Darkness and the White Ceiling – Part 3
I can’t sleep. No matter how much I try, I just can’t fall asleep. The night stirs up anxiety, and nights filled with anxiety feel endless. Being alone in this room makes me lonely. It’s more than just loneliness; the inability to move or do anything turns that loneliness into fear. I feel like I’m losing my mind, scared of something unknown throughout the long night, until morning finally comes. I know it’s morning because it’s bright outside. I know it’s daytime because of the noise. I know it’s night because the darkness covers everything.
When the outside gets brighter, I start to feel calmer. I’m scared of the dark. Have I ever been this scared of the dark before? As it gets brighter, I finally start to feel sleepy.
Just as I start to doze off, a nurse comes to feed me breakfast. Even though it’s called breakfast, I just drink it through a straw. I don’t really have an appetite. The IV drip provides the minimum nutrition my body needs. All I feel is my body wasting away. I wonder how much weight I’ve lost.
Despite my fear of the darkness, I neither feel the sensation of being alive nor the fear of dying. Maybe it’s because I still can’t comprehend my situation. I really didn’t understand what had happened to me, the extent of my injuries, or what was going to happen in the future, no matter how many times it was explained to me.
It’s like I’m stuck in a time where only I am frozen, while everything around me is bustling. The doctors make their rounds. They skillfully clean my wounds. My body is covered in injuries. They turn me from side to side on the bed, disinfecting and changing the gauze.
I’m called for tests. Every day it’s X-rays or CT scans. I’m moved through the corridors while still on the bed, and people move aside as I pass by. Although my eyes are open, I am no different from a corpse—a mere object being transported. Yes, I am no longer human, just a human-shaped object lying down.
There’s nothing to do in the hospital room since I can’t move. I can’t think straight, so I just stare blankly all day. When I’m facing upward, I stare at the ceiling, counting the number of holes in the panels. When I’m facing right, I watch the people passing by in the hallway—nurses, patients, visitors. When I’m facing left, I follow the shadow of the building outside the window. From the same spot, I watch the shadow. It was over there a while ago; now it has moved here. Watching the shadow move made me realize that time was passing. It made me happy to feel the passage of time.
The rehabilitation therapist comes, and we start rehab. But with my body covered in wounds, I can’t move much. The physical therapist (PT) moves my legs’ joints to prevent them from stiffening. The occupational therapist (OT) works with my left arm, which was almost uninjured. She tries to rebuild some of the muscle that has deteriorated so quickly since I was hospitalized. But even “moving” is just bending the muscles in my elbow (the biceps); I can’t extend them. My right arm is in a cast, so it can’t do any rehab at all.
In the evening, my mother visits again. She scratches my itchy head and cleans my nose and ears. It’s nice to have someone with me. But the pain of saying goodbye when she leaves is unbearable.
Night comes again. I’m dazed but can’t sleep. Anxiety and compulsion overwhelm me. My thoughts spiral out of control. With all my strength, I call out, “Nurse, nurse.”
The nurses come to my room, fitting it into their busy schedules. Apparently, I’m the most critical patient in the ward. One nurse, laughing, said, “It’s rare to have someone as seriously injured as you here.” I was comforted by her laughter.
One nurse talks about her hometown, another about why she became a nurse, and some ask me questions about myself.
But as soon as I’m alone, the fear of the darkness overwhelms me again. I become confused and scared, just like always. My motionless legs are just sticks shaped like legs. My open palm, with fingers that won’t even move a little. My left arm, barely able to move. My right elbow, locked in a cast.
Sex with her. The loss of sensation, a penis that won’t get erect. What’s going to happen to me? I can’t even think about tomorrow, let alone life after being discharged.
The sound of the nurse call bell at night heightens my anxiety. Nurses rushing around, the sound of various machines at the nurses’ station, and the same monotonous beeping.
The pain in my neck magnifies my anxiety and fear.
During the day, I find a little peace. I close my eyes and sleep.
**
There’s no testing today. It must be Sunday. The entire hospital feels a bit quieter. I spend the day counting holes in the ceiling and following the building’s shadow.
She came to visit me. Since that blurry visit while I was in the emergency care center, it’s the first time we’ve met when I was fully conscious. She tried her best to smile. But was it me or her who cried first?
A kiss. Her lips were warm. Perhaps, for the first time since the accident, I felt alive. But I couldn’t feel glad to be alive, not in this pathetic state, like a living corpse.
How worried must she have been? If I could, I would apologize. If I could, I’d want to make things right.
There were no words. Just being together was enough. Such a comforting time.
Without saying anything, she pinched my cheek with the same smile she had before the accident.
Her head rested on my chest.
“You’ve gotten so thin,” she said.
“Your chest is as flat as a washboard,” she joked with a forced smile.
A nurse came to take care of my lower body. The nurse asked her to wait outside, but she asked if she could stay. I didn’t want her to see me like this, but I was so happy she wanted to stay.
No matter how peaceful the time spent together is, it’s always painful when she has to leave. Even thinking about it now hurts.