Liam Nordstrom: June 18, 2013
The pain in my thigh pulses up my leg and collects in my pelvis, concentrating, before penetrating my spine all the way to the base of my skull. I’ve waited ten minutes since I pushed the little blue button and I have five more minutes before I can push it again. Five minutes shouldn’t be as long as it is, but it’s endless. All I can think about is the pain and how it spreads to every cell of my body. My mind bounces, unable to concentrate. I know that once I push the button, an unquenchable itch will spread across my skin and I will likely vomit again. It doesn't matter though, as long as the pain is doused to a more manageable level.
Kelsey brought my tablet to the hospital this morning, hoping electronics would distract me from the agony. It hasn’t. I glance at the clock. Three minutes. This button system is supposed to help wean me off the medicine. It’s not working. I was more comfortable yesterday before they gave me control of the dosage. I don’t have control. What a joke. The doctors want me to stretch out my dose time to thirty minutes by the end of the day. That’s not going to happen.
One minute. I watch each second tic—every muscle in my body tense. I was told I need to relax. It will help with the pain, the nurse said. I can’t. Ten seconds. My thumb hovers over the button like I’m in a game show waiting for the question to be read. Would it hurt less if they just amputated my leg? Two. One. I push it. No whirring sound? I push it again. Silence. Is my button broken? My heart is beating out of my chest. I’m going to kill that nurse if she changed my time already. Nurses act so sweet, but they’re really SADISTIC. My thumb frantically pounds for relief as I search the bedrails for the call button. Then I hear it—the beautiful mechanical release. Three, two, one. The warmth spreads up my arm and then down my leg. I exhale knowing that I will have a few minutes before the pain owns me again.
I wonder if the guy that hit me has ever felt this much pain. I’d like to introduce him to it. How could he not see me? My motorcycle is red—the most visible color on the road. He batted me like a flipper in an old pinball game. An eighty mile an hour flipper. I landed two lanes over, pinned under my bike. I guess I’m lucky. Lucky I wear a helmet (not really luck, just brains, and the law). My luck was that the woman in the lane where I landed was paying attention and her brakes worked. Otherwise, her tires would have crushed my spine.
Oh crap. The termites are back—inside my cast, on my bare back, on the soles of my feet. I try to convince myself that scratching doesn’t help. I can’t reach where it itches anyway. I scratch my chest and arms instead—with no relief.
I think someone from the studio stopped by yesterday. I don’t remember who or what was said. Kelsey said someone posted a security guard outside my door. It had to be the studio. I guess I must still have a job. Maybe they’ll write the accident into the script. I doubt it though, with only one week before mid-season break.
My parents were here this morning and the guard asked them for their IDs. I should take them off the visitor’s list. My mom acted like the accident was my fault because I was riding a bike. She’s always hated my motorcycle. I don’t really want to see anyone. I look and feel like crap. I’m lying on my back with a damn weight tethered to my bones with a screw that jabs right through my flesh. The bruises that cover my body look like they’re starting to fade just a little—the edges around the purple turning green. Will is supposed to stop by this afternoon. At least I know he won't post pictures. Maybe he can distract me from the pain.
Oh hell! There it is again. The ache transforms into stabbing daggers. According to my phone, I’ve lasted thirty seconds longer than the last time. I clinch the blue button with my thumb suspended above it and wait.
Copyright 2014 Susan Schussler
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