Dear Jonathan

Chapter 11

Yes, I know it's short.. I apologize. Don't kill me.

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Jonathan

"My name is Dr. Davis. Since we don't know the extent of your condition, when I ask you a question blink once for no and twice for yes. Understand?"

Blink. Blink.

After all that hysteria, the other doctor was dismissed and a new one was brought in to take his place. This new doctor looked only a few years older than me, but he most definitely had botox in his cheeks, his teeth looked fake, his lips were abnormally plump and there's no way he was naturally that tan. Ew.

The doctor then directed his attention towards me. "I'll need for you to get off of the patient so I can continue with the examination."

"Right. Sorry." I mumbled.

"Can you feel this?" Dr. Davis dragged his pen across Michael's right arm.

Blink.

"Does this feel okay when I touch it?" The doctor's perfectly manicured hand pressed roughly against a rather large bruise on Michael's left leg.

Instead of blinking he let out an agonizing groan.

"Watch it!" I warned Dr. Davis.

"In my professional opinion, I believe this is Ischemia. If he was having seizures he wouldn't have any dead tissue or paralysis or an aneurysm."

"So you're saying that all this time you thought he was having seizures but he was really having strokes and he had an aneurysm?"

The verdict of the doctor was very disheartening. Ischemia. I've never even heard of this.  What is it? It sounds scary-- morbid. What does this mean for Michael? What does this mean for his quality of life?

"Precisely."

"What the hell!" I spluttered. Manners are forgotten. This is not right. I didn't let go of Michael's good hand as I had words with the doctor.

"Is there a problem? Maybe you have a question about his condition? Would you like a pamphlet?" The doctor asked nonchalantly. I am sick of these apathetic doctors! I would seriously drop his ass too if I didn't have so many questions.

Something rises up within me and I have to say something. This is ridiculous.

"Yes, there is a problem. How many years did you spend in medical school, Dr. Davis? Or should I call you Dr. Doofus? How did you get through years of extensive training and tests and you can't even tell the difference between a seizure and a stroke or when someone has an aneurysm?"

"Well, I--" He couldn't meet my gaze.

"Did you not think to look at his family's history?"

"It's very difficult to--" He tried explaining, but I wasn't done with him.

"Difficult? Difficult my ass! I could sue you for a number of things including malpractice and negligence! Did you know he's in constant pain? I'll bet you twenty bucks he has bed sores because he wasn't rotated or given proper care like he was supposed to be!"

"I was not his personal doctor. I am the head doctor of this particular ward!" Now he's mad at me, at least he's showing some emotion now.

"He's been here for five goddamned years and you never once bothered to check up on him!? What kind of doctor are you?"

"I am a very well known and respected doctor in this community and--"

"Bullshit! I want him medevaced by helicopter to a different hospital within twenty four hours. The next time you come in here it'd better be with a release form and the names of the doctors that were assigned to Michael. Now, get your snooty ass out of here before I squeeze the botox from your lips. Got it?"

I didn't watch him leave.

From what I can make of Michael, he can't move his right side at all. His right hand is balled up into a fist and his legs look terrible. It's all dead tissue now.. how did this happen? Can he talk? Will he ever be able to walk again?

"Michael, I can't.. I can't do this!" I walk over to the wall farthest away from him and wrap my arms around myself. I need some distance to get myself together. In my crazy mind I believe that will keep me sane and stitched together, but I honestly feel like I'm being ripped apart at the seams or whatever was holding me in one piece, and all of my blood is pouring out of me.

It hits me like a moving train when I realize this is my fault. All of this is my fault.. If I had just let myself love him. I fucked up.

My breath hitches. I was not taught how to deal with this. I sneak a peek at Michael and he's struggling to sit up, his eyes wide in alarm. He's going to fall off the bed. The blood from the sores on his back are fresh and the bile in my stomach rushes up my throat and makes my ears roar as I try to stuff it down while I run to his bed as quickly as I can. I reach it in three bounds.

I will not cry.

I cannot cry.

I am crying.

"Ple-please lay down. They-'re gonna fix yo-you up-p. I promise." I always get the hiccups when I cry. I hate that. He winces as I help him sit back and he grabs on to my hand.. I don't think he liked the fact that I walked away from him.

"I'm so sorry. This is all my fault, you know? How are you not hating me right now, Michael? How?"

His voice was barely a whisper and strained because only half his face was working but steady in his declaration. "Sil-ly, I love yo-u." His face showed every emotion I dared not show, his eyes glassy like mine.

He beckoned me closer with his finger and patted his chest. "You want me to lay my head on your chest?"

Blink. Blink.

I obeyed not knowing why because if he is trying to hug me this is an awkward position.. Hmmm. His left hand flashes before my eyes. 

"D-o y-o-u h-e-a-r t-h-a-t s-o-u-n-d?" He begins to sign.

In my ear is the sound of Michael's heart. Such a sweet, blessed sound. It signifies life, that he's still here with me, that he still is the love of my life. I shake my head affirmatively, I don't want the sound of my voice to overpower what I'm listening to.

"S'for you." His weak voice tells me.

"M-y h-e-a-r-t b-e-a-t-s f-o-r y-o-u."

"But, I don't--" I don't deserve you, I started to say, but I am silenced.

"O-n-l-y y-o-u."

"Michael, I--" Again I am silenced.

"F-o-r-e-v-e-r." My heart squeezes. My eyes sting.

"Forever." I repeat.

"K-i-s-s m-e a-g-a-i-n?"

"Gladly."

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So many feels.