(Based on a true story)
Strained Pulsation
The cold air registers, and my eyes snap open. I’m not greeted by a familiar face, or the soft aura of light peeking through my bedroom window. Instead, artificial tungsten pierces my vision. I’m weak. I’m helpless.
The soft sounds—the beeps and whirring noises—are amplified by my ears. I try to tune them out, but the more I do, the louder they become. My ears can’t pick up any other sounds. I’m cold. I’m alone.
I try to make small movements. When I bent my wrists, I felt a strange internal motion. The equivalent happens with my right ankle, and when I turn my head to the left. I remembered that strange feeling—intra-venous lines. There are seven of them. I’m in pain. I’m trapped.
Finally, I assemble the strength to speak. I was going to ask about the whereabouts of my parents, but I simply couldn’t. My words were parried by three hollow plastic cylinders. They couldn’t have taken them out before I woke up? I’m stressed. I’m muted.
Annoyed by the strange obstruction, I raise my left hand. There, in front of my eyes, are three intra-venous lines, breaking the soft skin, how lovely. With that hand, I firmly grasped the cylinders, and pulled them out in one swift, fluid motion. Have you ever been hit by a frozen paintball in the neck when you’re not wearing armor? That’s exactly what it felt like; except it was an internal pain. I’m insane. I’m in distress.
Three metal contacts laced my collarbone. They were the watchdogs, making sure my pulse stayed stable. One of them fell off when I raised my arm. The monitors around me began to scream, and people started to flood the room. I, none the wiser, managed a polite greeting. I’m embarrassed. I can’t help but laugh.
One by one, the seven intra-venous gave their farewell. The one on my neck, however, decided to leave me a bit of a “parting gift,” if you will. My neck began to bleed profusely, and it took ten minutes to get assistance, and staunch the bleeding. I’m tired. I’m homesick.
After the intra-venous lines and the metal contacts said farewell, one tube remained. It was a thin one, resting on my leg, and running off of the edge of the bed. I made a mental note to ask about it later. I’m curious. I’m not sure if I even want to know. (I did find out, however. It’s not exactly the most pleasant place to have a tube.)
I couldn’t help but glance at my torso, at the re-opened battle scars. Two green knots sat perpendicular to my solar plexus. One long stretch of wire split the flat expanse in half. That one was dissolvable, but the green knots had to be removed. I’m annoyed. I’m about ready to punch the nurse in the face.
On the day I was scheduled to leave, I had a slight fever. In this case, it could have been fatal. My previously collapsed left lung had not fully recovered yet. I had some X-Rays done. The results weren’t fatal or dangerous, but I ended up staying for another two days. I’m scared. I want to go home.
Finally, after a week of pain and torture, I was allowed home. Still being mildly lethargic, I needed help doing most things. My brother helped me cook from time to time, my mother picked up my homework, and anything else I needed, while my father just gave emotional support, and transportation the day the rest of the stitches on my torso, neck (blame the IV line) and legs were removed.
Two weeks after being released, I was back in school. I still had limitations, but they were really not that exasperating. Even the people, who had once derided me, had begun to show a softer side, which was surprising, to be honest.
Being the inquisitive one in the family, I went online and looked up “Sub-aortic obstruction.” Apparently there’s no single cause of it, and it happens so slowly that it can’t really be noticed until it’s life-threatening. I got a letter from my cardiologist that same week. I had gone into cardiac arrest for ten minutes during the procedure. Way to scare an eleven-year-old-kid.
