CHAPTER TWENTY
Dr. von Hoerner called Ruby and Henry later that afternoon, as he had promised, after everything that could be done for Connie had been done. He thought it best that they come in the next morning; they needed their rest after a grueling night waiting and then many hours of more waiting in the hallway that same morning. He reminded them that Connie was stabilized, informing them in the same breath that she was heavily sedated and surely experiencing no pain. Ruby and Henry decided after his call that they would get some rest, knowing they, indeed, needed it and nothing more could be done that day. They took Dr. von Hoerner’s advice and said they’d come by in the morning around ten o’clock to look in on her.
Surprisingly, they both fell into a deep sleep that night rather than the expected fitful one. Refreshed on the heels of such a nourishing and badly needed night of sleep, they rose just before dawn. The ordeal had taken its toll, and they had no idea how exhausted they were with all that stress and worry. Both put their heads on the pillow that night at the same time, closed their eyes, and slept like the dead through the dead of night.
Ruby and Henry assembled themselves that morning and found themselves taking turns with nonstop phone calls from neighbors, friends, and anyone who knew them, all offering their sympathy and prayers and wanting to know how Connie was doing. It seemed the word was out about Carl’s death. No one could really talk about that loss, other than a brief expression of sorrow, so shocking was that reality.
Ruby and Henry also made a call to Carl’s parents, a most difficult and heartrending call, which they feared would make them speechless while drowning in their own tears. Their exchange over the phone was brief—about as long as it takes for a dagger plunged into the chest to penetrate the heart. Funeral arrangements would have to be made. The Koehler’s would take care of that necessary business, a task that would challenge any adult’s composure. No one expected Connie to take visitors for quite some time, although Ruby and Henry would be at her side within hours after rising.
It was only nine o’clock when Ruby and Henry walked into Connie’s hospital room. She was completely covered in bandages, set into a body cast that cradled her entire frame from head to toe. The only skin that was exposed was some on her lower hands and wrists and her right eye. Tubes of all kinds took up the space on the wrists, and there were plenty of other tubes and wires coming out of different places in the body cast. The moment they saw her, Henry went speechless, while tears ran down Ruby’s cheeks.
Dr. von Hoerner was expecting Connie to come to sometime early that morning, the best indicator being the opening of Connie’s one good eye. As of that moment, her right eye hadn’t opened, but that wasn’t a surprise given what she had been through and the massive amount of sedatives in her system. Even so, this delayed response concerned Dr. von Hoerner, although he didn’t say anything to Ruby and Henry at the time. He knew Connie’s head injuries were extensive, and whether or not she had made it through the surgery couldn’t be determined with any certainty quite yet. He made a mental note to have the nurse check on her frequently, seeking the critical moment when Connie opened that one good eye.
Ruby and Henry slowly approached Connie’s bedside, not wanting to cause a disturbance of any kind. Touching the exposed flesh of Connie’s hand was irresistible. It was the only link they could have with their traumatized daughter. Dr. von Hoerner pulled up the room’s only two chairs and told them they could sit with her as long as they wanted. They both sat down with their chairs against the metal frame of the bed’s side. Ruby held onto Connie’s hand with one hand, and Henry held onto Ruby’s other hand. Dr. von Hoerner and the attending nurse left the room, leaving Ruby and Henry alone with Connie.
Nearly eight hours later, at supper time, Ruby and Henry left and drove home, crestfallen. They would come back tomorrow and the next day and the next and would keep coming back to be with Connie to help her through what would obviously be a very long recovery.
Early the next morning, before Ruby and Henry arrived in Connie’s room, Dr. von Hoerner was standing at Connie’s bedside for the umpteenth time. She was breathing on her own. He noted on her chart that her vital signs were stable. She had made it through the first twenty-four hours of post op, except for one thing: she hadn’t regained consciousness. Dr. von Hoerner shook his head, turned, and walked out of the room, as quietly as a human tear runs down a person’s cheek, thinking she would have to stay in intensive care. Connie was in a coma.
The word coma comes from the Greek word koma, which means “deep sleep,” but no one should ever think they are the same thing. Being in a coma has essentially nothing to do with sleep. Someone who is in a coma is unconscious and won’t respond to voices or other sounds or to any activity nearby. This unconscious state may be prolonged and of an indeterminate length of time—possibly years, or in some unfortunate victims’ life, possibly forever. Fortunately, most people come out of a coma.
The comatose person is still alive, of course, but the brain is functioning at only the lowest level of alertness. You can’t shake or call out to a person in a coma with the hope of waking them up. Like I said, the person isn’t asleep. Where are they? Nobody can really answer that question. It’s likely that they don’t know where they are either. We know that human beings often don’t want to know the ugly truth. A coma is, perhaps, a survival mechanism. Maybe it is a way the subconscious protects itself from something that it might not have the strength to face. Of course, no one knows for sure.
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A Love Story with a Little Heartbreak Page 20