by Joel Cobbs
My wrist was nothing but a big, moist scab. It looked horrid and had some sort of gel on it. I didn't know if it was some sort of antibacterial medication they'd put on it, or if it was mucus. I felt like I was gonna hyperventilate. I closed my eyes and tried to take my mind off of it. With all the pain and anguish from my wrist, I barely noticed when they removed the ones on my side. At most, I let out a slight sigh as they were taken off.
I felt the cool water against me. They were washing me with sponges. Two, one for each of them. They felt good against me, seeming to bring me a form of comfort I wasn't expecting. I hadn't had a real bath since I'd been there. They'd given me a cleaning rag to go over myself with, but I hadn't really been cleaned. I felt the sponges crawl all over me, one cleaning my legs, the other cleaning my chest. I felt my arms become clean as a sponge moved over them. The sweet smell of the soap was enough to bring me comfort. I felt the sponges go over my whole body. At times, it was embarrassing where they went, but at the same time it made me feel better to know I was being taken care of.
When they cleaned my wrist, the pain started coming back. I stiffened, which they told me not to do.
“I can't help it,” I told them. “The pain is too much.”
“You can do it Rob,” they told me. “It'll be over before you know it.” They were trying to comfort me, but it wasn't working. While I didn't feel as bad as I had before, I'd lost that sense of comfort I'd had just minutes ago.
They stopped and the pain began to subside again. I was breathing like they told me: in my nose, out my mouth. In my nose, out my mouth. They started drying me, which helped me feel a lot better. It was weird how I could go from being happy to in pain in just a few minutes, seconds even.
“Okay,” one of the nurses said. “We'll get that wound dressed up and Sandy will go get you some clothes.”
“Alright,” I said to let them know I hadn't been killed by my bath. I worried about them messing with my wound again. It didn't make me feel comfortable to know the part that had caused me the most pain was about to hurt again.
She put some ointment on it, which gave me a slight sting, but not as terrible as the other pains had been. This one didn't kill me. She placed a bandage on it, then wrapped Gauss around it. It felt weird, but I felt a lot safer with it there because I didn't feel like anything could get to it. For some reason, that made me feel better.
The other nurse came in with some scrubs and a tan, loose fitting, button up shirt. I was nude at the moment. Dad offered to go get me some boxers from the suitcases, but I declined. I decided I didn't care. I was going downstairs to the car and home. How hard could that be?
The shirt went on easily. There was a little pocket on the left side that said “St. James Community Hospital” in red letters. The buttons were snaps, not the kind you usually see wherever you go. The scrubs were a pale blue. There was a pocket on the back right that also said “St. James Community Hospital” in red letters.
I had trouble getting them on. The nurses helped me get up, but I had trouble putting my feet in them, bending down, and pulling them up. It was like, I could do those things, but not all together at the same time when I needed to. I was discouraged from all the effort I was putting into it that wasn't getting me anything.
“Hang on,” I said. “We need to try this a different way.”
“Okay,” they said.
I carefully leaned against the bed. I wasn't sitting on it, but enough of my weight was on it to keep me from falling. I pulled my left leg up then put it in the hole and pulled the scrubs up, then did the same with my right leg. I tied the string tightly together in hopes the scrubs wouldn't fall down.
“Alright,” Sandy said. “We got you all cleaned up and everything. Some other nurses will be by in a bit to help you get downstairs.”
“Thank you, Sandy.” “You're welcome.” “Thank you, Carol.”
“You're welcome. Be safe!”
Now I was alone with Dad. I went over and sat down in one of the chairs. I knew if I tried to get back on the bed I wouldn't be able to get down.
“Well,” I said. “At least we're heading home.”
“No Rob,” he said, “We're not.” I was confused.
“What do you mean?” He got uneasy from my question. It made him shift from one side to the other.
“Rob, you're not going home. I'm taking you to the Dawson City Recovery Center. You'll be admitted and will have to stay there for a few days.”
“What do you mean 'admitted'?”
“Rob, whether you admit it or not, you tried to take your life.”
“No,” I said. “No I didn’t. It was an accident.”
“Rob, there’s no way that was an accident. You saw your wrist just now. You saw how it looked. Rob, things like that are not accidents. You-tried-to-take-your-life.” He paused between each word, giving it a more depressing feeling than it'd had before. I didn't know what to think. This couldn't be true. He had to've been lying. I'd spent so much time trying to remember what had happened, but it never came to me. None of it came to me.
“I'm not going,” I said. “You don't have a choice.”
“I'm not going! You can't make me!”
“Fine. If I don't, security will.” I paused.
“What?”
“Rob, you're a danger to yourself. Just because you say you don't wanna go doesn't mean you won't. You don't have a choice. If it comes to it, I can have you drug up there, kicking and screaming. Is that what you want?” I was stared at the chair between us. No, it wasn't what I wanted. I didn't want any of this. I wanted everything to back to the way it was. Not this. Not now.
“No.” I said.
“Good. Rob, I hate doing this to you, but I don't have a choice either, not if I want you to get better. I have to make sure you're taken care of. Something's wrong, Rob, and I wanna know what. The only way I can know that is if you get some help.” I was crying again. I hated him. I hated him so much. But at the same time, I thought back to what those words, those thoughts, had gotten me. Where I was because of those words. I didn't say them, didn't even think of saying them.
“It's gonna be okay,” he said. He was crying too. I didn't believe him, I couldn't believe him.
The nurses came in with a wheelchair and asked if we were ready. There was a brief awkward moment, two nurses walking in on two men crying. They didn't know what to think, we didn't know what to tell them. I reluctantly said yes, and got into the wheelchair. I didn't wanna go and it had nothing to do with the staff there. They were nice enough, but not people I would claim as life-long friends. I didn't wanna go because of what was waiting for me at home.
I wasn't even going home. When I left the hospital, I would be going into a mental institute in Dawson City. I couldn't get my head around it. I didn't wanna go to a mental hospital or any other kind of hospital. I wanted to go home.
I wanted to wake up. I wanted to suddenly spring awake and find myself coming out of a seriously bad dream. I wanted a Dallas moment where I woke up and realized everything that had happened to me over the last six months had been fake, a dream, and nothing more.
The doctor said I was ready, so I was ready. Dad was told what to do in case of anything happening or if I tried to get away. He didn't think that would happen, but “you have to be prepared for anything,” he said over and over again. I was in no condition to make a run for I and didn't have the stomach to do it anyway.
When I got outside to leave, I felt the heat hit me. It had been raining the whole time I'd been in the hospital. Alabama weather was unpredictable which made it kind of dangerous. Though it had been raining, now it was nice and sunny. There wasn't much humidity. Dad was there outside the car. I was nervous about this: the whole riding with Dad for so many hours. I didn't think I would be able to do it. I was angry with him over what had happened. It was all his fault and I was going to make sure he felt it hanging over his head.
The doctor gave Dad some words of encouragement or advice o
n what to do and waved goodbye to me.
“You take care of yourself, Robert.” I didn't smile, didn't wave, didn't do anything. He wasn't worth my time anymore. I was mad. I'm sure my Dad made some sort of face/excuse then got in. He waved at the doctor and nurses and off we went. I knew he was only being polite. Deep inside, I'm sure he cared for the doctor. I didn't care for the doctor. He'd brought me back from somewhere where there was no pain. I hadn't died, they made that much clear, but, at the same time, I felt at peace. Then, I woke up.
We were silent for the first half-hour or so. I didn't wanna speak and had no intentions of doing so. Dad was still upset with what had happened. Neither of us wanted to talk about anything. Any conversation would lead back to Mom, the trip, the hospital, and anything else we could think of. It was as if our lives had somehow managed to be wrapped around her all of a sudden.
“I've already spoken with the doctors at the Dawson City Recovery Center. Grandma and Grandpa have taken clothes there, so you...we won't have to worry about that part. Any other special rules they have will be explained when we get there.” I was ignoring him as best I could. I was mad. I tried to get relaxed so I could get some sleep. I wasn't going to listen to him all the way back to Lewis County. I closed my eyes.
Over the next few hours I drifted in and out of a sleep state. Dad had put on some random podcast. It was something about the Internet. I'd wake up to it at some random point, unsure of what exactly was being talked about. I didn't want to appear awake so I didn't move. I assumed we had only been driving a little while and fell asleep again.
Chapter Four
“Rob? Rob?” Dad was shaking me to get me awake. I groaned.
“We're there already?”
“No, we just got to Cullman county. I was getting hungry. You wanna stop and get something?”
“Naw. Not hungry.”
“Well, let's go inside.” “I don't want to.”
“Robert.” And with that, I started stirring to go inside. I didn't wanna go inside. I didn't wanna get out of the car. I wanted to stay there and just count the seconds until we got to the Center. Dad wanted otherwise.
We were back at the Cracker Barrel we'd been at just days before. I could remember it if I tried hard enough, but only bits and pieces.
It took most of the strength I had to get up and go inside. I was still in pain from the blood loss and PT. I did what I could to get to the door. I had to pee badly, so I headed towards the bathroom first.
I walked up to the urinal, untied my scrubs and leaned against the wall. It hurt at first, still recovering from the catheter that had been in there. It burned, but not nearly as bad. The pain subsided as I went.
I wanted to scream. I wanted out. That's what I wanted. I wanted to pick something up and throw it as hard as I could. At the same time I wanted the energy to do so. I was so torn I could do it even if had the energy. I just stood there.
When I finished, I tied them back up and left the bathroom. I didn't flush it, didn't wash my hands, and debated about just leaving my scrubs untied. That idea was shot down immediately. Dad motioned me over to where we were sitting. It was close to the door, to “save me a walk” he said. That was fine with me. I just wanted to sit down. The waitress came to our table in a joyful mood. She brought out our sweet teas with no lemons. Dad had ordered them for us.
“Here ya go,” she said. “How we doin' today?” We lied and said “fine.” Nothing could be further from the truth. Lies. That's all we were and had become. We were one lie right after the other. No one was honest with the world anymore. No matter how we felt, we refused to let the world see it. It was all bottled inside, slowly taking its toll on our souls.
I told her I didn't want anything else. I was too tired to eat and too nauseated to try. I just drank my tea and left it at that.
“Did you sleep alright?” he asked. I shrugged. It wasn't just the fact that I didn't wanna talk to him. I just didn't have the energy to do it. I wasn't in the mood to argue, fight, engage in conversation or whatever you wanna call it. I just wanted to go to sleep and wake up. I wanted to find Mom hovering over me, correcting everything I did. Telling me to get out of bed, us exchange a few below the belt comments before I dragged myself up, listing to her complain about the state of my room. Instead, I was here with Dad, praying the time would fly by and this all be over. Praying for anything...
------
The building looked as though it had been built by the government, then they decided to move the projects somewhere else. It was a brick block. There were a few windows here and there, but for the most part it was just brick. We sat waiting at the traffic light.
It was one of the tensest moments in my whole life. I found out what it felt like to be a hostage. You knew something bad was going to happen. You knew there was no good ending in sight, no matter how much you told yourself otherwise. There was no bright side, no happy-go-lucky ending. This was the way it was. I knew there was no happy ending for me the moment I laid eyes on the place. It made me wanna cut again. Was that the point? Was it supposed to look so terrible, so...whatever it was to drive you to the point you wanna do what you're trying to avoid doing?
The light changed and we pulled into the parking lot. I wasn't ready for this, not in any sense of the word. I just sat there.
“Come on, Robert,” Dad said. I started tearing up. I didn't want to do this. I wanted to go home. I was only doing this just to get them to leave me alone. Why couldn't they just leave me alone? When I was done here, they would go away and wouldn't bother me again. I could go back to the life I had before. This wasn't going to affect me. I was going in, staying however long they wanted, then leaving. I kept telling myself that. That was all it took, I said. Just do what it is they want and go about your business.
We got out and walked towards the door. My mind was racing again. This wasn't going to be so bad. They weren't going to do anything but watch me and make sure I wasn't really trying to kill myself. That was going to be the easy part. How to convince them was the hard part. Just do what they want and move on. I looked around and took a deep breath before walking in.
I didn't know how long it would be until I saw all of this again.
Chapter Five
The tension in the room was thick. Very thick. I didn't wanna say anything, which was probably a bad idea. I probably should've talked a little, that way they knew I wasn't suicidal and believe me when I said it was an accident. Another part of me didn't want to give them the satisfaction that came with me talking to them.
I was stubborn, I can admit that, but I wasn't going to give in. Not now, not ever. I looked at the doctor. Looking him right in the eye.
“Robert,” he said slowly. “Don't you have anything to say? There's a lot going on here because of you. You wouldn't be here if what-” he stopped. I had no idea what he was going to say, but I gathered it wasn't going to come out the way he wanted it to. He started again.
“You wouldn't be here if your father didn't care. But he does. He does care for you. Because of that, we're here to help you.” I barely blinked. I knew he was trying to get a rise out of me and I wasn't going to let that happen. No, not now. It was me versus them, and I was going to win. They weren't going to break me. I was the hero, the classic antihero no one likes but everyone wants to win, and they were the enemy, the dirty scumbag kind of enemy.
“Talk to me, Robert. What are you thinking?”
“I don't know.”
“And why's that?”
“Cause I don't know.”
“Do you think there's a reason-”
“Look I said 'I don't know' because I don't know. What more do you want from me?”
“I want the truth.”
“You have the truth, I've given the truth. I've said a whole bunch of times that it was an accident and no one will believe me.” I was at tears now, furious. “What more can I give you? Huh? What more? I told you the truth and that's what it is!” The room went silent. I was sitting
on the edge of my seat and could feel my heart pounding harder and harder. I wasn't going to sit and take this. This was my life. They couldn't do this to me. The doctor looked at me, his fingers together, tapping in rhythm.
“That's what I needed to know, Robert. That's what I needed to know.” He stood up. “I'm going to step out for a moment and let the two of you talk.” He closed the door behind him, leaving us there. I wasn't going to say anything to him. Not now.
“Robert, you need to talk to me.” I could hear his voice breaking. “This is going to be tough, but we'll get through this, okay? Trust me, we will get through this.” I just looked at him.
“You will. I won't. I'm the one in here. I'm the one about to go through all of this. I'm the one who's gonna look out the windows and cry because I can't be out there. This has been going on longer than you know and you never noticed. Never...cared.” I stood carefully, still in pain, and walked out the door.
------
I was in my room by myself, alone with my thoughts. They'd taken the shoelaces out of my shoes, which were laying on the floor, the tongues hanging loosely. It drove me nuts for them to be that way. I preferred my shoes to be tied at all times, even when I wasn't wearing them. Sometimes I'd gone months without tying them.
There were no mirrors, no sharp objects. Nothing that could be used in any harmful manner. The walls of my room were bare, a pale blue. The floors were linoleum and cold. My feet rested on them. I wanted to lay in my bed but I didn't wanna pick my feet up and be forced to put them back down again.
I was numb. I sat there staring at the wall. Was I really here? Had this really happened? My brain was buzzing with a thousand questions and my mind was screaming for silence. Silence. That's all I'd wanted. Now, for better or worse, that's what I had. I didn't understand what was going on, but at the same time I knew exactly what was. Why it was all happening I didn't know, but I knew it was.
I was gonna be started on medications: Textra (an antidepressant) and Darjon (pain medication). I was gonna start family therapy with Dad and a new doctor. Dr. O'Nassis was now viewed as a friend of the family, thus he couldn't be brought on as my therapist. He was kept as a reference because of the notes he'd taken and the time spent with me.