Here’s a little story written with interior monolog:
A sparrow has perched on a branch outside my window. I thought sparrows were ugly. I guess I never really studied one before. This one’s taupe-colored vest blends with its dark brown upper coat. The delicate top feathers flick up in the morning breeze. He looks around, unaware of my presence beyond the glass.
Dr. Hampton was just in talking to Carla about my condition. He said there was still hope, but to just take it a day at a time.
What kind of advice is that? Of course, we all take it a day at a time. I’ve never known anyone to skip any, although it’s not really a bad thought. I know one day last month I wish I could have skipped.
A couple of shingles had blown off our roof in a windstorm on Thursday. I’d nailed on a few thousand shingles before—nothing new—that’s my job. I own a local roofing company. What I didn’t account for was my pair of worn out, slick-soled sneakers on that eight in twelve pitch roof. I knew better, but my brain wasn’t engaged before climbing the ladder. The truth is I was ticked at something Carla had said.
It was early Friday morning. The roof was still a bit damp from the storm during the night. I made my way—one carefully placed foot at a time—up to near the top where a few shingles were missing. I slapped the replacement shingles down, stepped over the ridgeline to look for further damage on the back side of the roof. My feet began to slide. Then I started a tumble downward. I’d hoped to be able to grab at the edge of the roof and catch myself, but that didn’t happen. In that two-story fall—actually, three stories counting the walk-out basement—dozens of thoughts ran through my head. My wife, my kids, health insurance. Life insurance!
I woke up staring into the eyes of two doctors and a nurse—not a bad looking nurse at that. Just as I started to make some smart remark about my mishap, nothing came out. I tried to raise my hand, nothing happened.
Now the calendar on the wall in front of me says thirty-two days have passed since the accident. It was stupid on my part; one that could, and should have been avoided.
There is always a constant buzz of activity in the room—nurses checking those annoying beeping machines every ten minutes, orderlies sanitizing the bed rails, a sour-faced chaplain whispering a perfunctory prayer, doctors waltzing in and acting like they understand my condition. And then it starts all over with the changing of each shift.
My eyes are in a fixed stare, but I see them all, even when they are barely in my peripheral. They all think I am totally unaware. A few minutes ago two gals in pink smocks were standing in the corner of the room deep in what they probably believed was—and should have been—a private conversation. I wanted so badly to jump up and tell them I heard every disgusting word they uttered.
They finally left. The room was quiet. Boredom gave way to anger.
I’ve always been an in-charge kind of guy. If there’s a problem, I fix it. But—a little curse word slipped into my thought—I am helpless now!
I control nothing, not even my bladder. Here I am a thirty-two-year-old—my wife would say, handsome guy. I feel as if I’m tightly encased in a clear plastic straight jacket and displayed for all to gawk at and whisper. I want to scream, people, my ears work just fine! Whispering is senseless. Time is not my friend. Hours creep by, days turn to weeks, and I’m stuck in my mummified state.
Now my family is standing at the foot of my bed, along with our minister. If I could just communicate some way—somehow let them know I hear every word they say. If they could know I see every shaking head and every oozing tear on the faces of people I love.
Carla asked Dr. Hampton why my eyes would blink, even open and close. He smiled and told her it was just involuntary muscle reactions; you know the EEG shows a nearly flat line; there is little or no brain activity.
How stupid is that! That danged EEG machine must be broken! Check it again!
I feel fine. I see, I hear, I think just as rationally as ever—if they could only know. But all forms of communication are gone. How stinking long will I be like this?
The calendar on the wall says I’ve been here a little over two months—might as well be two decades. My brown-feathered friend is back, perched outside the window.
Right now Carla is standing by my side holding my hand and looking off into never-never land. What I wouldn’t give just to be able to ask her to forgive me for the times I allowed stupid anger to overcome my love for her. If I could tell her how picture-perfect she is in that chartreuse dress. Yeah, the one I used to hate. Or even tell her about that sparrow with the taupe-colored vest.
The bird is looking straight at me and cocks her head to one side. Then she pecks at the window. Does she know?
Eldon Reed ©2015