David Palmer - Emergence

Considered taking brief time-out for rest but realized wouldn’t help. So heaved self upright on knees, ignoring tendency for surroundings to orbit own vertical axis. Scooped up saucer full of parrot seed mix from container on counter; lumbered (still on knees) to stand, prepared to dump contents into sibling’s food cup.

And stopped, confused: Was full. As was — now visible at far end of perch — water cup.

Set down saucer carefully. Tried to think problem through, but not easy: Data input too fast; of such anomalous, almost contradictory nature; mind functioning so slowly. Shook head — regretted at once: No one in such condition should move head quickly. Ever. Pain obscured vision momentarily. When receded, found self leaning against side doors, head resting against window glass, eyes closed.

Solution obvious, but reached only after labored deliberation: Of course food, water untouched: Had embarked from Harpers’ this morning — several lifetimes prior — something under an hour ago! (Indeed, Albert knew whereof spoke: Time is relative; truly flies when having fun…)

Probably smiled as arrived at conclusion. Which expression surely faded as eyes opened, focusing on glare from holocaust surrounding Trans Am, mere hundred yards behind van. Building in which vehicle embedded now well involved: Smoke, fire gushing from windows many stories up, obviously spreading rapidly.

And given shoulder-to-shoulder nature of downtown concrete-canyon architecture, only matter of hours before entire block ablaze — in fact, as flames gutted high-rises, structures’ collapse sure to follow; filling, bridging streets with burning debris, spreading conflagration from block to block. Only few more hours before entire city engulfed in fire storm.

Implications percolated slowly but with finality. Knew taste of defeat: truly bitter — age-old cliché accurate, but woefully inadequate.

Not that had given up. Though slowed, dulled, mind still functioning more or less coherently; knew if passed out now would never wake: Van’s destruction, together with frail contents, guaranteed as blazing walls crashed down to fill street where parked.

But problem deeper than mere awareness of threat, unflagging resolve. Body pushed too far; was finished: Utterly in grip of fatigue-toxin-overdose-induced myasthenialike collapse, paralysis. Not a single cell from voluntary musculoskeletal group responsive to brain’s commands — doubt house-current application would have elicited so much as twitch.

Tears began to trickle from under lids as eyes closed, body slid limply down door, crumpling onto floor to lie unmoving. Final thoughts were fading jumble fuzzy with disappointment, regret, outrage: Had come so close; felt so cheated —

“Hel- lo, baby…!” wailed Terry in anguished tones.

— and horror: Hoped smoke, fumes, big piece of falling debris would find us before flames; couldn’t bear thought of retarded twin, gorgeous feathers ablaze, rolling about floor, struggling, screaming…

Waking was nice: gradual, luxurious process, allowing time to revel in same cozy lack of urgent purpose which always attended first awareness on summer mornings during school vacation. Bed was lovely: firm; made up with cool, clean-smelling sheets; light, soft blanket. And from somewhere floated lilting chords of Beethoven’s Pathétique sonata.

Once got around to opening eyes, saw that surroundings comprised large, cheerful, well-appointed bedroom, simply reeking of restrained good taste.

Had no idea where might be, how got there, or why; and didn’t much care. Was sufficient that felt marvelously rested, deliciously comfortable — until essayed first lazy stretch.

Accompanying yawn brought cognizance of tube up nose; a discovery so startling, almost distracted from surprise of learning right arm immobile, apparently strapped down. Deliberate swallow confirmed tube also present in esophagus. Unpleasantly so.

Followed tube with eyes to bottle hanging on stand at bedside. Didn’t need to read label to recognize Isocal HCN, first choice amongst medical community for endogastric feeding of comatose patients.

And next to Isocal hung partial baggie of Ringer’s lactate — saline with electrolytes added. From it ran tube to I.V. — plugged into right arm.

As pondered these phenomena (with rapidly dwindling enthusiasm), yet another anomalous sensation intruded amongst already churning thoughts. Or perhaps lack of sensation more accurate: For first time in living memory, had awakened without awareness of overfull bladder. Which realization flowed without pause into dawning perception that Something Was Amiss in that region as well.

Began immediate left-handed exploration to determine quality, extent of damages. Was dismayed to learn attire consisted of overlarge (knee-length) tee shirt — and diaper …! Complete with safety pins. And, speaking as expert baby-sitter, quite professionally executed. (Strategically located slit in crotch of mortifying garment admitted [as suspected] Foley catheter.)

Further exploration revealed substantially absent eyebrows, lashes; head hair appreciably shorter in spots than remembered it. Had obviously been brushed out, breaking off scorched, shriveled ends -

Oh! Memory returned in bewildering rush. Bringing with it sudden dread, rampant curiosity: Where was Terry? What about kid? What happened? More particularly, who happened it?

Reasonable questions, to be sure. When last participated in events, score was Candy zero, Grim Reaper nine — in ten-point match. Lethal probabilities abounded; situation, without exaggeration, dire.

Known on-site cast included Terry; concussed kid (with stiff leg, profound blood loss, stitches all over hide); and, of course, Yours Truly — plucky neighborhood zombie. Terry didn’t get us out of fix; get me cleaned up, plugged in, plumbed, drained. I sure didn’t — and kid was…

No! Enough… Without facts, speculation worse than nonproductive; downright maddening …!

Had to find out for self — couldn’t lie quietly in bed, waiting for someone (whomever!) to walk in, in own good time, and fill in blanks (selectively — telling patient “only what’s good for her”). Had to know — now …!

Doggedly returned to self-examination. Found tender areas of pinkish skin on forehead, hands, ankles — another few seconds and would have been serious burns. Determined all muscles, while weak, again responded to wishes. (Almost unbearably relieved: Daddy had recited cases where muscle overuse resulted in permanent burnout.)

Concluded, at length, was sound enough to dispense with life-support toys; return to transacting personal business personally. Could eat faster, absorb protein, calories more efficiently orally than through tube (certainly enjoy it more). Further, examination demonstrated no clinical evidence of dehydration; no point, then, to retaining I.V. And could damn well go potty myself!

Okay, no reason couldn’t get up — just matter of unplugging tubes. (Straightforward-sounding, simple statement of intent: easy to say.)

Effectuation, however, less so. Sensations accompanying do-it-yourself nasogastric tube removal unlikely to find place in catalog of experiences without which life is not complete. Same for catheter. Neither truly painful coming out. Actually. Exactly. Quite. But felt horrid…

I.V., on other hand, did hurt. But over quickly; slight bleeding stopped immediately with momentary pressure.

Then addressed question of standing. Knew was weak, but fairly certain could manage. With care, slowly, taking very short steps.

Question of very short steps, however, proved premature. Spent appreciable interval sitting on edge of bed, head between knees, waiting for room to stabilize. Which did, eventually.