Moving Forward in Reverse

by Scott Martin

  No, I silently pleaded, not ready to open my eyes to whatever awaited me. Please, just leave me alone. As foolish as it was, a part of me had hoped that I’d wake up and this would all be nothing but a dream. I was tired of reemerging from unconsciousness to a damaged body and an unfamiliar world.

  The hand shook me again and someone called my name softly from my right. Unable to procrastinate any longer lest they start to think I truly was comatose again, I slowly opened my eyes. Light blared from above with such intensity I thought I could hear it screaming in my ears. I grunted – though no sound came from my lips – and winced, squinting my eyes into protective slits. As my pupils adjusted to the harshness of my surroundings, I cautiously peered in the direction of the hand which had woken me.

  If it had been just about anyone else standing beside me in that moment, I think I would have cried out in frustration at still being in a hospital surrounded by strangers. But this time, it was a cluster of familiar faces that beamed at me from above. I looked from one to the next: Mom with the same dark complexion and curly brown hair I remembered standing beside my stepfather, Don, in his usual plaid shirt and tan, suspendered slacks to my right; and my older sister, Nancy, a taller version of our mother with dark brown hair cut at her neckline leaning against her husband, Jim, his kind eyes smirking at me from behind the aviator lenses of his eyeglasses, to my left.

  As I gazed from one wonderfully familiar face to the next, all I could think was pure joy.

  Don grinned down at me while my mom leaned over and kissed my forehead. She stroked my hair with a slight tremor in her hand and bit her lip on a whimper. My eyes swept across their faces again and again, giddily hopping from one to the next like a kid at a candy store: some of this and a bit of that; some of these and a lot of those. Not even the tension evident in their expressions or the way their smiles seemed to stretch the skin around their eyes a little too thin could diminish the elation I felt at seeing them.

  You have no idea how glad I am you’re here, I thought and swiveled my eyes to the left where Nancy and Jim were standing bunched together. I really didn’t know what I’d do if it had been another nurse or doctor who woke me up. Heck, I’d probably clamp my eyes shut and never open them again.

  I stared at them, smiling internally with every ounce of my being, laughing to myself at my meager attempt at humor. But their faces stayed the same: smiling with their mouths, pleading with their eyes. I looked at Jim, his face a plaster mask of moral support, then back to Nancy, watching me with too much intensity, her hand a vice grip around Jim’s forearm. I cringed and for a brief moment wished yet again that I had never opened my eyes. I didn’t need their fake optimism or coddling expressions.

  Watching Nancy’s eyes blink a little too often, though, I realized the smiles were as much for them as they were for me. If not for fake optimism we would have been a room of sobbing, blubbering hopelessness and that’d be beneficial to no one. I couldn’t fault them for trying to keep their faces dry when I was sure countless tears had already been shed on my behalf over the past few weeks.

  These weeks were probably harder on them than they had been on me, I mused and felt the gut-wrenching remorse of a traitor. For all those agonizing moments when death loomed, and the days the doctors sagged in their lab coats as they whispered that I probably wouldn’t make it, I had been asleep. I could have slipped away none the wiser, sheltered from my suffering by a medically-induced coma while they were left to grieve.

  I couldn’t imagine the terror they must have experienced at never knowing; at being stranded in a perpetual state of uncertainty and fear of hope while I remained oblivious to it all. How many times had they stood like this around me as I slept? Watching, waiting, wishing. How many times had they already donned these delusively capable facades for each other’s sakes?

  I sought frantically for a way to lighten the mood. In situations such as this, I was often the humor relief, armed to the teeth with sarcastic quips. But now, when my humor was needed most, I was left completely inept. I had woken from the coma and lived through the flesh-eating disease, but I couldn’t offer a single word of solace to my family. It was infuriating! I wanted to bite down on the damn tube obtruding on my throat. To grind it to tiny, unidentifiable fragments for making me so powerless.

  My frustration must have been evident in my eyes because as I was turning my gaze towards the ceiling in aggravation, Jim sputtered from my left.

  ‘You’re not looking so good.’ When I swung my eyes to look at him Nancy was frowning with disapproval. I could tell by the self-satisfied expression on his face that his smart-ass comment had been a calculated move, intended to lighten my mood and bridge the chasm between us all. And it had.

  My anger slackened as my eyes creased in good humor and my lips strained against the mouth guard securing the intubation tube in an attempt to grin. Still look better than you, old man, I mentally quipped as I sent out a silent thank you to the brother-in-law who always had my back. It still stung that someone else had to fill my role in the family, but at least I had people I could rely on to do so.

  Postures slackened. My mom frowned across the bed at Jim but there was a smile lighting her eyes. Don just grinned and Nancy caught on when she met my eyes and saw gratitude in place of hurt. The air lost its stifling weight as everyone began to breathe easier. They were no longer standing by my death bed, ready to say their good-byes, and yet it wasn’t easy to relinquish the sense of impending loss that seemed to fill the room. Perhaps they are still grieving – not for my death but for what I had to give up to get here.

  Nancy leaned in to kiss my left cheek, straightening up with her signature big-sister smile: compassion, protectiveness, and authoritative disapproval of a little brother who just can’t get anything right all wrapped into a doting package. I loved that smile. Mom just stood where she was for a while, staring at me as she fought a precarious battle against the onslaught of tears brimming in her eyes. The weeks had worn on her, of this I was sure. I would have given anything for the ability to reassure her in that moment. But gagged and paralyzed, I could only stare back at her, hoping my eyes could convey even a fraction of what I longed to say.

  Don’t cry, Mom. I’m alive! See? I’ll be fine. Please don’t hurt any more.

  ‘We, uh, ran into Lindy on the way in,’ Don said, drawing everyone’s attention from the pains and sorrows of yesterday back to the new prospects of today. ‘You met Lindy, right? I think she said she was in here when you woke up.’ He glanced at my mom. She dipped her chin once in a hitched nod of confirmation.

  ‘She said that tube in your throat’s going to come out tomorrow,’ Don continued. ‘Sometime in the morning.’

  As if on cue, the nurse from earlier stepped into the room. I watched her move to the end of my bed, smiling – a bona fide smile with creased cheeks and dancing eyes – at the people clustered around me. Never had I felt such relief at seeing an honestly upbeat expression. I could have sworn even the machines lessened their grating peals at her presence.

  So this was Lindy.

  Motion from my right drew my attention briefly and I glanced over in time to see my mom slinking out of my line of vision with one hand raised to her face. Perfect timing, Lindy.

  ‘How’re we all doing in here?’ Lindy asked in a slight Southern drawl. And after a short-lived round of good’s and fine-thank-you’s, added, ‘You look like a man who is well-loved, Scott.’ Three sets of eyes returned to me, their expressions palpable verification for Lindy’s statement.

  ‘Did you hear that the key to pulling Scott out of the coma was a bunch of lanky women in bikinis?’ Lindy proffered.

  What?

  ‘It’s true,’ she added when four quizzical faces and one set of narrowed, skeptical eyes turned in her direction. ‘I had ESPN on, as always, and they were airing a women’s beach volleyball tournament. I think I even said something to Scott about how he was missing out and needed to see the show, then I turned around, and what d
o you know? His eyes were open! If I had known all he was waiting for were some girls to show a little skin, I’d have tuned it to a channel other than ESPN long ago.’

  Ha. Ha. Ha, I thought. Real funny. Pick on the guy who can’t fight back, why don’t you? But as I looked around the room at the smiles and chuckles, I knew Lindy’s story had finished what Jim’s comment had started. It seemed as though the room itself finally released its consummate breath and was at last ready to move on.

  Just as everyone was beginning to slacken their reserve, Dr. Henrickson strode into the room and took up his post at the foot of my bed. I felt an involuntary surge of dread at the memory of what his last visit had done to my concept of my reality: But quick to allay it was a flicker of hope. Will you finally tell me if I’m expected to walk again, doc?

  ‘Hello,’ he said, eyes surveying the small crowd gathered in my room. ‘Everything seems to be going well in here. I thought now would be a good time to lay out the plan for the next few days while you all are in attendance.’

  Like a well-trained militia, the people stationed around my bed came to attention at Dr. Henrickson’s summons. Everyone was eager to hear what was in store for my future, but none so much as I. I had a college soccer program to get back to and by my calculations, it was now August, which meant preseason training was about to get underway.

  ‘First,’ Dr. Henrickson began, ‘I anticipate the intubation tube to be removed sometime tomorrow morning. Your kidneys seem to be in good shape, Scott. We’re going to do one more day of dialysis treatment with the expectation that you’ll be producing urine on your own afterwards. If that is the case, then you will have made it past the renal failure.’ I felt a clench in my chest and clamminess in my palms that was reminiscent of starting a college exam at this first big test of my recovery. Then everything went still as I realized my error.

  I have no hands to become clammy.

  So this was a phantom sensation. I wobbled on the edge of a mental cliff as I sat with that thought for a second. Lean too far one way and I’d fall into thin air, but too far the other would cause me to crash into the hard ground. I couldn’t contemplate these things right now, not when I was on the cusp of moving forward. As I forced my attention back to Dr. Henrickson, I resolved not to allow myself to dwell on the negatives – as many as there may be. If it couldn’t aid my recovery, it had no business taking up my time. Of course, this was easy to commit oneself to when surrounded by family and optimisms for one’s recovery.

  ‘He’s out of the woods in terms of the infection, Betty,’ Dr. Henrickson told my mom. ‘Now the next step is to focus on getting Scott strong enough to transfer to the rehabilitation unit.’

  Turning to me he added, ‘The road is still long, Scott. While your body was fighting off the infection your muscles atrophied severely. I estimate you’ve dropped around forty pounds, most of it muscle. It won’t be easy rebuilding what you’ve lost...’ He let his words drift off. They hovered, faded, and were lost to silence, but the tacit vote of confidence hung in the air as perceivable as that which was said.

  ‘How long do you estimate before he can be transferred?’ Mom asked. She was watching Dr. Henrickson with such intensity it was almost frightening. There was a reserve in her expression and desperation in the forward set of her shoulders, but her eyes were alight with a determination I knew well.

  ‘Two to three weeks,’ he replied, then turned to me once again. ‘But with the right patient - sooner.’

  I met his eyes and held them. Yes, sir. His meaning was clear: A challenge had been issued and I had every intention of rising to the occasion. I had been in this godforsaken bed for long enough. The sooner I could place myself cleanly on the road to recovery the better.

  ‘I’m sorry to send you all away so soon, but Scott does need to rest. Tomorrow, though, you’re welcome to return.’

  Lindy and Dr. Henrickson cleared out to give my family and me a last moment of privacy, during which they each took turns patting or kissing me.

  Before anything else could be said or done, a person wearing blue scrubs scurried into the room. He was a small man, slight of build and meek of demeanor, and was, I realized with presage, pushing a cart before him, atop of which sat yet another machine.

  I grimaced. Tell me you’re not going to plug me into that thing, too.

  He squared his cart beside the cluster of machines arrayed to the right of my bed, earning mournful glances from my family members who were still absorbed in memorizing my face.

  As Jim, Nancy, and Don made their reluctant way out of my room, Mom hung back. One hand rested on the rail of my bed, a clear signal that she had no intention of leaving just yet.

  ‘I’ll be there in a minute,’ she assured the rest when they paused at the door.

  Knowing better than to dispute Betty Recoy, they continued into the hall, drifting out of sight and earshot. When they had disappeared past the glass paneling on the wall, my mom leaned into my line of view just as Dr. Henrickson had done earlier that morning. I jolted at the ardency I found in her eyes as they met my own.

  Riveted by the emotion pouring forth from her face, I forgot the tubes and machines; forgot the little man in blue scrubs and the hospital room; forgot everything except for the vehemence of the woman – my ball-buster of a mother – facing me.

  ‘It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks is or is not possible, Scott,’ she said to me. ‘You’re going to work hard and figure out ways to move forward.’

  I stared, locked into the crosshairs of her sight. The Commander in Chief was present and she had issued a clear order. This was no time for messing around or indulging in ESPN and round-the-clock care. I had my work cut out for me and she was going to see to it that I didn’t slack off.

  No argument here, Mom. I lowered my eyelids once with slow deliberation.

  When she had decided that I was smart enough to follow her meaning, she kissed me on the forehead and strode from the room, her head held high and shoulders a tight line beneath her bright floral dress.

  I marveled as she disappeared out of my view. After all these years, she could still take me down a few notches.

  ‘Mr. Martin?’ a small voice piped from my right. I craned my eyes in the direction of the petite man with the new machine. ‘I’m going to start your dialysis treatment now.’

  Right. Get strong enough to transfer to rehab: Step Two. Produce urine: Step One.

  Let the fun begin.

  Welcome to Rehab

  By my seventh day awake in the ICU I was deemed stable enough to leave for the more exigent realm of Rehab. I sat with the TV off, awaiting the arrival of the attendants who would escort me on my journey to the Rehabilitation Unit. Before, I had thought not knowing when this day would come was the worst. Now I knew that wasn’t true: This waiting was even more perturbing.

  A strange twitching sensation kept running through my body, as if my muscles were itching to move. I wanted to leap up and do a victory dance, to throw punches in the air at my success, to run laps around the ICU shouting my goodbyes to all the people within. The day had finally come and I was as full of excitement and pride as a player being exalted for having just made the winning goal.

  ~~~

  The Rehabilitation Unit was rectangular in shape; three doors leading to patient rooms on each end and five on both sides. Some were open, others closed. I noticed there were no glass walls here and the doors were made of solid wood. So no more peeping eyes or inquiring glances.

  ‘Good morning!’ I called out to a woman in bright, Carolina Blue scrubs as I was wheeled past the nurses’ station. She smiled and waved to me, her fingers fluttering in the air as if playing rapidly across the keys of a flute. The attendants steering my gurney, veered us to the left and through one of the wooden doors that lined the walls: my door.

  They situated me beside my new bed and brought out the spine board to move me over. I was rolled to the left, then settled back down, lifted slightly into the air, then de
posited onto the plush mattress of my new bed. They rolled me onto my side again and retrieved their spine board before waving to Lindy and wheeling off to retrieve their next patient.

  Lindy walked over to a table in the corner near the door and set my cassette tapes down. I scanned the room, my eyes jumping from one light beige wall to the next. It felt strange to have so much density around me. I was tempted to ask Lindy to close the door just so I could see what it felt like to be hidden inside a room but quickly rejected the idea.

  Closing the door, as enticing and benign as it seemed, was not to be mistaken for less than it was: a slippery slope which could send me sliding backwards in my recovery process. If I started trying to close the rest of the world out, I was only serving to close myself in. No, the door would stay open. Keep the door open and keep the mind open, I thought as Lindy drew the covers over my legs.

  Before we could say anything, a red-headed nurse in scrubs of the same blue which kindled thoughts of cold water and clear skies sauntered into my room. Lindy smiled and greeted her while I eyed this new addition to my life. To say that I had grown attached to Lindy was a bit of an understatement. She had become a second mother to me in my short span in the ICU. I would miss having her put me I my place and push me when others thought to coddle.

  As I looked the new nurse over I measured her against Lindy, determining her qualifications based on how she compared. She was younger than Lindy and her smile didn’t have the same cunning edge that Lindy’s did. But she did have kind eyes, I’d give her that much.

  ‘Scott,’ Lindy said, drawing my gaze from the other nurse, ‘this is Amber, she’s the lead nurse in the Rehabilitation Unit. Amber, meet Scott Martin. He’s a thirty-five-year-old smart-ass with multiple amputations and severe deconditioning. Keep an eye on him and watch out for that thing he calls his sense of humor.’ Amber laughed as I rolled my eyes and tried to avoid cracking a smile. Oh, Lindy, what would I do without you to kill my reputation before I even have a chance to form it?