Talk Soon

59.

We touch down north of San Diego. My ‘ready for anything’ Expedition, apparently recently detailed, idles, ready. Once buckled, I tap the space bar on the laptop where the GPS coordinates inform me that we have a forty-five minute drive to the facility where a guy that is supposed to be dead miraculously and mysteriously breathes on, assisted and unable to speak or move, but nonetheless alive by the slimmest of definitions. The paradox of the situation is not lost upon me as we swing into action and immediately join a thousand others on I-5 south at eighty miles per hour. Life in the Fast Lane. 

It is a stark, ugly building looking more like an Amazon.com warehouse than a medical facility. I had stopped at a convenience store along the way to grab a cup of coffee, cheap plastic flowers and a cheesy Hallmark sympathy card. In the facility parking I jot my name and number on the card. I am ushered into the high security wing, pass through the scanner, put the Glock back in my shoulder holster and follow an agent down a dark hallway to a larger room nodding politely to the pair of agents standing there as sentries. As we enter I am appalled by the unmistakable smell of fear. All the ammonia, bleach and pine sol in National City cannot mask the odor of death scared shitless. There is one bed in the four hundred square-foot room with hoses, pumps, wires, cords and electronic machinery wizzing and humming, all with the singular mission of artificially prolonging the pathetic existence of one man. I am met inside by the doctor on shift. I ask if there is an update on the patient's condition.

“Not in any meaningful way, he remains stable, unresponsive, but we hope that over time some of the neural trauma will abate as well as motor function. Time will tell. Our job is to allow that process to play out,” he tells me in matter of fact monotone. 

“Can he see?” I ask moving to bedside.

“He responds to light and sudden movement, but we have no way of telling if his brain connects the dots into understanding or recognition,” states the doctor.

“Hearing?”

“With enough volume and pitch, generally at low frequencies he seems to hear, but again, hearing is not understanding.”

I place the plastic roses on the bed near his feet, my eyes unblinking and laser-locked onto his two bloodshot obsidian marbles which are surrounded by yards of wrapped gauze. I sense that he can see me as I make my dramatic presentation of the card.

“You remember me?” I ask, noticing a spike on the ECG display located just above and behind his head. “I brought you some nice roses and a card. The card has my name and cell number on it.” I point to them like a school teacher might point to an important line in a poem, finishing with, “If you ever want to see the light of day, the minute — the fucking nano second — you can talk, your first words had better be to me.” The ECG machine tells me all I need to know about his response. 

“Are we clear on that?”

There is no verbal response but the doctor is gently pinching my elbow as an alarm has sounded indicating metabolic change. 

I tuck the card between his left arm and torso. 

“Have a nice afternoon and talk soon.”