Coma Girl: part 3 (Kindle Single)
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Introduction
September 1, Thursday
September 2, Friday
September 3, Saturday
September 4, Sunday
September 5, Monday
September 6, Tuesday
September 7, Wednesday
September 8, Thursday
September 9, Friday
September 10, Saturday
September 11, Sunday
September 12, Monday
September 13, Tuesday
September 14, Wednesday
September 15, Thursday
September 16, Friday
September 17, Saturday
September 18, Sunday
September 19, Monday
September 20, Tuesday
September 21, Wednesday
September 22, Thursday
September 23, Friday
September 24, Saturday
September 25, Sunday
September 26, Monday
September 27, Tuesday
September 28, Wednesday
September 29, Thursday
September 30, Friday
A FREE Coma Girl Coloring Sheet!
A note from the author
Other works by Stephanie Bond
About the Author
Copyright information
COMA GIRL
(Part 3)
by
Stephanie Bond
You can learn a lot when people think you aren’t listening…
Introduction
For as long as I can remember, I’ve had insomnia. I’ve always been a night owl and a morning person, surviving on five, maybe six, hours of sleep cobbled together in restless bouts. In hindsight, I realize all my life I sort of resented having to sleep. I suppose I was afraid on some subconscious level I’d miss something important or exciting or unrepeatable. Which makes my current predicament all the more ironic.
I am in a deep vegetative state… better known as a coma.
Other people refer to my situation as “sad,” “heartbreaking”… even “tragic.” I find all the attention rather strange considering before I landed in Bed 3 in the long-term care ward of Brady Hospital in Atlanta, Georgia, I was the girl no one paid much attention to. I was the middle child—middling pretty, middling smart, a middling achiever with a middling personality in a middling job at a middling company. My name is Marigold Kemp, but these days I’m more commonly referred to as Coma Girl. Apparently, I have a bit of a following. I’ve trended on social media. I have my own hashtag.
Since it appears I’m going to be here for a while, I thought I might as well start telling my story; there have been a few twists and turns as to how I got here, and doubtless more to come. The list of pluses of being in a coma is pretty darn short, but if I had to name the best thing, it’s that you can learn a lot when people think you aren’t listening. I am the ultimate eavesdropper, and friend, if I ever wake up, I’m going to write a tell-all.
Meanwhile, I’ll tell you.
September 1, Thursday
MY MOTHER AND Sidney have been in my room for a half hour tapping their feet and heaving labored sighs.
Labored—get it? Ha—pregnancy humor. I’m trying to adjust to Dr. Tyson’s announcement yesterday that I have a fetus growing inside me, but I confess I’m still reeling… along with my entire family it seems.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” my mother kept repeating.
“I know,” Sidney kept responding.
But the pregnancy explains why I’ve been feeling so different lately, and why my moods have been swinging like a pendulum. Oh, and the weight gain.
The door opened.
“Good morning,” Dr. Tyson said.
“Not from where I stand,” my mother said.
“I think we can all agree this is about the furthest thing from a good morning,” Sidney added.
“Er, sorry. I understand you have some questions for me about Marigold’s… condition?”
“That’s right,” Sidney said. “Yesterday, I think we were all too shocked to think straight.”
“I’m glad you came by. I was planning to reach out to you after you’d had time to digest the news. Will Mr. Kemp be joining us?”
“No,” my mother said. “Sidney and I decided this is too delicate of a matter to involve Marigold’s father. As you can imagine, he is very upset.”
Inside I’m cringing. Yes, I’m a grown woman, but I’m still sensitive to how my dad sees me. Now he knows I’ve had S-E-X.
“I understand,” Dr. Tyson said. “This is quite unexpected.”
“That’s an understatement,” my mother snapped. “Exactly how far along is she?”
“We’re going to perform an ultrasound tomorrow, but my best guess is around fourteen weeks.”
“And we’re just now learning about this?” Sidney asked.
“Rigorous tests were run when Marigold was first admitted, and at that time, no hCG was detected in her urine.”
My mother gasped. “Someone impregnated her after she was admitted?”
“I’m calling the police right now,” Sidney declared.
Oh, Jesus.
“That’s not what happened,” Dr. Tyson said, her voice elevated. “It takes about ten days from conception for the hormone to show up in a urine test. The timing indicates Marigold was newly pregnant when she was admitted, but not far enough along to test positive. Lately we’ve been checking her urine for blood, and I noticed the hCG was elevated.”
“Okay,” my mother said on an exhale, as if she was striving for calm. “So what happens now? I assume she will miscarry.”
Because that, in my mother’s eyes, would solve everything.
“It’s possible,” Dr. Tyson said. “It could also be an ectopic pregnancy. But if not, a healthy fetus could come to full term even if Marigold remains in the coma.”
“How can that be?” Sidney asked.
“I don’t mean to sound crude, but Marigold’s body is a perfect incubator. A comatose patient giving birth isn’t unprecedented.”
“That sounds positively wretched,” my mother said, her voice choked.
Dr. Tyson cleared her throat politely. “We’re still within the guidelines for termination.”
My heart stopped. What?
“An abortion?” my mother asked.
“We’re Catholic,” Sidney bit out.
“I’m only providing you with all the options,” the doctor said. “This is a very unique situation. I assume you’ll want to consult the father of the baby.”
The silence was palpable.
“Ah. You don’t know the father of the baby.”
“Marigold never mentioned a boyfriend to me,” my mother said.
“Me either,” Sidney said.
“Maybe a friend would know, or a coworker?” the doctor suggested.
“I don’t see why it’s necessary to involve anyone else,” my mother said. “We’re Marigold’s family, the decision is up to us.”
“How can you be sure the baby wasn’t injured in the car crash?” Sidney asked.
I hadn’t thought of that. I was already a bad mother.
“We can’t be,” the doctor admitted. “Why don’t we meet again after the ultrasound? I’ll have more information for you then.”
“Okay,” my mother said, sounding relieved to postpone the discussion.
Dr. Tyson said goodbye and left the room. I could visualize my mom and Sidney staring at each other, feeling helpless.
“You can’t tell David,” my mom said. “Or anyone… not until we figure this out.”
“I haven’t said anything
to David. Actually, I’ve been avoiding him because I was afraid he could tell something was wrong. But,” she added, her voice rising an octave, “he might be able to give us some advice on how this will affect Marigold’s case.”
And my brand. My social peeps will go bananas when they find out I have a bun in the oven.
“Let’s hold off for now,” my mother said, her voice low and thoughtful. “Until we know what we’re dealing with.”
So, Catholic cornerstones notwithstanding, apparently no options were off the table.
“I have to run,” my mom said. “I’m showing the Hershey house in forty minutes.”
“Oh, the contemporary house with the roof garden?”
“That’s the one.”
“I’ll walk out with you,” Sidney said. “By the way, David arranged a session for me with the top media trainer in the city….”
They left, and left me wondering what I’d have to do to get my family’s full attention.
September 2, Friday
“WON’T THE RADIOLOGY Department miss the ultrasound machine?” Nurse Gina asked.
Gina and Dr. Tyson had appropriated a piece of equipment for a private viewing in my room.
“Not if we hurry,” Dr. Tyson said. “At this point, I can’t afford for anyone else to find out about Ms. Kemp’s condition. The family is under enough pressure without word leaking to the press.”
“I understand,” Gina said. “Um… does Dr. Jarvis know about the pregnancy?”
“Yes, he was present when I told the family the day before yesterday. Why?”
“No reason,” Gina squeaked.
Poor Gina. She was probably feeling so guilty about helping Dr. Jarvis administer the experimental cocktail.
“Please turn off that music,” Dr. Tyson said irritably.
Gina obliged, and the sound from the iPod ended abruptly between movements of Arcangelo Corelli’s Concerto Grosso No. 8 in G Minor. (See how cultured I’m getting?)
The door opened.
“Speak of the devil,” Dr. Tyson said. “What brings you by, Dr. Jarvis?”
“I wanted to talk to you about Mari—about Ms. Kemp.”
“You’ll have to talk to me while I administer the ultrasound.”
“Okay. Gina, would you give us some privacy?”
“Gina is Ms. Kemp’s nurse,” Dr. Tyson said. “Whatever you have to say, you can say it in front of her.”
“I’d rather not, um, involve anyone else,” he said.
Good—he was going to protect Gina.
“Okay,” Dr. Tyson said, her voice suspicious. “Gina, you may leave.”
Gina’s footsteps sounded. The door opened and closed.
“What’s this about?” Dr. Tyson prompted.
“I, um, have a confession to make.”
“I’m not a priest, Dr. Jarvis.”
He must’ve looked anguished because she added, “Okay, spit it out.”
“It’s about the experimental cocktail Dr. Oscar is using at Walter Reed.”
“How do you know about that?”
“I… found out about it.”
“And?”
“And… I contacted Dr. Oscar.”
“Excuse me?”
“It gets worse,” he said morosely. “I told him I was working with you and I got the formulary protocol.”
“And?” Dr. Tyson’s voice was steely.
“And… I administered the drug.”
“You did what?”
“I know it was wrong—”
“It’s way past being wrong,” she said, her voice shaking. “What you did is criminal, Dr. Jarvis.”
“I know,” he said. “I didn’t know about the fetus.”
“Yes, there’s that, too!” she snapped. “This is why there’s a protocol for doing things around here, Jarvis! What the hell were you thinking?”
“I was thinking it wasn’t fair that Ms. Kemp be denied the drug simply because her insurance refused to pay for it.”
“And now the hospital will have to eat the cost, and you might have done much more damage than good.”
“What can I do to make it right?”
“You’re assuming it can be made right.”
“As soon as I found out about the baby, I contacted Dr. Oscar and asked if anything in the drug posed a danger to the fetus.”
“And?”
“And he said not that he was aware of.”
“Because the drug probably wasn’t tested on anyone who was pregnant,” she said grimly. “And you know the fetus is most vulnerable in the first trimester.”
“If it’s any consolation, I believe the drug is helping. I’ve kept a chart of my verbal command tests with Ms. Kemp, and the times and dates she responded by moving her right fingers.”
A rustle of paper sounded.
“She moved her fingers yesterday morning?” Dr. Tyson asked.
“And this morning,” he said. “I came in before rounds.”
“Did anyone else witness her movement?”
“No.”
“Well, let’s try again now, shall we?”
She sounded falsely cheerful, as if she fully expected me not to respond.
“Ms. Kemp, I’m holding your right hand and I need for you to move your fingers if you can. Can you move your fingers, Marigold? Can you move the fingers on your right hand?”
I’m trying so hard to make Jarvis look good.
“Anything?” he asked.
“No,” she said, as if she hadn’t expected anything different.
“It seems as if she responds better in the morning versus later in the day.”
“And yet, you have no witnesses to confirm she responded at all.”
“No.”
“It’s clear to me, Dr. Jarvis, that you’re projecting what you want to happen onto the patient to justify your unconscionable actions.”
“Can we try one more thing?”
“No.”
“You hold her hand and let me give the command. What could it hurt?”
She sighed. “You have thirty seconds.”
From the shuffling of feet, I assumed they had changed places by my bed.
“Hello, Marigold, it’s Dr. Jarvis. I need for you to squeeze my hand, Marigold. Tell your brain to tell your arm to tell your hand to move your fingers, Marigold. Try really hard, it’s very important. Move your fingers, Marigold.”
I visualized each step he described, picturing the command forming in my brain, then traveling down my arm to my hand and instructing my fingers to move.
“I felt something,” Dr. Tyson said, her voice hushed. “Tell her again.”
“Good job, Marigold,” he said excitedly. “Do it one more time. Move your fingers, Marigold.”
“Yes,” she said. “I definitely felt her fingers move.”
He whooped. “I told you! See, the drug is working.”
“Not so fast,” Dr. Tyson said. “We have no proof that the drug is working. It could be elevated hormones from the pregnancy causing metabolic changes. Don’t think for a minute this excuses you breaking almost every medical protocol this hospital has in place.”
There was another rustle of paper.
“I typed up a memo detailing what I did to exonerate you and the hospital from liability.”
“Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way. I’m on the hook for you, Jarvis. We might both lose our license to practice over this.”
“Tell me what to do.”
“You can shut the hell up while I run this ultrasound and pray I find a fetal heartbeat.”
He shut the hell up and I held my mental breath.
“There,” she said, relief shading her voice.
“Is it strong?”
“Yes. And it’s where it should be, so not ectopic.”
So at least my unconscious reproductive system is working properly.
“Now what?” he asked.
“You don’t get to ask that question,” she said, her voice low and lethal. �
�Give me the memo.”
From the sound of paper tearing, I deduced she had yanked it from his hand.
“Now go home, Dr. Jarvis, and don’t set foot back into this hospital until you hear from me, is that understood?”
“Yes, doctor.”
Dr. Jarvis’s footsteps sounded, then the door opened and closed.
Dr. Tyson uttered a long, frustrated noise. “For someone so quiet, Marigold Kemp, you are causing quite an uproar.”
Suddenly, the classical music resumed in bombastic glory.
Was Dr. Tyson coming around to Dr. Jarvis’s unorthodox treatments?
September 3, Saturday
“THANK YOU FOR COMING today to talk about Marigold,” Dr. Tyson said.
“You don’t have to thank us,” my dad said, sounding cranky. “She’s our daughter.”
“I know,” Dr. Tyson said calmly, “but you would be surprised how difficult it can be to get a patient’s family to engage in a patient’s care in a meaningful way.”
She let that sentence hang in the air for everyone to absorb, although I’m pretty sure it bounced off my Teflon-coated family.
“I don’t understand why we can’t have these meetings in your office,” my mother said. “It’s unnerving to have these conversations over Marigold’s body.”
As if they’re talking over a corpse.
“I like to think that Marigold can hear us,” Dr. Tyson said, “and would want to know what’s going on with her recovery.”
I forget why I ever had bad feelings toward Dr. Tyson.
“In fact, I have good news—yesterday, Marigold responded to a command to move the fingers on her right hand.”
Exclaims of surprise sounded.
“So she’s getting better?”
“Can she hear us?”
“Why didn’t you call us?”
“Some movement is definitely better than none. I don’t know that she can hear all the time, and even if she can, it doesn’t mean she understands what’s being said. Reacting to a command to move fingers is a very basic response… but it’s cause for optimism. And I did call and leave a message on your home phone.”
“Oh,” my mother said, “we haven’t been home that much lately. My business has become so demanding.”
“And I’ve been on the road,” my dad explained.
“And I never check the land-line phone,” Sidney added.
“Well then,” Dr. Tyson said.
Which pretty much said it all, really.