by Aborn, A. L.
A Change
With my hand wrapped in clean gauze, I use a pilfered towel as a makeshift sling to keep my hand elevated. I take it easy, but make sure that the animals and camp are in order. Eating a decent meal doesn’t seem particularly appetizing to my churning stomach, but it will be helpful with healing.
My hand is steadily throbbing away through the day and evening. Finally crawling into bed, I take one of the Vicodin I took from the house. I guess if there’s a time when they’re necessary, this is it.
***
The next morning, the ache in my hand wakes me. It leaves my legs feeling a little shaky. Swallowing the panic that threatens to shatter my newly found determination, I slowly make my way through my morning chores. Another dose of Tylenol and antibiotics should take the edge off. What the hell? I throw a couple ibuprofen into the mix too.
My hand feels like it weighs a hundred pounds. I fight the urge to take the bandage down and look at the wound. I’m afraid that I won’t like what I see.
It’s amazing what the loss of the use of one hand has on the impact of everything that you do. I mean, you could imagine it, but until you live it, all the details escape you. Every task, from unbuttoning my pants to go to the bathroom to opening the chicken coop or a can of soup… It takes forever to do the simplest thing, not to mention that my head feels cloudy from the pain.
As the day winds down toward dusk, I gather enough firewood and water to have nearby in the shelter just in case it rains. Exhaustion pulls me down toward the blankets and sleep.
***
I wake to complete darkness. The throbbing in my hand is like a kick in the gut. I can’t believe that I slept at all. Rifling through my backpack full of medical supplies, I struggle to read the labels in the dim light left from the few coals in the fireplace. The letters swim. My whole body feels a little achy. Uncapping a few bottles, I dry swallow a few pills, grimacing at the taste. Dipping a cup in the bucket of water, I guzzle a few gulps. Immediately, I retch up the water and the partially dissolved pills.
Shaking my head to clear the stars from my sight, I wipe the water from my mouth and chin. Taking a much smaller sip of water, I wait to see how my stomach reacts. It holds, for now. Taking my small sips, I dig out a few more pills to swallow down. Despite the pain in my hand, I curl back into my sleeping bag. When I laid down, it was a warm night, but I’m almost shivering with cold.
Laying in the darkness, feeling completely miserable, I try not to dwell on what these signs mean.
***
The next time my eyes open, I can see through Beau’s end of the shelter. Its full daylight. My brain is fuzzy. Trying to stand, I kick over the water bucket, soaking the floor and part of my backpack. I’ll clean that up later.
Outside, the sunshine seems too bright. Holding the bucket in my good hand, I stumble toward the stream. Halfway across the space between the shelter and water, I glance down at my bandaged hand. Where the clean, white bandage had been only the night before, dark stains of blood have seeped through.
Uh-oh.
Finally reaching the water’s edge, I bend to sit on the mossy bank, half-falling. It’s difficult to lift the bucket when its full of water, but I finally manage to drag it up into the dirt beside me, sloshing most of it back into the stream. Removing the sling, I lower my hand to my lap, already starting to shake with pain and anticipation.
Gingerly unwrapping the bandages, the faintest stink of infection wafts out. My stomach drops with the realization.
Gritting my teeth, I take down the rest of the bandages to get a clear look. Where I had pulled the skin together with suture as carefully as I could, the two edges have pulled apart. The sutures strain at the swollen flesh. It’s angry and red with visible drainage in the wound.
Through the pain, I steel my resolve: this will not be the end of me.
I know what I need to do: I need clean water, some sort of antibacterial agent, clean packing, and the right antibiotics. I only wish that I didn’t feel so woozy. All those steps seem almost out of reach.
Still inspecting the wound, my feet feel unsteady beneath me. Going back to the shelter, I’m torn between staring at my poor, aching hand and watching my footing. It’s fairly level grass, but for some reason it feels like I can’t lift my feet high enough to move without tripping.
After what feels like half an hour, I finally reach the safety of my little house. Collapsing into bed, I struggle to sit up and rifle through my med bag. Again, it feels like the words are blurring together in front of me. The names of the four types of animal antibiotics are unfamiliar, but the endings sound close enough to those I know. Maybe I need something broad spectrum? Do I even have anything that will stop this infection?
Even sitting feels difficult. My whole body is aching, and I am so…so tired.
The bottles keep jumping out of my hands. Trying to separate them with my addled mind, I start to question if I had even been taking antibiotics this morning… How many pills are even in these things? Why didn’t I keep count? How many do I need?
Imagine the irony if I were to overdose on something and die here in the woods.
The thought makes me giggle.
Not thinking, I put my bad hand down on the bed to steady myself from swaying. I shout in pain.
Meekah’s head jerks up in alarm from her position on the floor, looking for danger. Sensing none, she lays her head back down, staring at me with those brown eyes.
I look at my hand again. Before, I had been so concerned with the state of the open wound that I hadn’t noticed the redness and swelling that has spread all the way to my wrist.
Oh, God. If there is a god, if there is anyone out there… Please. Please let this stay in the soft tissue and not go into the bone.
I only have so much gauze; it’s going to take some creativity to keep it clean.
Looking around, I realize that I left the damn bucket of water by the freaking stream.
Ugh.
It feels devastating, knowing that I have to walk that far again.
Selecting the best antibiotic, I shove two in my pocket, as well as a few more Tylenol for good measure. My med bag has an over-the-counter antibacterial ointment, my precious supply of gauze, and a myriad of other odds and ends that I don’t think I need right now. Another towel, my surgical scissors, and some paper towels go into the bag, too.
Standing with the backpack on is hard. I feel a little faint, but steady myself on one of the little bookshelves across from my bed. Meekah stands, ready to follow.
Slowly… so slowly… I make my way back to the creek.
I don’t have the energy to start a fire and boil water. Creek water it is. My hand is already infected… whatever.
Plunging my hand into the cool water is both awesome and terrible. The cold has a lovely numbing affect, but it wears off quickly. Using my other hand, I explore the area with my fingers, checking for areas of infection and sensation. Using the scissors, I snip at the black suture trying to hold my swollen skin together. Once the suture is out, my hand actually feels a little better. Thinking about having to sew it closed again is another layer of things I can’t mentally handle right now.
Smearing some ointment onto some gauze, I pack the wound carefully.
I need to hurry… I feel sort of… dizzy. My heart is kind of pounding and my face feels hot. Swallowing, I press on. I’m almost done.
Paper towels make a nice cover over the gauze which I then cover with the clean towel and secure it with a bit of medical tape from my bag. Its big and bulky… but I’m done.
I close my eyes while a bout of light-headedness washes over me.
This feeling reminds me of that one time I got black out drunk… the spins… the nausea. Except this time, I didn’t get to feel good first. I snort at that ridiculous thought.
Remembering the meds, I sip from the bucket and swallow the pills.
Please work. Please work.
I think I might lay right here in the moss and worry over my hand un
til I fall asleep.
Somewhere far away… this feels like a bad idea. I lay down anyway. The moss smells earthy, kind of comforting.
The throb in my hand is the only thing that’s keeping me conscious… I think.
***
Seconds or minutes or hours, or shit, days. I don’t know. It could have been forever or no time at all.
Is this what dying feels like?
***
My face is hot. Blinking, I can barely open my eyes against the bright afternoon light shining through the trees. Everything is floating, like I’m in a dream. But if the pain in my hand is any indication, I think I’m awake.
A sound behind me makes my heart bound up into my throat.
Turning my head is hard, like it weighs a hundred pounds.
I don’t see anything at first, but a shadow by the edge of the clearing catches my eye.
What is that?
An animal?
… A… person?
By instinct, I reach for my rifle. It’s not there. That’s weird… don’t I always have it?
Another sound, this time on the other side. Pushing myself to my knees with just my good hand is difficult, especially trying to look over both shoulders at once.
Meekah?
My mouth is dry, and no sound comes out. I try again, “Meekah?”
Where is she?
Beau?
Why can’t I see them?
And who is making the noises?
Am I surrounded?
Have they killed my animals?
WHAT IS HAPPENING?
Everything blurs when I turn my head.
Another sound… almost like… the swish of a heavy coat or the rustle of the leaves.
I’m unsteady on my feet.
RUN!
I need to get to the shelter to my gun, to get my back against the wall.
Running is hard. It’s like I’m just throwing my legs out and hoping that my feet hit the ground.
Half-way to my camp, my toe catches on something, or nothing, I don’t know. Unable to break my fall in this dream-like state, the right side of my face skids painfully against the ground. Thankfully, my left, injured hand is at my side and not crushed beneath me. My breath whooshes out of me in a rush.
Gasping for breath, my chest hitches painfully.
Is this how I die?
***
I open my eyes. Did I faint? How long have I been out?
The sun is still shining. My head feels like my brains have been scrambled. Stringing two thoughts together is almost physically painful.
It’s all I can do to lay here.
Turning over onto my back is hard, but my good arm is pinned under me. My eyes shut involuntarily against the bright light. When I open them… there are sort of… blurry shadows over me.
Did I pass out again? Is it dark?
The shadows shift… pale things like faces are visible in the folds of darkness.
Is that… Brad?
How?
His voice echoes in my head. “You could have saved me.” My heart clenches.
Ally’s face emerges beside his. “Why didn’t you come?”
A confused redheaded old woman, grasping a bloody neck wound becomes visible, staring at me with cold, dead eyes.
A rising tide of emotion makes my throat clench painfully. It is so forceful that I feel short of breath. I can taste my tears in my open mouth as the horrors above me stare down. I think I recognize other faces among the crowd too, but nothing but the words, “I’m sorry… so sorry,” croak out of me.
***
When I open my eyes again, the clearing is pitch dark. My hand still throbs, but my head feels clear.
Taking stock of the area around me, I feel Meekah nestled up to my side. I can’t see Beau in the darkness, but I’m sure he’s close. Relief spreads through me. I curl the fingers of my good hand into the thick fur at her neck.
What happened today? Or the last two days? How long have I been out here?
I still feel body aches and chills, so probably still a bit feverish, but I think the medicine is starting to help. Crawling to my feet, I still feel awful, but far better than earlier. The full water bucket is too much for my weakened state, but I head back to the stream and drink my fill. When I feel strong enough, I make it back to the shelter and swallow more medicine with the last sip of water left in my cup. Trying to ease myself down to the bed is too hard; it’s more like falling onto the cushions and passing out.
***
I don’t know how long I slept last night. For the first time in what feels like days, I’m kind of hungry. Grabbing my pills, the stream doesn’t seem quite so far away. Meekah and I share a cold breakfast of canned stew dumped into two bowls. The food tastes good. I’m tired, but at least my thoughts make sense and feel like my own.
The bandage around my hand looks clean enough and doesn’t feel any worse, so I decide to leave it without checking, for now. My morning chores of tending the animals yields for the first time, a few eggs in the coop. They had stopped laying after the move, but it seems like they are settled in enough now.
Eggs for dinner!
After my chores, another dose of medicine and a nap are in order. Lying in my sleeping bag, the songs of the birds in the trees and the whisper of the leaves in the slight breeze are relaxing, but I feel distracted.
The faces of Brad and Ally and the rest have been lurking on the fringes of my mind since I woke up. My fever must have been pretty high for me to hallucinate… but the rest… that was all me.
In a way, it feels like I got to apologize. Even the thought feels silly, but it comforts me enough to let me push it away and fall asleep.
***
The next two days are much the same. Morning chores, eat some meals, keep the animals alive, and take a few naps.
I’m feeling more like myself than I have in weeks. Now that I’m clear-headed, it’s time to take a look at my hand. It’s probably long past the time that I should have checked the bandage, but based on how I’m feeling, I think it’s okay.
With my med-kit open and the necessary supplies arrayed around me in some semblance of order, I take a deep breath, and start peeling off the towel. The paper towels are somewhat stuck to my skin around the wound, but they come off easily enough. Before peeling out the gauze packing, I poke around the skin on my hand and wrist. The swelling is way down, and the redness has retreated from my arm. All good signs. Mental fingers crossed, I use my forceps to grasp the edge of the ointment-soaked gauze and gently pull it back.
It hurts, but not as much as I had expected. The wound looks great, well, for a wound. It’s still an open gash in my hand, but it looks clean enough; the tissue is pink, no black areas, and the smell is gone. I’ll keep taking the antibiotics for another week at least, and hopefully that’ll do the trick.
Since the swelling is almost gone, it’s time to close it again. I take the time to boil the forceps, needle driver, and scissors to keep everything as clean as possible. Downing the last nip of whiskey as my anesthesia, I wince at the taste and the burning in my throat before beginning.
The pain is worse this time. Like my mind knows what to expect before the needle even pierces through each layer of skin. I want to turn away; I don’t want to see what’s happening while feeling the sensation… but I can’t. Trying to hurry, but at the same time, be careful. My hand will bear this scar until I die.
Finally, I reach the end of the wound. It’s not pretty, but it’s done. Both my hands are shaking with pain. Clearing my supplies away, I take another dose of antibiotics and a Vicodin. There are only two left, but I think tonight warrants one. Since I was able to pull the two sides of the wound together, I need something to seal the skin. Outside, I scan the woods until I spot a pine tree… the sap has natural antibacterial properties. Snapping a live branch off the tree, I’m able to get a small amount of sap and using the end of the branch itself, smear it along the edges of the wound. Hopefully, it acts as a glue,
keeping things together and germs out.
To keep from bending my hand and pulling on the new stitches, a splint of wood and a shirt do nicely. A few layers of paper towels and some tape protect the wound and act as a cushion between it and the splint. With the towel retied as a sling, I think I’ve done all that I can.
Sitting by the fire that night, influenced by the shot and the Vicodin, I again see the faces of my fever phantoms. The fuzzy feelings floating through me don’t let me push the thoughts away this time. I’m forced to face the feelings head on; wallowing in the guilt, shame, and sorrow that I’ve been holding back until it feels like I’ll burst with these rotten emotions. Tears stream down my face as I whisper my apologies into the night.
Chapter Eight
The New Me
The next four weeks are both busy and slow.
My days of anxiety and injury had left my camp in a state of disarray. My seedlings had been ready to be transferred to the ground for some time; a few are wilted from a lack of water and attention. I hope to be able to save them all. We had them arranged by type of plant when we had them set up at Ally’s, but in my haste to pack and flee, they had gotten mixed up. I’m not quite sure what is what, I’m just hoping that they all lead to food.
Beau’s droppings have become a problem. He wanders where he will, and therefore, shits where he will, which seems like everywhere. Shoveling it all up takes forever as I don’t have a wheelbarrow. I consider putting it all on a tarp to drag it to the edge of the clearing, but I don’t want to ruin one of them. Picking at it each day seems to help, as long as I pick up more than he drops.
All the droppings are turning into a big pile, which I start to use as fertilizer for my newly planted garden. A stack of pallets behind the mountain house and some ‘borrowed’ tools from the shed have allowed me to build a fence around the small garden. Birds will be able to fly in and pick at the small plants, so I fashion two sticks into a cross for the start of a scarecrow. An open shirt that flutters in the breeze and a hat will hopefully be enough to keep them away.
Eggs are getting a bit old. We average about five a day; Meekah and I eat a couple and I try to boil a few, too. Inside my shelter, I dig deeply down into the dirt to create a little food storage area. Any food that I can pack in plastic food containers should stay moderately cold and protected from any scavenger animals or insects.