“Stop that,” he said through a clenched jaw. “It may take a little time, but you’re going to work through it. You’re going to play pro.”
I couldn’t even listen to what he was saying. My head started to pound with the exertion of trying to make my leg move—or even to wiggle my toe. My breath came in gasps, and the monitor started going wild. My vision blurred, and I tried to grab onto the railing of the bed as my head started spinning, but my arm just flopped to one side.
“Dad!”
“Stop it, Thomas!” he yelled. I felt his hands on my shoulders, and then there was another set of hands—the nurse—holding one of my arms. “You are going to hurt yourself!”
“Relax, Thomas,” the nurse said. “Should I sedate him?”
“No, you aren’t going to sedate him!” Dad yelled at her. “He’s just coming out of a coma, for God’s sake. Did you even go to school?”
“Sorry, doctor.”
“Thomas!” His voice made me cringe, and that, along with the combination of his hands holding my shoulders, was not helping me relax at all, but it did make me shut down a little. The muscles I could control tensed and held still.
“I want Nicole,” I said as I looked up at the nurse. “Where’s Nicole?”
“You just need to rest now,” Dad said. He pushed my shoulders to the bed and started lowering it a bit.
“I hate sleeping on my back,” I grumbled.
“It’s better to keep all the tubes in place,” Dad said. His voice had softened a lot. “It’s just more incentive for you to work hard and get through this, right son?”
“When can I see Nicole?” I mumbled.
“I’ll look into it,” Dad said dismissively.
“She’s still trying to get in,” I heard the nurse say to Dad. “Shall I call for her in the morning?”
“Absolutely not,” Dad replied. He glanced back to me for a moment. “I’ll take care of it.”
As my head settled against the lumpy, stiff pillow, my eyes closed without asking me if it was okay, and the voices faded.
It was light in the room when I opened them again, and I was alone.
My head hurt, and there wasn’t a single part of my body that wasn’t aching in one way or another. I wanted to roll over, but there was just no way to do it. I didn’t have the strength, and all the tubes and shit all over the place didn’t help at all.
For the longest time, I just lay there and stared at the ceiling.
A nurse came by—a different one than who had been there overnight—and checked my vitals. She leaned down and changed a bag near the end of the bed, which I realized must be attached to a catheter.
Fucking awesome.
Note sarcasm.
Once she gave me some more water, which I managed to keep down, she left me alone again. I tried moving my fingers, one at a time, just picking them up and putting them down again. It seemed to work out okay and wasn’t making me tired. I tried lifting my wrists next, and that seemed okay, too.
My arms were a whole other thing. After two tries, I was exhausted again.
I fell back asleep.
Tests, tests, tests.
All fucking afternoon and most of the next morning.
Could I feel this and could I feel that? Lift this; flex that.
I wanted to punch something, but I couldn’t make a complete fist without wearing myself out so much, I had to take a fucking nap.