Ask, Tell, page 26
The troops pull everything serviceable from it, including
weapons, ammo and the medkit bags. When I’m lifted and
carried again, a flash of color catches my eye. I move my
eyes to look at it without turning my head. The sun is
beginning to set and a shaft of light is streaming through a
break in the clouds. It reflects off a pool of my blood that
has seeped through the fabric stretcher into the dirt. It is
mesmerizing.
The deep redness of the setting sun seems to amplify the
color of my blood, contrasting with the dull brown-yellow of
the dirt. It’s beautiful, in a horribly morbid way, and I crane
my neck so I can look at it until I am loaded and driven
away.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The rapid rough drive shakes me and I have to shove my
fist in my mouth to stop from screaming. My head spins and
I come to as I’m being rushed through the hallways I walk
every day. The ceiling has a strange diamond pattern. I
become obsessed with looking at it as we move through.
There’s a strange dreamlike tinge to everything.
Drawing each breath is a struggle, like a four-hundred-
pound weight is sitting on my chest. This is a strange
experience, being on the other side going in as a casualty,
not waiting for one. Everyone knows it’s me. I can see the
horrified faces of people lining the halls and I roll my eyes,
trying to catch the gaze of someone. Anyone. “Why haven’t
you as-as-ssessed me?” The question is directed at no one.
“It’s already been done, Sabine.” The voice is familiar but
I can’t pin it down. All I know is it’s not Bec.
“What?” How did I not notice?
“Everything’s okay, we’ve got you now.”
“Where’s Elliot?” I mumble but nobody answers. I try to
take a deep breath so I can speak louder, but before I can,
they carry me through the doors into theater. What delicious
irony. It is operating room number one. My favorite. My head
has fallen so my face rests cheek down. I don’t bother to
move it. I’m on a ship, rocking in the ocean. There is noise
around me but I can’t isolate conversations, nor can I
pinpoint specific things people are doing.
I am held eye-level with waists. Someone hasn’t double
knotted their gown. Sarah squats so she is level with my
face. “Sabine.” She gently pushes sweat-dampened bangs
off my forehead with her elbow. “Mitch and Amy, and
Colonel Keane are just scrubbing now.” She moves away
and is replaced by Bobby.
“Sabine, Sabine,” he admonishes me. By the way his eyes
are creasing I can tell he is smirking under his mask. “Did
you miss me that much?” Arrogant bastard.
I flash him a tight-lipped smile. They lift me up onto the
table, rolling me to my side so the stretcher can be
removed. My smile fades as pain radiates through my body.
I cannot help but scream and again, I feel myself slipping
into unconsciousness. It takes all my willpower to keep my
eyes open. I need to see Rebecca. I need to see Mitch.
Where is Amy? I try to look backward to the scrub sinks, but
I can’t move my head enough to see anything but walls.
A sharp pinch tells me Bobby is inserting another cannula.
“Had anything to eat or drink recently?”
“Food, uhh…twelve sixteen,” I rasp. “Water, two hours ago
but I vomited. Twice.”
Bobby chuckles. “Good. Makes my job a whole lot easier.
You still rocking that A-positive blood?”
My legs are quivering. Everything tilts and I close my eyes
against the nausea. “Last time…I…ch-checked.” I groan,
tasting blood again. My uniform and boots are cut off, the
shears cold against my skin.
Bobby clips a pulse oximeter to my left forefinger. It’s too
tight. “I know it’s rude to ask a lady but what’s your current
weight?”
Before I can answer, Mitch speaks from a few feet to my
right. “One hundred and twenty-four. All muscle, baby.” I
force my eyes open in time to see him lean over me. I am so
desperate for him to touch me but he is gloved and sterile,
and I’m not prepped. His eyes are moist above his mask.
“What’s this about, darlin’?”
“I just…w-w-wanted to…make an entrance.” I gasp. It’s so
cold in here.
“Well, you sure did. You attention-seekin’ bitch.”
He moves away and Amy steps in, crouching down beside
me. “I might get an eyeful of your junk, love. I hope you
waxed recently.” She winks, then she is gone.
The cacophony in the OR grows as I’m prepped. Now that
I’m lying down, the blood is starting to move up my trachea,
bringing a new wave of panic. Can’t they tell it’s choking
me? There’s blood in my mouth and I have no choice but to
swallow it. Where is Rebecca? I cannot see, or hear her.
Didn’t Sarah say she was scrubbing? My legs shake
uncontrollably. I am so cold. I hear the theater doors swing
open again.
I smell her unmistakable scent, mixed with a fearful
undertone. It’s the sharp smell of sweat from someone who
is afraid. I turn my eyes and catch sight of her but she isn’t
looking at me. A vein bulges near her temple as she towels
her hands and pushes them into gloves. Still, she won’t look
at me and I grunt, trying to clear my throat. I try so hard to
speak but instead I choke on blood.
Mitch’s voice wavers. “Sabine. Stop it. Hurry up, Bobby.”
Something cold runs through my hand.
I dream, but not of any solution to my current dilemma.
My dreams are an assortment of shapes, sounds and people
I know. They do not wear their own faces, yet I know who
they are. I climb a ladder into a tree house and when I make
it to the top rung I am somehow standing in The Louvre.
Before me is the Mona Lisa.
I wait with excitement for her to stop looking so self-
satisfied and to tell me what I should do. She doesn’t. The
man next to me is wearing a well-cut suit. He whines about
how da Vinci’s masterpiece is bigger than he thought it
would be. I’m part of an anime movie, which is confusing
because my breasts are suddenly a lot larger than they
should be. I do not defeat the shadowy villain. Bec and I are
at the beach. She looks fucking amazing in a bikini. A snake
eats my shoes. Thank you for being so fucking unhelpful,
subconscious.
* * *
There is sudden rawness in my throat. Something is
jamming my tongue down and pressing against my cheeks.
It’s claustrophobic. Immediately, anxiety grabs me. I can’t
quite get my eyes open and when I try to take a breath,
something stops me midinhalation. It’s an awful sensation,
like pressure building in my chest.
I am intubated and on a ventilator. My anxiety turns to
full-blown panic. It seems my brain doesn’t register that
oxygen has been introduced into my lungs and I try to take
another breath but cannot. The pressure then decreases as
the ventilator valve lets air draw back. Oh God. I can’t
vocalize anything with the tube in my throat.
I force my eyes fully open. Despite knowing I shouldn’t, I
scrabble clumsily at my mouth with my left hand, trying to
grab at the tube. It’s futile. My hand is so heavy that I
cannot get a grip on the plastic. The feeling of being on the
ventilator is terrifying. Is my lung fucked? Why am I awake?
After another mechanical push and pull of air in my lungs, I
double my efforts to get the vent tube. I shouldn’t be
touching it, but I don’t care. I want it out.
There is another building of pressure in my chest. I realize
I’m not alone. Voices are rising over the sounds of frantic
movement around me. I manage to get my fingers on the
plastic tube, but my hand is snatched away and held firmly
against the bed. My right hand is not being held, but I can’t
move it to try again to tug at the thing in my mouth. There’s
a slow hiss and the pressure eases from my lungs again.
“Sabine, it’s Rebecca…Keane.” Her voice is quiet and
calm.
I move my head to find her. Tears leak from the edge of
my eyes to run down the side of my cheek. Please, pull it
out. Please, please, please. My eyes are now locked with
hers as I squirm against her restraint of my wrist, digging
my nails in to whatever they touch. Forced inhalation. Panic.
Forced exhalation. Panic. I can feel a finger stroking my
hand, but she keeps it pinned down.
“Everything’s fine. Relax, relax. We’re just checking
functions. You’re fine. I know you’re scared but we’re going
to sedate you now. Sabine, I need you to stop trying to
breathe over the vent.”
I can’t help it. Each breath is stopped by the ventilator
forcing my lungs to expand. Then my attempt to inhale cuts
over the exhalation valve opening and releasing the air in
my lungs. It’s like I’m choking all over again. I claw
ineffectually at her hand as a shadow creeps into my
peripheral vision and I feel myself sliding back under again.
* * *
I wake gradually and notice I’m in a small room by myself.
Lucky me. They must have moved a bed into the empty
office beside the recovery unit. Or am I in Germany already?
I lift a heavy left hand to feel if I am still tubed. There is
nothing but an oxygen mask there. Good, I can breathe on
my own, but anxiety still twists my stomach into a hard ball.
My throat is sore, like I have a nasty case of strep. Other
than that there is a distinct lack of pain, which is novel given
how intense it was before I was anesthetized. Hello
narcotics.
Rebecca’s soft, exhausted voice comes from my left.
“Leave it alone, Sabine.” No, I’m not in Germany. I turn my
head to see her sit up and shuffle to the edge of the chair. I
try to drag the mask down a little so it’s not jammed so
close to my eyes. Her hand closes around mine and she
pulls it away. “I said leave it.” She readjusts it. The oxygen
smells stale and dries my nostrils.
Every time I try to talk, my tongue refuses to cooperate. I
give up. She pulls a few strands of hair back from my
forehead. “Do you need anything? Do you have any pain?”
I shake my head. My mouth is so dry. I try to mime
drinking, though I imagine the action makes me look more
like a drunk at a bar.
“You’re thirsty?”
I lift both eyebrows and try to make an affirmative sound.
It sounds like a goose honking. Rebecca glances at her
wrist, twisting her watch around from where it has slipped
face down. “You’ve been off ventilation for three hours. You
may have ice in twenty minutes.”
I glare but she ignores me. Again, I try to force out some
words, but there’s no saliva so I cannot swallow to get them
out. I want to know how long my surgeries took and what
they found. I want to know all the details. Did Elliot come
through? I’m propped up into a sitting position with all the
monitors behind me, no doubt deliberately so I can’t see
them.
I squirm on the bed, taking a few experimental breaths.
My right hand won’t cooperate Shit. There is no pain, but
the right side of my torso feels so stiff. I finally manage to
lift my hand about an inch from the bed. Rebecca turns to
face me, with both elbows resting on the mattress. I smell
stale coffee on her breath. “Stop it. You have a chest tube
in. Do I need to sedate you again?”
I shake my head. No. No more sedation. I manage to push
out a hoarse and breathy, “Whaaat.”
Rebecca tilts her head at me, her disheveled hair flopping
around. She looks exhausted, with dark shadows under her
red-rimmed eyes. “I’d always heard doctors make the worst
patients but I never believed it. Until now.” She reaches for
my hand, holding it between both of hers and bringing it to
her lips. She has what looks like fingernail scratches over
the back of her hands. I think they are mine, from my earlier
attempt to get free of her grasp and pull my ventilator tube
out. Not exactly the way I wanted to mark her skin again.
A gentle knock on the closed door behind her interrupts
us. Rebecca drops my hand abruptly. The door opens and
Mitch wanders into the room, pausing a moment. To one
who doesn’t know him as well as I do, his face would give
nothing away but to me it is as clear as anything. He knows
something is going on. My friend bows his head. “Colonel
Keane, ma’am.”
“Boyd.”
Mitch closes the gap between us, leaning over to fetch my
chart from the end of the bed. My eyes widen in
anticipation, but he keeps it away from my view. I watch him
writing and stare expectantly at him. Mitch shakes his head
and drops the chart back into the holder. “How would you
rate your pain, Sabine?”
I lift a middle finger. There. One out of ten.
His mouth lifts into a smile. “Any difficulties breathing?”
I lift my shoulders in a small shrug. It’s labored and
uncomfortable but not impossible.
“I think perhaps you need to rest a little longer. I’ll send
someone in with somethin’ to help you sleep.”
No, you asshole. I’m thirsty. Tell me about my surgeries. I
turn my head toward Rebecca as though I could somehow
influence her to overrule him. She shakes her head at me
and reaches for my hand, covering the action by placing two
fingers on my wrist.
* * *
I wake again and find Mitch wedged into the tiny chair
beside my bed. When I move, he startles and sits up,
swiping a forefinger in the corner of his eyes. “It’s alive.” He
reaches for the glass of water beside my bed, bending the
straw down to offer it to me. I suck greedily, but before I can
take more than a few sips he pulls it from my mouth.
“Prick,” I rasp.
“You know I don’t enjoy watchin’ people puke,” Mitch
responds, setting the glass back down. “How you feelin’?”
he asks softly, wiping the corner of my mouth with his
thumb.
“Tired. I…don’t think I can work tonight.” I laugh inwardly.
At least I can still amuse myself. My voice is gravelly and it’s
taking a great deal of effort to talk. “Time?”
He laughs. “You always were lazy.” He reaches out to
caress my cheek, his hand sliding up to push my hair back
off my forehead. “You’re thirty-one hours post-op.” Thanks
for the epic knock out, guys. Mitch grabs my hand in both of
his. “Sabs, let’s not do the thing where I tell you how
terrified I was. Then I tell you how glad I am you made it and
finish off by demandin’ you never do it again, yeah?” His lips
are clamped tightly together. He’s trying not to cry.
“Agreed,” I whisper.
“Good.”
“Tell me,” I demand.
He demurs slightly, but still he runs me through the
damage and the surgery. Punctured and collapsed right
lung, broken rib, hemothorax. Minor lacerations and
contusions. Everything repaired and hunky-dory. My leg
wound is straightforward but they think there may be some
nerve damage which explains the radiating pain. We will
have to wait but it should be fine with some therapy.
I want to talk about being aware of the intubation, but the
thought of it makes my bowels feel like they are turning
liquid. I can’t count of the number of times I have told a
patient not to try and breathe over a ventilator. Now I know
how fucking stupid it is. I couldn’t help it, no matter how
hard I wanted not to, I just had to try and draw a breath. I
won’t say it to anyone ever again. I run my tongue over my
lower lip. “How’s the driver?” The sound of my voice is
grating.
“No complications. Leg fracture, tib-fib. Coupla lacerations
and bruised ribs from the vest catchin’ the bullets. Bullet
wound was minor, mostly a fleshy. He’s on his way to
Landstuhl right now.”
Good news, he will be fine. I lift my finger to point at the
water. “Please.”
Mitch lifts it to my lips and lets me have another small
mouthful. I clear my throat. “Mitch, I need to talk to you
about something.” It cannot wait. I need to get it out.
