Oddball

Chapter Seven

LISABETH

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I cannot see, but I can hear. I am awake, yet I am sleeping. Trapped in this cocoon of a body, my eyes staring at the back of my eyelids, my fists beating against my palms. I cannot move my body, I cannot feel my body. I hear the beep pause beep of my heart rate monitor, I could hear it increase and decrease. But I cannot feel my own heart thumping against my ribs. It is curious, I feel so awake and alive, yet I know on the outside I look dead or asleep. Dreaming.

I can feel the IV tubes, but I cannot feel the pinch where they pierce my skin and invade my body. I feel restless, I wish to be able to move, wiggle my toes at the very least. At the same time, I wish to be able sleep wholly and entirely. I have heard the doctors; I know I am in a coma. But are people not meant to be dead to the world, trapped in a designated slumber? Or what of the out of body experience Mia has in If I Stay? I seem to be trapped in the middle, awake within my dreaming body.

I have heard the whispers and the shouts; the wizened words of doctors and surgeons alike. Cancer they say, like a curse, a death sentence. I cannot feel the neck brace as they shift my position, the brace that supports the mild nerve damage at the base of me head. Nor can I recognise that there is indeed a cast wrapped around my leg, suspended above my body. I hear that this is how I appear, but I do not know it first hand.

A few hours ago, my parents came and visited. The nurses offered comfort, saying that at times, comatose patients can hear the voices of their loved ones. I understand that my mother at least, did not believe this. She muttered things to my father; dark things not meant for my ears surely. So fragile. She is bound by coma by a slip of the foot and a punch to the face. Pathetic. And now this cancer... Surely she cannot survive this. Harsh though it is, it is refreshing not to hear her sobs. My father shushed her angrily, I can picture his face; flushed pink with anger and hurt. What if she can hear us? The nurses would know what they are talking about surely. My mother snorted contemptuously, in that way that she does; screwing up her face. However experienced and expertised in the ways of patients, it saying that our darling Lisabeth can hear us is simply a way to offer comfort to grieving families because she had a death sentence. It is a load of bullshit, and you know this too I hope. That hurt me, the hard, dismissive tone she used. Had I been able to, my own eyes would have teared up. My poor father would have struggled to find words for response. Mother clucked disapprovingly, the way she does when my brother walks mud through the house after rugby practice. The click click of her heals signalled to me that she had left.

I longed to open my eyes in that moment, move my body so that I might offer comfort to my father. As it were, I could hear the sniffle of stifled sobs. Listen to me Beth. No matter what anyone says, you are strong. You will only die when you truly give up. I know you can hear me, I can feel it in me. Don't leave us Lisabeth, don't go. You are so loved and I know your mother is only being so cruel as to hide her own discomfort. Don't ever believe that you can't beat this, because you can. We need you Beth. Don't go.

I desperately hoped he was right.

...

Lost in my dreamlike state for so long, it has become hard to dictate what is or is not reality as others would see it. My mother returned later with what I assume is most probably coffee judging by her complaints. It's her way of coping Father tells me. I can and do respect that, but her narrow mindedness is frustrating at best. I heard a scream, like that of a child shortly thereafter. At first, after the lack of vocal reaction, I believed it might have been a child patient. But soon came a crash, like that created when one of the plastic folding chairs often found around hospital beds is run into and knocked to the floor or nearby wall. Then came a sigh of echoing defeat, making me doubt if there had ever been a scream at all.