David Palmer - Emergence

(Damn — taking too long…!)

Stole glance at watch — at least 16 minutes gone (guestimating from crash) and good half inch yet unrepaired. What to do… !

Discovered mind not made up after all. Convictions wavered, crumbled at moment of truth. Should continue repair, cross fingers for dispensation from immutable metabolic laws? Or gamble on holding blood loss to tolerable minimum with local pressure now that wound largely closed?

(But how much is tolerable minimum — considering losses to present; mitigated by, thus far, just under pint of saline? Further, how effective is local pressure apt to be on femoral spurting — even if wound largely closed?)

Wait. Perhaps another way out. Not cornered — maybe. With luck.

Solution required judicious hemostat placement: Was necessary to grip, pinch together remaining open edges of sliced artery walls with curved jaws; lock handles, sealing shut.

Now could ease tourniquet temporarily, safely…

…If hemostat secure.

…If stitches adequate.

…If no other significant bleeders in wound.

…If abruptly releasing balance of blood supply into previously substantially drained extremity didn’t trigger final shock collapse through major blood-pressure drop…

…If — oh, hell! Simply couldn’t stand it any longer — released tourniquet, poised to take action as required.

Wasn’t. So glad.

Took time then for breather, suddenly aware of first hints of returning fatigue. Peeled off gloves; finished Gatorade, soup.

Removed patient’s shoes, socks; inspected toes as circulation resumed. (Should have at outset: color, temperature key clinical signs to circulation status in leg, foot.)

Sat back, eyes closed, relaxed; breathed deeply, modulating oxygen intake just at fringes of hyperventilation symptoms, hoping to get running start on replacing stores before disintegration set in in earnest. Knew wouldn’t really help, but beat waiting idly for collapse — for which still didn’t have time.

After five minutes, retightened tourniquet, donned second pair of rubber gloves, released hemostat. Lavaged site again, flushing away seepage accumulated from surrounding tissues. Resumed needlework.

And marveled: Delicate stitchery, tiny knots suddenly easy — now no longer racing clock, impeding own efforts through tight-collar syndrome.

Soon last stitch in place; femoral repaired. Only closing-up chores remained, housekeeping incidentals: Rejoining severed muscles, closing skin layers; assembling, installing homemade pressure bandage incorporating splint to prevent knee flexion during initial healing process. Much easier going — nothing life-or-death. And could use larger stitches.

Then followed quick, apprehensive review of own condition. No serious portents detected; so stripped limp body (yes, completely; potentially fastest bleeding tissues on male body concealed by shorts; no shrinking damsel I — besides, modesty lousy reason to lose patient through negligence); examined head to foot, identified additional serious (relative term, this, compared to femoral) lacerations; closed with stitch here, tuck there, bandage where appropriate. Finished by covering with blanket, slipping pillow under head, connecting fresh saline baggie to I.V.

Whereupon, quite without warning, found self facedown next to bunk, viewing world through darkening, flickering mists (viewing two worlds, point of fact), while breathing transformed abruptly into agonizing gasps, heartbeat stabilized at tachycardiac level, every muscle in body knotted into single huge cramp. Couldn’t even cry out. And wanted to.

Could have ended pain by triggering posthypnotic relaxation sequence; but sleep — akin to coma — sure to follow immediately and couldn’t afford yet; important details remained undone:

Van’s right-side double doors gaped wide; driver’s door hung open, too, just as had left it when leaping out. Knew must remedy before letting go: Bound to be dogs in area (have not forgotten [will never forget] dog-pack encounter shortly after emerging from shelter); pooches would be pleased indeed to discover van standing open — and ready access to three helpless occupants.

Besides, Terry’s water, food dishes not filled since leaving Harpers’; no telling how long oblivion might last. Plus urgent need to stoke own fires before going under; nourishment deficit almost as critical as fatigue.

All of which posed problem:

Body on strike. Brain apparently still operating at what passes for normal function, but commands ignored as burnout reaction intensified, symptoms worsened. Try as might, couldn’t elicit so much as purposeful twitch from any voluntary muscle, even unto least finger.

Too busy twitching in voluntarily; spasming, in fact: Body jerked, convulsed, shuddered in response to multiple random cramps attacking, releasing, attacking again from head to toe. Ravages flopped body about like chicken recently deprived of head (uncomfortably apt simile; brain quite as unable to communicate with body as if physically separated).

Thrashed for timeless, endless interval. Several seconds at least. Then subsided into gently quivering heap, face up, limbs intertwined in Gordian disarray; cramps abated, muscles relaxing, going limp — pain easing toward residual ache. Would have sighed with relief if such possible, but breathing not among voluntary functions then.

Besides, knew relief was only fool’s paradise: Could feel heat; knew face was flushed. Could feel perspiration volume increasing, sweat streaming from entire body; dripping where possible, collecting in hollows elsewhere — one pool quickly threatened to overfill valley formed by nose, cheek; invade eye. And breathing rate such that nose began to run.

Suspected was not pretty sight. But not encouraging to realize Terry, intently peering down from stand, actually had nothing to say. Just made big, round, worried eyes; stared first one eye, then other. And know what it takes to dismay my brother.

But worry surely nullest of exercises. Understood problem; knew only solution was food, sleep. And knew must finish chores first.

So again turned perception inward. Concentrated. Groped for ki within soul. Felt it stir. Created channel, felt flow begin. Gently guided into right arm. Willed dead meat to move.

Terribly pleased to note response. And not a little amazed.

Expanded control zone. Levered body into sitting position; then rolled over onto hands, knees. Moving most carefully (nothing worked without painstaking, step-by-step supervision), crawled forward to driver’s seat.

Where paused momentarily, mulling options, calculating odds. Shortest route involved climbing into seat to reach door handle. But never seriously considered as solution (as well might have been mountaintop). Or could go around; between seats, past engine cover, under steering wheel. Farther to travel. But level.

Even so, had to stop en route, rest. Twice.

Eventually, however, fingers closed limply around door handle. Marshaled forces for effort — pulled door shut hard enough to secure latch. Barely. (Noted, gratefully, front windows rolled up far enough for safety; all others swing-out construction, couldn’t open far enough to pose security risk.)

Then — somehow — managed to turn around under steering wheel, avoiding getting snagged on pedals in process; set off on return trip amidships.

Arrived in due course within reach of side door handles. Again assembled energies (what remained), swung door shut — even remembering to close in proper order: Rear first, then front, so overlapping latches engaged instead of rebounding, negating efforts. Experienced profound thrill, sense of accomplishment, from having done it right.