Death of a Daredevil

Ow

"Ow."

Really, it was a long, quiet, moaning 'owww' that leaked slowly from my lips for the fiftieth time while I came awake from the anesthesia and discovered how much I hurt. No one pays attention. Hell, maybe no one is there. My eyes are still closed, and I have no interest at all in opening them.

"Ow."

I remember this, though, from the first surgeries I had. I'm full of drugs that are supposed to make it so it doesn't hurt, but they don't work like you'd think. It's like the pain in my butt and shoulder have been spread out over my whole body, and I feel sick, and the amount I feel sick matches what I would feel as pain if there weren't any drugs. Sick -- like puke sick, except one of the drugs is so I don't puke. But also sick in my... heart. Sick in my mind and soul. Sick to death. Yeah. That's it. Sick to death -- the kind of sick where the only thing I can manage to hope for is that I just die. You can't look ahead like you might get better. It's just all too much, and you just want to die.

"Ow."

Fuck. My dick is cold, too, and I know why. Because they've got me in a fucking diaper again, and it's wet, and it's been wet long enough to be cold. I just want to cry, but I think they must give me a drug that stops crying. I bet I look fine if they're looking at me, all covered with pads and sheets. I bet the doctor just looks for a few seconds, maybe lifting a bandage, and then she makes a note on her iPad and says something to the nurse, and then the nurse fiddles with some tube or needle, and they both leave -- because I look fine. I am not fine. I am sick. Sick and tired, and I want. To. Die.

"Ow."

But, drugs. I sleep again.

* * *

I'm a daredevil. That's what I am. A daredevil. People called me that, right up until I almost died -- right up until Matty died. A daredevil.

But now, I don't know what that means. It was stupid to be a daredevil before, I know. Stupid. But it was also kind of cool, and it was me. It was who I was -- who I am.

That's what I'm thinking here, day two in the hospital. I'm way more awake now, and they're getting a little careful about giving kids too much of the good drugs because you can get addicted. That means I hurt.

I remember when my cousin Denise hurt bad, after she was hit by a drunk driver on her bike. She is about five years older than me -- the daughter of Uncle Dan and Aunt Pru. I remember going in to her room. I think it was her bedroom at home, but it might have been the hospital. I was only five. She hurt bad. I could see it.

But I couldn't feel it. I couldn't really know what it's like. Now I do, and I know that no one else does. The only way other people can know is if they remember some time that they hurt really bad, but it isn't the same, which is why I really like my roommate, Saquan. He's 17. He hurts bad, like me. He had surgery yesterday too. He has some weird thing with his intestines and blood vessels that I don't get, but they had to cut him a bunch, and move shit around, taking pieces out, 'grafting' things together, making his guts smaller, and shit like that, and he is fucking miserable. Last night, before we fell asleep, I just turned my head and was staring at him, and him at me, and we didn't say anything for a long time, but we both knew that we both hurt bad. Oh, and even if I'm pissed about my diaper, which I will get them to take off soon, Saquan has all this trouble with eating and shitting, and it's way worse for him.

It's not my shoulder so much, but my pelvis. I don't know what they did really, but somehow they kind of cut and kind of broke it into two pieces again, and then they put it back together with rods and glue, and I don't know. Supposedly, it'll be strong enough to walk on really fast, but not yet, so I have to not move at all. Think about that. Not move at all. Try it sometime. It aches like someone kicked me in the ass with iron boots, and I got all sorts of spots that itch or hurt, and that I want to move, but I can't. Supposedly for another day. Or two.

I look at Saquan again, and he's looking at me. "Fuckin' kill me," I say, surprised that my voice is so scratchy. He smiles -- like you'd paint a smile on a dead body.

* * *

Ricky texted me. He wants to visit. Yeah, and for some reason, he's the only one I want to visit me. I don't like being like this. I don't want Ingrid or Ace to see me like this -- or Shane. And mom? Well, she does good at home, but she's not good in hospitals. She's just not. But Ricky? He's kinda like a nurse I think. I mean, he washed me, almost like Heidi. And it wasn't hard for him, because of his brother. Plus he's just... nice. I don't know. So I text him:

IJ - cool come see me but visit hours are over at 6

They check on me a lot today. I even have to start physical therapy on my right arm. They're kind of worried about it, I can tell, and they think I should start moving it quick. But this time they move it, and they give me some shots first that make my arm and shoulder partly numb. It's weird. I lay there perfectly still and watch while two guys move my arm. They move it farther than it has moved for three months. They press on it, pull it over my chest, stretch it partway over my head, and bend my elbow and wrist every which way. One guy has a hand on my shoulder almost the whole time, pressing his fingers into it different ways. And all I feel is pain, coming in stabs, like knives, except it's like that pain thing I said with drugs, so it isn't horrible. But a few times it leaks through, and I shout or moan or something, but these guys seem to know when that might happen, so they hold me down, like put an arm across my chest. They're both big.

Then they're done. Hey, they're sweating! But they seem happy, too.

"Okay kid," the shorter one says -- James Aroushin P.T., says his tag -- "we're done for now, and I think it's all good. You've got a lot of work bringing this arm back. You want this arm back, don't you?"

"Yeah."

"A hundred percent?"

"Yeah."

"You'll have to work it, hard."

"Yeah."

"It'll hurt. Every step of the way, but mostly early on."

"I know."

"Okay. Ivor. Someone will see you tomorrow morning."

"I'll be here another day?" I ask. "So not rehab tomorrow?"

"You'll be here tomorrow. I don't know about rehab." He smiles that smile that's supposed to make kids feel better, messes with my hair, then leaves with the other guy. That's when the various pains in my body seem to add up to too much -- like if you're carrying something heavy, and you finally have to set it down, because it's too much. Like so much lately, I expect to start crying.

But then I see Ricky standing in the corner! He's been watching for awhile, and I didn't even know it. He looks so worried I almost laugh. Saquan is watching us both, and he does give a small laugh. One. A lonely 'huh,' but a happy one. ...Happy.

Ricky comes to my bed and holds my hand. He holds my hand! Who holds a guy's hand?

Ricky does, that's who.