A Little Closer To You

I- It All Came Back

Life as a patient is pathetic, I tell you.
The word patience is truly made for a person who feels worthless when his time is running way ahead of him, while he helplessly lies flat on a bed, shackled by the cords with which the huge machines keep him crucified.

Everything has become so normal to me now that the beep of the Holter does not even feel like a sound anymore. Just like we ignore the sound of our breaths, the muffled lup-dups of blood thrashing against the wall of our cardiac vessels, or the minute noises of our stomach churning, I have adjusted to seeing my urine bags being changed daily, dark blood from the hanging pouches joining the traffic of my cardiovascular system every minute-in-need and the loud silence in the room. The visit of doctors and nurses feel comfortable, but sometimes they act like they don't want me here at all. I wish the same too.
I don't want myself here, or anywhere in this world, ever.

A little side to side shift, while I try to maintain my body's friction with the inclined bed, always hurts. I am suddenly made aware of my heart screaming madly, the nerves of my nape trying to snap my neck bones and my body fighting against my mind to stay still. Things I hate are the faint chemical odour of urine from my sheets, the sight of blood smearing my intravenous infusion, and the tubelight over my head always running ablaze. I have often tried to break it off the wall and burst it against my head. Of course, a week of being on the glucose drip is not enough for this task. So I am being more patient.
Day after day. In every literal sense of it.

Constant vomiting, anemia, out-of-the blue jaundice, diarrhoea, and insomnia are things that my body is currently dealing with. It's like my body is suffering with depression and my mind is confused. Six small fractures in the lower body, inability to digest anything properly and an amnesiac mind that is worried about the lives awaiting my return. Spending whole day on the bed and trying to connect the dots of my forgotten past, prior to the horrible accident that caused me this, is my only hobby these days. I remember the day I had opened my eyes, four weeks ago only perhaps, and I wanted to call my family members. I had resisted so much for it and when I was deliberately allowed to make a call, I realised that.....

I had nothing happening in my mind.
I knew I wanted to connect to someone...I may have a sister, parents definitely or some friends, but neither their names nor their identities came up in my mind.
I just remember the faces, that too mixed up. If the girl with an oily braid is my sister or my friend, I don't know. If the lady with the wrinkles of worries etched on her forehead, is my mother or my aunt, I don't know. And thus, I am staying here till something clicks in my mind.
My body has become my mind. I cannot do or think anything until my condition gets better. I cannot ask my muscles to contract despite focused control, but a little shift in my position makes my head pound. Out of every illness that has hacked me, the first thing I want is for my broken brain to get fixed.
I desperately want my memories back.
Good or bad, whatever it is.

Things I like in this hospital room is the sweet kick of phenyl emitting from the freshly swept white floor, the sharp shot of morphine given to me in my bedtime (though my whole day is my bedtime), and the only understanding.....or rather, the most neutral, nonjudgemental person out of everyone who looks after me here - Vinil.

The door in front of me creaks and I suddenly look away from the tubelight that had kept my introspection charging, thus breaking my trance. A slender man in a white uniform and a white sidecap on his head, enters into the room with a bowl of soup on a tray. His face appears strikethrough as the dark afterimage of the harsh tubelight has not yet left my vision. I keep blinking fast but the vision doesn't go. He hasn't said a word but I know who he is. His presence makes me excited, like a patient getting energised when a family member comes to meet him. He keeps the tray on the side table and sees me struggling to recognise his face. He immediately covers my eyes with his hand. The warmth of his palm on my eyelids and his touch on my thin skin sends shivers down my spine. A minute later, he removes his hand and I realise that how I had not even budged to make him do that after any of my word. The afterimage has completely disappeared. I then look at his face. I knew it was him.
A smile spreads on my face.