself waiting on you. What the fuck does it look like happened?”

“I’m sorry. We’re short staffed tonight—”

I cut her off, uninterested in her tale of woe, “Like I care. I’ve been waiting for almost an hour for someone to help me take a piss. It’s not like I can fucking walk, and I don’t have a bedpan. What do you people think patients are going to do? Do you enjoy cleaning up urine?”

I hear the words coming out of my mouth, and they appall me. This is someone’s daughter, someone’s friend, maybe even someone’s sister or mother, and I’m sitting in a pool of my own urine talking to her as if she’s trash. I can’t bring myself to apologize. I can’t let down the mounting defense. This is the first of many episodes where I’ll have to depend on someone else who won’t show up.

She ignores my tirade, lifting me from the floor, setting me down on the side of the bed. “I’m going to go start the shower. I’ll help you get in so you can clean up. When you get out all of this will be cleaned up.”

Her weak smile tells me her night has been as bad as mine but for whatever reason, I refuse to cut her a break. I don’t acknowledge anything she says or even look in her direction. The trails of moisture a continuous reminder of just how impossible my situation has become.

There are no hospital gowns here; you wear your own clothes, of which I have been grateful for until this point. It helped me feel semi-human to have my shorts and shirts on, boxers, socks, anything other than a gown. As I take my clothes off, I realize I’ll have to give these to Piper to take home to wash. My wife, who didn’t witness the event, will know it took place because she’ll have to wash the remnants from her husband’s soiled clothes. Struggling to get out of the clothes using one good hand, I leave them puddled on the floor by the bed. Sitting naked, I try to rub the stress from my neck and shoulders, but no matter how hard I knead, the tension won’t release.
This
is my life.
This
is my wife’s life.

The nurse gets me in the shower, situated on the seat built into the wall. When she closes the door to the bathroom, I lean forward, letting the water beat down on my head and neck, my face covered by a tired hand. The tears flow freely, and so does the self-loathing. The sounds of the stream hitting the tile fades into the background as my self-deprecating thoughts take over.

Rationally, I know I couldn’t have done anything to keep this from happening, but I can’t keep from reminding myself had I insisted Piper have a traditional wedding, she would have the option to walk away, she wouldn’t be legally tied to me. My friends could continue their lives with little interruption. My parents would be stuck with the task of caring for me, but the guilt wouldn’t be as strong since they chose to bring me life. The ache I feel for those inconvenienced by me in the last four weeks consumes me, it’s tearing me apart. There are not enough counseling sessions in the world to take away the burden I’ve become to those who foolishly love me.

Berating myself mentally overwhelms me with physical exhaustion. After soaping up and rinsing off, I grab the towel the nurse left within reach of the seat and pull the string to alert her I need her help. I don’t know how long I’ve been in here, but I hope to God she was true to her word, and she cleaned the mess in my room.

Her weary face peeks through the crack she created between the door and the frame. “You ready for me, Mr. Cooper?” She’s timid, wary of another frontal attack.

With a heavy sigh I reply, “Yeah.”

Opening the door wide, she brings me a fresh stack of clothes, getting them on is much easier than getting them off. Donning the T-shirt, boxers, and jersey shorts, the smell of home briefly brushes my nostrils before she reappears with a wheelchair. Locking the breaks, she assists me in moving from the shower to the wheelchair as I pivot on my solid foot to land ass-first in the seat. We don’t exchange words between there and the bed where she again secures the chair, and I push myself up with my one functioning side.

She leaves quietly, never acknowledging how I spoke to her or the mess I left. As I settle myself in the bed, I look around to see she kept her promise. The nurse changed the sheets on the bed, and the bed is turned down nicely; the floor mopped, and the smell of cleanser sanitizes the air. She removed the clothes on the floor, but there’s no sign of them. Unable to focus any longer, I press the button on the side of my bed to turn off the lights in the room and go to sleep, silently praying tomorrow will be a better day, begging God to straighten my shit out.

Waking to a nurse needing to stick a needle in my stomach for one of my two daily doses of Heparin does nothing for my mood. I’m surly, and think the last thing I need is human interaction. This routine is not something I enjoy, but I lift my shirt for her anyway. She pinches my skin together just to the right of my belly button lifting the layer of fat off the muscle before sending the needle through the skin and plunging the medication into my body. This charade will continue until I’m somewhat mobile. There’s a small part of me that wants to deny the medication and let nature take its course. If a blood clot forms and kills me, so be it.

“Your schedule for the day is on the board, Mr. Cooper.” She flashes me a fresh smile, obviously just having started her shift and unaware of the ass I was to the nurse last night.

“It’s on the board every day,” I sneer back at her, glancing at her name tag, “Cheryl,” I add for emphasis, or hell, just because I’m a dick.

“Yes, sir. It is. I just like to remind people it’s there so they can prepare for the day.” She refuses to lose the sunny disposition.

“Remind them? Is that because stroke patients can’t remember shit on their own?” I hear what a prick I’m being but can’t stop the words before they’re out of my mouth.

“Well, it’s true, short-term memory loss is a common side effect for stroke patients, but many of our patients are elderly as well. It’s a benefit for many of them so they don’t have to ask the same question repeatedly knowing they should already know the answer and don’t. So, while it may feel like an insult to you, it truly is meant to help patients manage their recovery and keep their dignity intact.”

The smile never leaves her face and her tone never changes. She refuses to allow me to destroy the start to her day. “Oh, and breakfast will be in the dining room today. You will have to go there going forward for meals.” I almost missed the satisfaction she took in delivering that message.

“And how exactly am I supposed to get there? Drag myself on the floor?”

“That’s entirely up to you, Mr. Cooper. You can utilize the wheelchair.” She points to the chair in the corner by the bed. “You can ask a nurse for assistance. Or, if you’d prefer, you can crawl. Personally, I would use the wheelchair to gain mobility instead of wallowing in my room.”

She pivots on the ball of her foot and exits my room with her little cart. Picking up the cup of water on the table next to my bed I hurl it at the closed door, the contents scattering across the room. It bounces on the floor before coming to a halt. A metaphor for my life. Left, uncaring, a mess, alone behind a closed door.

I refuse to cry like a little bitch. The frustration mounts as I sit in silence, the solitude closing in around me like the walls keeping me caged in. The board tells me I have about fifteen minutes left for breakfast; the wheelchair in the corner mocks me. I watch as each minute passes by like my life leaving me behind. When I don’t make it to my first physical therapy session, the therapist comes looking for me. Finding me still in the spot the cheery nurse left me in.

“Hey, Moby. I was waiting for you in the therapy room.” Allison’s a sweet girl, smart and beautiful. I wonder how she got locked in this catacomb filled with imminent demise.

“I lost track of time,” I deadpan.

“I missed you at breakfast too.” Her voice is sympathetic. She’s one of the few people in this hellhole I actually like, but today even she comes cloaked in doom.

“I wasn’t hungry,” I lie.

“Well, we need to get moving. You’re not going to get any better sitting here staring at the walls.”

“How do you do this?” I ask.

“Do what?”

“How do you come here every day voluntarily? How do you dedicate yourself to people you know are never going to recover? How do you watch people work tirelessly and never get any better, yet still stay positive? How do you always have a smile on your face when everything around you screams failure and petulance?” The anger seeps through even as I try to ward it off.

She takes a seat next to me on the bed. “Hmm. My husband asked me the same thing when I started working here. The truth is I don’t see things that way. I see myself as a pathway for patients to a better life.”

“How do you see this as a way to a better life? These people look half dead, and based on their age, are never going to recover.”

“Your idea of life and other people’s is likely very different, Moby. You only see what you’ve lost. They see what they still have to live for, what they want to be a part of. This is an uphill battle, and until you make the decision you want to come out on the winning end, you won’t make any progress. You have something no one else here has—youth. You’re in great shape, and your age gives you a benefit they can’t buy. You have the ability to make a hundred percent recovery. Most of them are lucky for half that. But you’re going to squander the opportunity wallowing in self-pity while they’re harnessing the chances they have.”