mystic pearl adier
Junior Member
Swallow my doubt, turn it inside out. Find nothin' but faith in nothin'.
Posts: 74
|
Post by mystic pearl adier on Jan 26, 2009 16:43:39 GMT -5
» The nurse that brought Drake in wasn't the brightest bulb in the drawer, though anyone who wasn't extra-aware of every detail of everything ever could easily have made this mistake. As Drake slid down the wall, the nurse watched him for a second, knowing that sometimes people didn't want to be comforted right away, before stepping forward to try to help him up, and offer further condolences. There are other fish in the sea... That sounded more like a break-up line, something a parent says to a child, though of course, said parent probably didn't like said child's ex-significant-other in the first place. Before uttering the actual sentence, though, the nurse noticed something that he hadn't before. There was no wedding band on either of Drake's hands- and there had been, he saw, or the dead woman's. The racial difference would probably been the first tip-off, if the nurse hadn't seen so many inter-racial couples before. He wasn't judging, in any case. Who people chose to spend their lives with was their business, not his. The nurse turned, and saw in the waiting room the woman's real family- kind of obvious, if you know what I mean- and sighed, finally approaching Drake. "Look, man, I'm sorry," he said, knowing no amount of apologies could make up for this mistake- he had probably worried Drake unnecessarily, and figured whomever he was really here to see was probably perfectly fine and wondering where he or she was. "Come on," he continued, offering a hand. "Let's get you cleaned up. Then you can go find your girl." He wouldn't judge a man for crying. Hell, he himself had sobbed a couple times in life. Sometimes it was just unavoidable. Truth be told, the nurse had more respect for a man who could cry like that than for one who bottled everything inside.
» The nurse took Drake back to the room-between-rooms, where the sink was, and opted not to watch while Drake got cleaned up. The nurse didn't know what kind of guy Drake was on a regular basis, and didn't want to push things by watching him clean up at the sink and chat him up while he did that. He didn't rush Drake, either- not only because he didn't want to deal with more crying quite yet, but because the family, the ones waiting in the waiting room, were still blissfully unaware of their loved one's death. Small children, he noted. Were they the dead patient's? He hoped not, but a couple of them did look a lot like her- excluding the obvious- and one was sitting on the knees of a particularly worried-looking man- the patient's husband, he presumed. This wouldn't be fun. Not at all. But, it was part of his job, and if he didn't want to deal with the occasional breaking of bad news, he ought to choose another profession. Technically, the doctors were supposed to do this part, but sometimes they were too busy or, like today, just plain old didn't want to, and so this nurse was stuck with it- too many times. Any amount of times would be too many. "Ready?" he asked, after allowing a short while for his own reflections, as well as the cleaning-up. Soon, he was leading Drake back out to the nurse's desk, and asking that they make sure he finds whomever he's looking for, without mentioning anything about what went on in the OR. Crying was one thing, he knew, and telling everybody about it was quite another. Not their business, right? Then he turned to the waiting family, took a deep breath and repeated his spiel about doing everythingg they could to save the dead woman.
» Once again, the nurse simply told Drake to sit and wait. She hadn't seen anyone come out of the OR since they went in- but then again, it would be kind of hard to observe that, seeing as she was playing Spider Solitaire on her computer. In this instance, however, the nurse appeared to be right. Soon after become acquainted with the waiting room chairs for a second time, a nurse exited the other OR. He approached the other nurse- the one at the desk- whispered something to her, and she nodded, to which he responded by turning around and approaching Drake. He, apparently, was a little more cautious than the previous nurse, as far as mistaken identities went. True to form, he had to ponder for a second- though not too long, as then he would risk Drake thinking he was creepy, or retarded- about what to say. Your girl? No, that sounded too unprofessional. Your wife? But he had no indication they were married. She? That just sounded cold. Damn it, what was the patient's name? Something unusual, he remembered- a name he really hadn't seen before- ...damn his bad memory! "Well, uh," he finally started, hoping something would come to him and he could BS his way through the apparently one-sided conversation- and failing. Before he could freak out and apologize for sounding like an idiot, the nurse was relieved to hear the OR doors opening behind him, and the bed, containing Mystic, wheeled past, toward her room. A doctor tapped the nurse on the arm, and told him to follow them- that he could handle this. The nurse nodded and complied, looking relieved. He didn't have a clue what he was talking about anyway.
» The doctor smiled kindly, offering a hand- for shaking. "Hi," he said in a kind voice, not really bothering to introduce himself. It was on his ID badge, clipped to the pocket on his scrub top, and besides- somehow, he suspected the younger man wasn't so much interested in his identity as he was knowing what was wrong with the woman, what went on behind the eerie closed doors. "Well, we managed to stop the bleeding, again," he said, looking down the hall as the bed, wheeled by some nurses and the other doctor, disappeared around a corner. "But, I can't honestly tell you that everything's going to be fine. We've stabilized her, started some medicines and such, but this is serious. She..." he sighed a little, pondering his next words. "If this happens again, we'll have no choice..." He went on to explain their last remaining option- the very thing he and the other doctor had been debating inside the OR. They hadn't done it yet, because there was still a chance they could avoid it but, once again, if she started bleeding again, they would have no choice- if he wanted her to live. He also said, almost as an afterthought, that it would probably be a good idea for Mystic not to have any more kids. While this wasn't a particularly common occurrence any more, Mystic was tiny, and with the combined weight of her two babies being around the size of a regular full-term, it could potentially be danger. But, he added, he realized it was her choice- or, rather, theirs- and he knew they probably weren't even thinking down that road quite yet. It had, after all, been only a day or so since the babies were born. With that, he dismissed- though not in so many words- Drake to go to Mystic's room, and if he had any trouble finding it, he should enlist a nurse to help him.
» Mystic hung in a state of what could be described as "limbo". She wasn't quite asleep- not REM sleep, anyway- but definitely not awake. There were very few indications she was even aware of her surroundings as she was settled back into her room. Actually, at that point, she was pretty much out. She remained out for quite a long time, and there were a few points where medical staff was getting nervous- would they have to take her back to the OR? She was hooked up to so many things... they would be a pain in the ass to move or unhook so they could move her, though most- all?- were necessary. There were the things that had been there before- IVs containing blood, fluids, and a clotting agent in one hand. And then the new stuff. In the other hand, an anti-biotic, and one with pain medicine in it, attached to a PCA pump- with the patient-control button presumably within Mystic's reach- though Mystic would later debate that if she woke up and had to move to push the button- and the SCD machine hooked onto the end of the bed- the sleeves for which were wrapped around Mystic's legs (hidden under the blanket of course, but still there- the purpose for which was to make sure she didn't get some random-ass blood clot in her legs, what with her immobility and the clotting agent being pumped into her.)
» For a while, they were worried they might have to go on the hunt for a more powerful antibiotic, and hope she wasn't allergic to it; her temperature was fluctuating wildly- at some points she was hot to the touch, and at others shivering, alternating fevers and chills. But, just about an hour ago, the most recent fever broke, and instead of plummeting, she'd been hovering around 97F (her normal) ever since. Occasionally, she would open her eyes, just a little, and make a motion like she was trying to reach for the button to the PCA pump, but be too weak and give up before falling back to sleep. She would also squeeze anything that actually was in her hand- the blanket, a hand, whatever, in some barely-lucid attempt to indicate that she was still alive.
» It wasn't until it was nearly night time that she started to really come around. Everything was stabilizing back out, and though she was still appearing to be asleep, she was having conscious thoughts. How long have I been out? she wondered, but knew she wouldn't be able to find out until she forced herself awake. She vaguely recalled being told she was being taken back to the OR earlier, and the last thing before halfway waking up was a gas mask going over her face. God, when was that? How long had she been out? Her main concern was Drake. She hoped that incident had happened early enough, and she's been out a short enough time, that she could rally before he even showed up, so he never really had to know- she didn't want him to worry about her. With a quiet groan, she tried to move, tried to open her eyes, and succeeded in opening them about half way before exhausting her willpower and closing them again. As for moving, that didn't quite happen. She just didn't have the strength. Falling still and silent again, she began to ponder what she should try next. Speaking would probably be the best way to indicate that she was okay, but she wasn't entirely sure if anyone would actually hear her. She thought she'd seen a shadow, or some sort of shape, beside her when she opened her eyes a little, but it wasn't nearly enough, or long enough, for her to be sure- and if she wasted all her energy on talking to someone that wasn't there, she might just end up wasting the rest on crying about it. And she didn't want that to happen. But what if there was someone? She wanted them to know she was okay, and ever-so-slightly aware of her surroundings. Mustering up all her energy, willpower, and personal strength, Mystic managed to conjure up the power to utter a single word: "Drake..."
|
|
|
Post by drake fitzgerald minor III on Jan 27, 2009 17:48:43 GMT -5
Drake wanted to pass out. He wanted to just close his eyes and lose consciousness. Ironically, though, he couldn't seem to. After all the times he'd done so involuntarily when it couldn't have been more inconvenient, the one time he wanted to, the familiar blackness refused to sweep across his vision and carry him into sweet oblivion. It was just as well, he figured. That was kind of a cop-out, anyway. He had just shed nearly every ounce of manly dignity by sobbing like a small child on the floor, best to not make it worse by running from his problems. After a moment, he stood up, following the guy out of the room. Drake knew he could have been angry at the other guy, but he wasn't, not really. It was a mistake anybody who didn't know Drake and Mystic could make (although he thought it was a little strange to assume that a skinny white boy like himself would be married to a woman who looked like the female version of Shaq). That was done, though. Mystic was fine. Or was she? What if she was dead, too? Someone had lost the woman they loved today, and it was only by the grace of God or chance that it hadn't been him. It brought to Drake's attention the fact that he and Mystic, in spite of promises, in spite of how much they loved each other, just might not be together forever.
And if that was the case, he was going to spend all the time he could with her while he still could. It was silly and ridiculous, he knew, but at the moment, he was actually thinking that he'd never leave her side again. That, obviously, wasn't feasible. He had to make a living, had to feed her and their two newborn children. He knew he'd feel a lot better after they got her home, after things got back to normal - or at least as normal as daily life would ever be with twin boys in the house. Once Mystic started playing mommy, he figured, it would be easier for him to go back to playing breadwinner. But thinking that she was dead had shaken him, had made him reconsider things. More than that, though, it had grounded him. As much as it had devastated him, it had also recalled him to the life he had been living in something of a fog for the last year. His return from amnesia had not been sudden, as the doctors had initially thought, and it had taken time for things to come back to him. The simple things, like his own name, his identity, and the things that had meant a lot to him, those things had come back without as much effort, but little details were another story. And even once he'd remembered them, he'd felt for the longest time like he was watching someone else's life play out, and he was just a spectator.
But what had just transpired, the pain he'd just felt, it had been so real, so incredibly strong, that he was, for the first time in what felt like forever, completely centered. He knew who he was, he knew exactly what he felt, and he knew exactly what he wanted, and that was to spend the rest of his life with Mystic. He wanted to be with her, until death (preferably his), came between them. And he wanted that to be as far away as it possibly could. He wanted to be with her as long as he could, wanted to keep her safe, protect her from everything that could possibly harm her. Of course, he knew that he couldn't be the one to protect her from her own body. He couldn't save her from things he couldn't see. He knew that even now, he couldn't protect her from the physical danger she was in, the danger that had almost taken her from him already. As they walked past the people sitting outside, Drake felt a pang of guilt. The woman he loved was fine...the woman who had meant so much to them was, unfortunately, not. He felt awful about it, but he couldn't say that he regretted the fact that someone else's wife or mother was in there and not Mystic. He immediately felt even guiltier for having thought that. How could he be glad that someone else's wife or mother was dead? That was awful.
But he was too preoccupied with the fact that he was about to see Mystic to be too worried by his conscience. It was terrible, he knew, but he couldn't help it. He had to know that she was all right, he had to know that she was really still breathing. He listened to the doctor, listened to what he was saying, but it wasn't quite sinking in. They would have no choice but to do what? He hoped they didn't mean what he thought they did. That was unacceptable. Mystic was motherly by nature; she'd taken care of Drake and he was certain she was going to be amazing with their sons. And he had a feeling that whether or not they were going to actually have more children, Mystic wouldn't want that choice to be anyone's but hers and Drake's. It seemed like forever before they brought him into her room, and at first, she was so still that Drake felt a touch of panic rising in his heart. What if she really was dead? What if...
But at that moment, she spoke, and Drake sucked in a quick breath. She was alive. She really was, and the fear he'd been feeling drained away as quickly as it had arisen. He grasped her hand, trying not to make it too obvious that he'd been worried sick about her. "Mystic." he breathed, smiling. "Oh, god, you had me worried. I thought...I thought...I thought you were dead." The irony of that comment hadn't hit him yet. He reached forward, and brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. "How are you feeling?"
|
|
mystic pearl adier
Junior Member
Swallow my doubt, turn it inside out. Find nothin' but faith in nothin'.
Posts: 74
|
Post by mystic pearl adier on Jan 28, 2009 16:17:33 GMT -5
» The sad thing was, she felt worse now than she did immediately after having the babies. But then again, that was probably dulled by seeing them and knowing that, at least for the moment, they were healthy. Now it was just her and Drake, and she felt like she just got hit by a bus. She wondered if she missed something- had she already been released from the hospital, and got into some sort of car accident? She would do something like that; Mystic wasn't the most graceful creature in the world. She was actually pretty accident-prone, especially in the kitchen- as Drake should know quite well by now, considering how she nearly blew his toaster up trying to make the most basic food in the world (Poptarts). She honestly felt like she had broken bones- everything hurt. But she knew she didn't, and that she hadn't quite left.
» How was she feeling? Mystic considered her answer for a second. She knew she couldn't go into some long spiel explaining that everything hurt and she felt like some sumo wrestler had chosen to body-slam her into a concrete wall. She didn't have the energy for much more than a couple syllables, and with what ended up coming to her mind, that would be just perfect. "Dead," she whispered, and tried to laugh, but had to cut it short, because it hurt. Mystic wasn't one of those people that was usually tagged with the "funny" label. Most of her humor came from irony, and she wasn't shocked when, half the time, the irony, subtle as it was, was lost on most of the people around her. She usually refused to explain, too- that would kill the funniness for her, and then most of the time they still wouldn't get it. Why should everyone not find it funny? Somehow, Mystic didn't think Drake would find it as funny as she did, though the situation was full of irony. She thought he was dead once, and now he had thought she was dead... And she felt dead. Oh, well. Everything's funny when there's a large dosage of pain medicine going into your bloodstream.
» With speeds matched only by a glacier, she was getting small amounts of strength back- or, at least, enough to keep her eyes partially open. "How was your day?" Hey, she already knew how hers was, just based on how she felt and the fact that he'd thought her dead. But how was the realm of elementary school? Did his students take the time to actually look at the picture he'd shown them, or did they throw it off and start talking about their dog eating its own poop?
» This was hell on Mystic. She wanted to get up. She wanted to squirm around. She wanted to at least be able to turn over and lay on her side or something! She always hated laying on her back. She never figured out why, but it was always uncomfortable for her. Even as a baby, she'd been told, she refused to sleep on her back, and would cry until placed on her stomach. She could, she supposed, turn if she really wanted to, but somehow figured they wanted her to stay as still as possible- or at least not to anything that would rotate, bend or otherwise jostle her torso. Damn it, she'd spent enough time laying still, she wanted to move. This was bullshit.
|
|
|
Post by drake fitzgerald minor III on Mar 24, 2009 1:53:05 GMT -5
He woke up almost immediately when she came in, once Flannery started crying, and instantly there were a million thoughts circulating in his mind. Oh, God, he’d fallen asleep and for how long and how long had Flannery been crying and when was Mystic going to be home, she was never going to forgive him for leaving the children unattended. It only took him a split second to snap out of that, but in that moment, instinct and reflex kicked in and he tried to get up, stumbling in a slightly zombie-like way as he did so and falling back down onto his ass. He noticed Mystic’s presence, and relaxed ever so slightly as he watched her take care of the babies. She was beautiful, he thought, probably for the millionth time since he’d met her. And somehow, watching her take care of his children was even more incredibly appealing. Not in a sexy way (although watching her bend over gave her an adequate view of...well, that wasn’t important), more in the way that with every day he spent with her, he became more and more convinced that if he spent the rest of his life with her, it still wouldn’t be long enough.
She managed to quiet the babies, as he expected that she probably could. And then she turned her attention to him. ”Well, I wasn’t exactly expecting to see two of them.” he replied, stifling a slightly embarrassed grin. He was surprised she hadn’t heard about that already, what with as much as women tended to gossip with other women. ”Plus that was the first ultrasound I’d ever seen, and I was still a little bit in shock, what with you passing out and maybe nearly dying and all.” Maybe that would excuse it. He grinned, taking a moment to hold her hand, sniffing her hair in a completely non-creepy way (was that possible) as she rested her head on his shoulder. ”Flannery said his first word today.” he said, poking fun at his own prior ignorance (as he was certainly well aware that it would be a number of months before either baby would be saying anything coherent). He didn’t wait for her to laugh, but instead got up, scooping her up in his arms and carrying her to bed, plopping her down rather unceremoniously on the spread.
”I don’t know how it’s possible that two little boys as small as they are could be so much more difficult to handle than thirty second-graders, but I think they proved it today.” he told her, lying flat on his back beside her and staring upwards toward the ceiling. ”I mean, where or when is the point when they go from getting more difficult to take care of to less difficult to keep an eye on?” It seemed that the older these babies got, the more they liked to wake up and cry, the more food they needed, and the less they just lay there and were silent. But since second-graders were at least a little more predictable, if not necessarily well-behaved, there had to be a point in there somewhere that marked the top of the hill...or at least, the top of the first hill before adolescence and the joys of raising teenagers. [/blockquote]
|
|