Chevy Stevens - Always Watching

The nurse was still talking. “We haven’t been able to ascertain why she lost consciousness, so we’re treating her with supportive care.”

“Is she awake?”

She lowered her voice. “She’s in a coma.”

I sucked in my breath and stood up so fast the room spun. My heart thudded fast and frantic. A coma, my daughter was in a coma.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

After I pulled on some clothes, I grabbed my keys and ran outside to my car, startling the cat, who’d been hiding in her box, and sending her fleeing. My hands gripped the wheel all the way to the hospital, my knuckles white. I had no awareness of any other cars on the road, or even what route I took to the hospital, my mind filled with terrifying thoughts. Why had Lisa overdosed? Did seeing me send her into a downward spiral? My stomach sickened at the idea.

When I got to the hospital, I spoke to the doctor, who told me they’d moved Lisa upstairs to Intensive Care. There was no change in her condition. When I found her, she was on one of the beds, a curtain pulled around her, with only an IV and a ventilator keeping her company. Nurses floated around the unit, checking on various patients, speaking in hushed voices, while monitors beeped. Lisa’s eyes were closed, her skin pale. I held her hand in my own, feeling shaky from the adrenaline pumping through my blood. She’s okay. She’s right here. She’s going to be fine. I repeated the mantra over and over, but I still couldn’t make my heart believe the words. How much drugs had she taken? Would she live only to have brain damage?

I pulled a chair close and sat beside her, studying her hand in mine, the long fingers, the short nails. They were filed, and I wondered at that small bit of vanity. She was taking care of herself, which she didn’t do when she was actively using drugs. Her skin was also clear, no acne. Again, I wondered what had happened to cause her overdose. I studied her sleeping face, the rise and fall of her chest, praying for the first time in a long time to a God I wasn’t sure existed.

Please don’t take my baby. Give her another chance.

Two hours later, I was still sitting with Lisa’s hand in my own, when I felt her thumb twitch. Then her eyelids flickered. Was she starting to regain consciousness? Lisa’s eyes shot open. She stared at me, pupils dilated, eyes terrified. She focused on something just over my shoulder, and her heart rate went wild, the monitor beeping rapidly as she yanked her hand away and tried to pull her ventilator out. I stood and grabbed her arm, saying, “Stop, you’ll hurt yourself,” but she thrashed around and pulled her arm free. She managed to rip the IV out, spraying me with fluid. When I finally got a grip on her, she fought harder, making guttural moans through the ventilator. I lost my hold, and she lashed out, her forearm hitting hard across my nose. Then behind me, footsteps.

Two nurses rushed to Lisa and held down her arms while she moaned and grunted in panic, her eyes rolling back in her head, the whites flashing. I backed away from the bed, my adrenaline still pumping and my blood roaring in my ears as I watched them fight with the madwoman on the bed. My daughter.

It took them a few minutes to calm Lisa, saying, “You’re in the hospital and you were brought in unconscious. There’s a tube down your throat so you can breathe, but you’re safe. We’ll let you go when you calm down.” She finally stopped fighting and nodded, signaling her understanding. They relaxed their grip. She was still breathing rapidly, but she was also looking around the room with more awareness. The nurses shut off the supportive breathing, then monitored Lisa’s oxygen levels while they asked her to squeeze their hands, or move her eyes in response to a question. They told her that they had to leave the tube in for a little while longer, until they confirmed she could keep breathing on her own.

A half hour later, the doctor came in with the respiratory technologist, and once they confirmed that Lisa was ready, they removed her breathing tube. The doctor then asked if she was okay with my being there while he talked with her.

Her gaze flicked to me, and I thought she’d refuse, but she said, “S’okay,” her voice still raspy from the hose.

He then proceeded to ask some basic questions, and she answered them all fine. But when he asked what drug she’d taken, she looked confused again.

“I didn’t… I didn’t take anything.”

The doctor made a note. “What’s the last thing you recall?”

Her face began to pull and twist as she struggled to remember. “I don’t know… it was earlier in the day. I was at the wharf, then it’s all blank.”

The doctor said, “We ran a drug screen when you were first admitted, and it didn’t show the usual suspects. But the sudden arousal, aggression, and memory loss all fit with GHB, which isn’t one of the things we generally test for. We’ve seen a few cases of it recently with the street kids, though….” He paused, with his eyebrows raised as he waited for her response. I knew what he was getting at.

When Lisa first started using drugs, I’d done some research and was familiar with GHB, or gamma hydroxybutyrate, which is a central nervous system depressant, popular with people frequenting nightclubs and raves. Also called liquid ecstasy, or liquid x, in small doses it was a stimulant and aphrodisiac, known to create euphoria. In high doses it could cause dizziness, agitation, visual disturbances, depressed breathing, amnesia, unconsciousness, and death. It was also nearly impossible to detect in a urine sample, so we’d never know for sure.

Lisa also knew what the doctor was insinuating. Her face was flushed and angry-looking as she said, “I’m clean.” She glanced at me, her expression saying, I know you told him.

The doctor made a note, his own face expressionless. “Do you remember anyone handing you a drink?”

I didn’t understand why he’d asked that, until I remembered that GHB was also known as a date rape drug. Had Lisa been raped ?

While I was putting it together, so was Lisa. Warring emotions crossed her face. First confusion, then fear, and soon anger. Her eyes filled with tears as she said, “No, and I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

I said, “Lisa, if someone hurt you—”

The doctor interjected. “There was no sign of sexual trauma.”

Lisa said, “I said I didn’t want to talk about it.”

It was clear she was hiding something, probably remembering meeting with her dealer or a friend, but I didn’t want to press. There was no point.

The doctor finished his exam, during which Lisa remained mostly mute, then explained that they’d like to keep her in overnight for observation.

She nodded her assent, then turned to stare at the wall.

I said, “I’m just going to the bathroom. I’ll be right back, okay, Lisa?”

She didn’t answer.

When I came back into the room, Lisa had fallen asleep. I sat beside the bed, taking her hand in mine again, knowing that as soon as she woke, these little affections would be refused. I studied the small half-moon scar on her pinkie finger that she’d gotten as a child when she’d caught her finger in the door of our camper. She’d screamed and cried, and never slammed that door again. Maybe this time she’d finally hit rock bottom, a terrifying close call, which might just give her that final push to seek proper treatment. I wanted her to come home with me and focus on getting better, but I couldn’t push her into that decision. I smoothed her hair back, noticing it was soft and silky, so she’d been taking care of that as well. I gazed down at her, my eyes filling with tears.

What happened to you?