The nurse returns with a large plastic cup and a straw; he puts the straw to my lips. The first sip stings, but the second and third really begins to take the pain out my throat. He pulls the straw away, and I shoot him a look that makes him giggle.
“You can’t drink too much at once. Just a couple of sips at a time,” he says, then he sits the cup on the table at the end of my bed, and I think he is an asshole just on GP.
“I’m going to send your parents in,” he says and disappears.
So, they are here. I stare at the cup wanting more of that cold water. The pain in my throat is already back in full swing.
When I see my parents walk in holding each other, both in tears…I almost giggle at their dramatic display. And I wonder what in the hell do they think they were going to see, am I some horribly disfigured person now? And as if in some type of synchronization, they walk up to the side of my bed. My mother kisses my forehead. I can feel her tears fall onto my cheeks. I’m still trying to figure out what is going on, something is wrong, something is terribly wrong. Oh God…what is it, what could it be? Not only can I feel my heart pounding inside my chest, but I can also hear it through the monitors as well.
“What happened?” I managed to say in a whisper. But they didn’t say anything, just looked at me with those sad pathetic eyes.
“What happened?” The words come out louder through gritted teeth. They look at each other, then back at me, and still said nothing. Just mournful stares with watery eyes.
Right now, I’m infuriated. What the fuck is going on? Don’t I have a right to know? I look down at my right hand while trying to make a fist, it takes some concentration, but I finally am able to tuck my fingers in. It’s not a tight fist, definitely not a strong one…but I manage to raise my forearm and slam my fist down to the bed as hard as I can. It barely makes any impact to emphasize my anger.
“I’m so sorry Laurel.” Confusion sets back in as mother’s face loses its pallor with tears still streaming down. My father has gathered her into an embrace, and they continue to sob like I was dead or something. Then I see my father’s hand resting on my shin. My legs are covered, but I can definitely tell he’s gripping my leg. But I can’t feel his touch. Maybe it’s just the blanket, I think, trying to allay the panic that is about to consume me.
I try to move my feet, wiggle my toes. In my brain I’m doing it, in my head, my feet are wiggling all around, except for one thing…they’re not moving under the blanket. In fact, I don’t feel them. I don’t feel my legs, I don’t feel my knees or the ass that I’m sitting on. This can’t be right. I again look down at my hand and place it on my stomach. A quick relief swept through me when I can feel the sensation of my hand laying on my stomach. I move my hand down slowly, spread out my fingers to apply a little pressure to my flesh, but once I reach my hip bone, I can’t feel my fingers pressing down. I can feel the flesh beneath my fingers, but they might just as well be squeezing a pillow…because I feel nothing.
The room begins to spin, and it feels like the blood draining from my head. This can’t be true, this has to be a dream…nightmare more likely.
“Oh my God…no,” I say as my brain is trying to make sense of it all. I need to wake up from this nightmare. “Wake up…wake up,” I keep yelling aloud not caring about the pain in my throat.
“This can’t be fucking happening. Oh God, please no.” My tears are now falling, and I want to throw-up. No, I need to throw-up.
“Oh Laurel, I’m so sorry sweetie.” my mother says.
“Get out.” My voice is now filled with hate. They both look at me like I’m crazy or something. I don’t know why I just want them out. “Get out,” I yell louder. I need answers, not pity. I need something. Oh God, I don’t know what I need.
“Get the fuck out of here.” Now I’m in a full-fledged scream. The pain in my throat is ungodly, and now I can taste blood, so I can only imagine I damaged something else. But at that point, I don’t care, because if it were really true; that I’m paralyzed, then I’d rather be dead than to never walk again.
The tears poured down my face as the words came out of my mouth sending bloody spittle into the air.
My parents were rushed out of the room as two men lowered my bed and Dr. Scott appeared in my sight.
“You have to calm down now Laurel,” she says as she sticks a needle into my IV bag.
It didn’t take long before the fog sets back in and everything starts to look blurry. I glance at Dr. Scott’s face one last time before unconsciousness takes over, she says, “It’ll be okay.”
Chapter Four
I t’s been over three weeks since that fateful day when my eyes opened in the hospital, and I still wish they never did. I didn’t learn of what I was dealing with until Dr. Scott finally took me off of the sedative. I didn’t have any memory of that day at the bookstore when a scorned husband shot me four times until the doctor said the name, Bradley Glasgow. Then it all came rushing back, the memory of my manager Brad shot and the gun being turned on me. Although the memory seems more like a movie than real life…my life and I knew he was dead when he hit the floor. Right now I’m thinking ‘lucky bastard.’ I know that is a strange thing to think about someone being lucky to be dead. But what I’m about to face, not only the knowledge of the paralysis but also having to embrace the permanency of it…I would have rather traded places with him than to live as a cripple.
Once the neck brace came off, I had strength in my hands and arms again. I can talk without pain which I’m sure the staff here at the hospital’s rehab center aren’t too happy about, considering I scream out in a temper tantrum most days.
Dr. Scott, who told me to call her Leisha, said that of the four bullets which penetrated my body, there was one that did the most damage. She told me I should feel fortunate I was on an elevated stage, and the gunman had to fire upward. Apparently, that is what threw his aim off…‘lucky me’ I said to her in a sarcastic tone. The bullet responsible for my current state lodged itself against my spinal cord after shattering a vertebrae. This was apparently repaired in surgery during my three-month slumber. Yes, three fucking months I was out. Apparently, I lost too much blood, and again Dr. Leisha tells me how fortunate I am that I woke up at all.
The bullet that put pressure on my spinal cord caused some bruising and compression. I wonder how the hell a nerve gets bruised, but whatever. I didn’t study spinal cord crap; I studied the brain, emotions, feelings…etc. I’m a psychiatrist, not a neurologist.
She told me this afternoon that my paralysis was more than likely not permanent. Well, the phrase ‘more than likely’ didn’t make me feel all warm and fuzzy. She said similar to when a limb falls asleep, like when you sleep on your arm the wrong way and wake up with no feeling…my spinal cord was asleep.
Sounded like a bunch of bullshit to me, but I had to ask the question, “How do we wake it up?”
She looked at me with her calming eyes and said, “Well, we’ve been giving you IV steroids which you’ll continue to have. And we will also be giving you some plasma transfusions.”
She said that for some this will help speed up the healing process. I wasn’t too thrilled with the ‘for some’ statement. But I wanted to know if I was one of the lucky ‘some,’ how long it would take.
She said she would give it to me straight. I remember almost laughing aloud. Strange time for anyone to laugh, but when you are a perpetual smart ass, there is humor in most things. I just had to respond with ‘well I do prefer it gay.’ She didn’t think it was funny at all, just raised an eyebrow.
She also told me that the best case scenario for me regaining some feeling is weeks to months. When I asked what the worst case scenario was and she said ‘years to decades…possibly never.’ I wanted to cry. Because there it was, slapped me right in the fucking face. She might have just as well said ‘face it, Laurel…you’ll never walk again.’
I remember feeling as the color drain from my face when she said possibly never. She pla
ced a hand on my shoulder and flashed a reassuring smile, then told me not to be discouraged, we will just have to wait because it will wake up when it’s ready.
Okay…when it is ready. Hmmm, it has a fucking mind of its own now? Well, I guess I have no choice in the matter but to wait.
When she told me I had to stay positive, to have hope and faith, I wanted to punch her in the mouth. Oh yeah…easy for her to say to stay positive. She’s not sitting in this chair feeling like she was cut in half.
Now after all these weeks of therapy…days of tests, water treatments, electric shock treatments, intravenous steroids, and plasma transfusions. You name it, they were doing it to me. But my time was running out in this facility. They had done all they could do to ‘wake up’ the bitch asleep in my back. I’ll be getting my walking papers soon enough and when I actually said that to the therapist, ‘so you’re kicking me out. Giving me my walking papers.’ She shot me the dirtiest of looks. ‘It’s just an expression.’ I yelled out at her retreating form. I didn’t know how to be all PC about this yet. I’ll have to give it time…apparently, I have years to figure it out.
My mother called me this morning. Apparently, she is excited about me coming home. Already had the first floor converted into gimp central for me. I’ll have my own private handicapped bathroom with all the bells and whistles. She couldn’t stop telling me all about my new life trapped once again under her thumb. I’m not looking forward to going home, I really don’t want my family seeing me this way. Feeling sorry for me. Having to take care of me. I really think I should have gone home to Los Angeles and just hired therapists and assistants. Would definitely be easier to have strangers wait on me than family. But I relent and go home at my mother’s insistence. She says I should be with family. So I go.
New York is a ten-hour drive and operating a car is not something I can do at the moment, so I opt to take a plane. Fortunately, they have a first-class seat available, I couldn’t imagine trying to get my ass into a business class seat. I would have no way to move if someone needed to squeeze by me.
I call for a car to accommodate my handicap status and roll my way out of the rehab center to the sidewalk with two nurses in tow. They’re carrying all my worldly belongings, well the stuff I had with me when I came to this fucking city. It’s late spring now, the trees are in bloom, and the sun is shining its warmth down on me. I look up at the sky and take a deep breath. I can smell spring flowers nearby, probably a feature of some sort…something to make this God forsaken place welcoming.
The airport shuttle pulls up and lowers this elevator looking thing, and I sigh as I roll my chair onto it. One of the male nurses pulls up the safety bars to prevent my chair from rolling off as it begins it twenty-four-inch ascent. I laugh and say, “What…could I get more paralyzed than I already am?” He half smiles as he shakes his head. I’m sure they’re glad to see me go. I certainly wasn’t the best patient, and I made a terrible resident for my month long stay.
I get myself locked in, and the van pulls away. I look back at the nurses as they wave to me, and I wonder what kind of saints are these people. This must be quite a calling for someone like that, to have endless patience and kindness for people like me. People whose lives took a tragic turn and don’t handle it well. And that is an understatement for my behavior. I can’t say that I’m even sorry…well, maybe sorry for myself.
I keep my eyes pinned to my phone as we drive out of the city and towards JFK airport. I didn’t want to see anything that will remind me of that day…that fucking day my life basically ended. My mind drifts to my condo in Los Angeles. I still would have rather gone there for my home therapy, but being handicapped in such a large city was something my mother said wasn’t practical. As much as the thought of being in my mother’s house made me cringe…thinking about the town, the port, the docks, the sidewalk stores, and just the wide open space actually put a brief smile on my face. I’m actually looking forward to taking a walk, I shake my head at the faux pas, more like a roll down the street.
Then that hopeless feeling invades my gut again, and I want to burst into tears. How does anyone just accept this? How does anyone just say fine…whatever, well this is my life now and be okay with it? They told me in the rehab center during one of those stupid group meetings I was forced to go to, that with the loss of my ability to walk and everything else that goes along with not being able to feel my lower half, will cause grief. A mourning process to grieve said loss, and I guess I’ll have to suffer through the various stages of grief. Apparently, I’m still in the anger stage.
The two-hour plane ride is uneventful. It is actually nice pretending I’m normal, just like everyone else in first-class…sitting in those big comfy seats drinking champagne, eating chicken piccata with a garden salad using real silverware and on real china. It was the best food I’ve had in a long time. The food at the hospital and rehab place was bland, this was much better. I was so sick of eating the crap they served, I couldn’t wait to order in a pizza when I got home. I needed some grease and definitely alcohol. I roll my eyes thinking about my mother’s judgemental looks cast my way every time I open another beer or make another drink. Oh God. I shake my head. I’m not sure what I was thinking agreeing to stay with them and letting them control my life. Then the older woman sitting next to me begins to speak, and I welcome the distraction from my thoughts.
“Are you Dr. Laurel from that show?” she asks.
I completely forgot that I’m kind of a celebrity. It’s only been four and a half months, not years, so I’m sure the tragic tale of my shooting is still fresh in some minds. But I don’t want to go into the details of everything, so I lie.
“Oh, um…no. But I do get that a lot,” I say hoping the blush creeping up my neck doesn’t give me away.
“I can imagine you do. You could definitely pass for a sister.”
The flight attendants come around to gather our empty plates and begin handing out dessert which was cheesecake covered in strawberries and whipped cream while topping off our champagne glasses.
“You know it was a real shame what happened to her…Dr. Laurel,” she continues, and I cringe.
“Yes, it was.” I offer up and hope the conversation will either end there or go to another subject.
“I remember watching the news story and them actually letting the footage air of her being shot. I thought that was just awful for her parents to see. They didn’t think she would live you know.”
I clear my throat. “I know,” I say matter of fact.
But really I don’t know anything about how the media portrayed the shooting. I can only imagine the footage being so macabre if they did, in fact, show it as it happened. I lived it, so I definitely know how horrific it was…pretty much still is. However, I’m utterly appalled that the media aired the shooting at all, and I wonder if my parents saw it before they were even notified. I do know when I get home, I will be googling the story. I want to know how the media spun the incident. How they told the tale of a scorned husband who blamed his wife’s lover for her suicide and tried to exact his revenge. My heart began to ache recalling my parent's faces in the hospital when I woke up from the coma. I couldn’t imagine what they went through if they did see the news story. I figure I would give them a break, I’m sure all of this has been hard on them, and they probably feel helpless.
After all the passengers deplane, the flight attendant brings out my chair and helps me into it. I hope the woman I sat next to will be long gone because if she spots me in this chair, she will definitely know I’m really Dr. Laurel. I don’t feel bad about lying, I just don’t want the pity which comes along with the knowledge of who I am. I’m sick of having to deal with the pity glances, the stares, and some of the hateful remarks about ‘karma.’
I don my sunglasses and NY Mets ball cap I bought at JFK in an effort to hide my identity, then I roll myself off the plane toward baggage claim where I’m sure my parents will be waiting. I keep my eyes fixed on the corridor ahead
of me doing my best to not look at anyone. These days I hate being in public, I feel so exposed and so vulnerable. I feel like a frightened bug running to avoid being stepped on. It is a strange feeling, one that I’m certainly not used to, after all, I’m a celebrity and enjoy the spotlight as well as the attention which comes with my public persona. Now I just want to be invisible.
As I push my way to the baggage claim area, I can see my dad’s tall stature. He is scanning the crowd looking for me. I see his face light up once I roll out from the sea of people and move toward him and my mother. Although he seems happy to see me, I can’t say the same for my mother since she has that same sad, pity look on her face. I need her to stop, I need her not to feel sorry for me, and I need her to look at me like a person…her daughter. I need to stay positive and hopeful, I want to walk again…I don’t want to fall into depression with that woe is me, what’s the use attitude.
My bag has already been retrieved which I’m grateful for because I want out of here before I start having a panic attack. My dad leans down to give me a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. My mother, however, acts as though I’m glass when she touches my shoulder to give me a quick kiss.
“Mom, I won’t break,” I say as she quickly turns away and wipes her eyes. I take a deep breath and try to remember how hard this must be for her and try not to let it bother me too much.
“New van?” I ask as my dad pushes my chair up the ramp.
“Of course sweetie,” he says. “We want to make this as easy as possible for you.
“Thanks,” I say.
It is a beautiful spring afternoon in Camden, Maine. I’m looking forward to getting some fresh air once we get home. But my father just informed me that I’ll be meeting my in-home physical therapist. Her name is Cameron Donato, and I think what an odd name for a chick. Apparently, my first day of therapy was today. I’m not happy about this, but I know if I want to walk again I need to put in the work.
It's All Coming Back To Me Page 3
