The Two Day War

 The Two Day War

You want to know the most paralytic, soul-crushing moment of my entire life? How in the space of just two days I ranged from the most anticipative joy, to the utter grave walking despair?

I was seventeen years old, and lying in a hospital bed awaiting surgery. My mum was with me; as she always was. She knew I couldn’t stand hospitals, she knew the risks of the procedure I was about to undergo. Looking back on it now, she was stronger than I ever gave her credit for.

An infection had done significant damage to my left inner ear, eating away at flesh and degrading nerve endings. It had taken over four months to find a bed and time for surgery, but in that time, I knew pain.

At that point in my life, I was still young but I knew pain well. This was to be the seventh operation regarding my ‘bad’ ear. Each one more strenuous than the last. But this one was different. The risks were higher, and the result a pure 50/50.

Doctors had told me that if they were unsuccessful, I could lose all sensation on the left hand side of my face. But even in the positive, the outcomes might not be so pleasant. I recall that now, eleven years later, as I continue to suffer with flayed nerves and daily migraines. 

But there I was. Ready to fight the fight again. They took me to surgery as I said goodbye to my mother. I tried to remain calm as all the faceless doctors and nurses got to work around me. Crocodile snap on my finger showed how hard it was just to do that. I focused on my heart rate.

They put the needle through my vein and told me to count to ten.

One.

Two.

Three. My arm goes numb, but still hurts a little.

Four…

Five…

Six. The room goes dark for a moment, and I pass out.

…

Then a pain I have never experienced. And never, ever wish too again.

I opened my eyes with a shock. I was lying on my side, my head pounded and pulsated. The pressure of the packing and dressing around my ear told me they were finished. But I was not in the ward I was supposed to be.

I could just make out the details of the bright room, and I realised as I looked across the area towards other beds that I was still in surgery, albeit a recovery room.

And then I felt it. My body reacted to the shock, the trauma, the utter essence of a moment of clarity. I cried out, the pain so great I felt like a hole had opened inside my brain.

I heard a male nurse yell, ‘He’s awake. He’s awake’. I closed my eyes to stop the light burning my teary eyes. I heard rushed footsteps, felt soft hands grab me. I sobbed, and my body reacted as a cough built up. Air escaped my lungs, but it wasn’t the only thing to leave me. Blood caked the cloth in front of me and dribbled down my face. I struggled to breathe. Dense, dry crimson substance stuck to the back of my throat - filling my mouth. My head continued to pound so hard I could barely hear any sounds.

By now those soft hands moved erratically, lacking focus or composure. Between stifled gasps of breathes and lack of distinctive sense, I panicked and writhed.

I honestly thought I was going to die there.

And to this day, I believe that that was what death felt like. Panicked, chaotic, utter agony.

The entire scenario lasted no more than thirty seconds before the new drugs they pumped into me knocked me back into unconsciousness.  As darkness overcame me. I remember the pain slipping over, like water draining down a sinkhole. I remember the calm black. And empty nothingness as everything simply began to slow and stop.

But I remember the last sound I heard before I was gone. The unmistakeable sound of my own voice screaming, as the echo ran through me and into the dark. Reminding me of its eternal manifestation.  The agony I was forever bonded too.

The day that Death and I bumped shoulders walking down the street.

I awoke some time later that same day. Disoriented and confused. The memory of the event still fresh on my mind. A doctor prodded me to focus, eager to elucidate the results of his work. 

He told me to smile.

The request was so bizarre to me I just spaced forward, unclear how my body ever used to work before.

He requested again, clarifying that he needed to know if I had function on my left side of my face. It was important so I tried my best.

It took every inch of strength I had left to smile wide, my teeth apparently still red with blood. The doctor nodded in thanks and vanished from sight. I had no time for questions or the like before I slipped unconscious again.

The night was the same as any night I had spent in hospital. Awake. In pain. Surrounded by the sounds of the same or the dying. That night I listened intently to the sound of a nearby heart rate monitor. It was attached to a man who cried out for help every minute. I ignored his panicked and whimpering cries and focused on the machine, the rhythmic lullaby of life. I didn’t sleep because I was afraid of dying. The sound was a reminder of the real. The focused. I listened because my mind raced; it questioned why I experienced what I had done. Does that force of pain truly exist? Does Death feel like that?

I eventually slept but it was not a comfortable rest.

The next day…The second unfortunate chapter of my agony.  

I had demanded to be released from the hospital’s care as soon as the doctor had seen to me. I was tired, angry, in pain and entirely out of my mind. My mother was due to arrive in the next few hours so regardless I sat in my bed, forced to wait.

The Matron mother came over to see me. She was an older lady but patient and kind. Her face could tell the tale of every patient she had ever attended in that hospital. I was thankful for her gentleness after the past experiences I had with nurses whom had little sleep and restraint.

I said I needed to go to the bathroom. It had been many hours since I had done so and I needed someone to help guide me from the bed. She agreed. And helped me stand.

My feet were unsteady, and all my strength was almost gone as fatigue laid waste to my body. With gentle steps, we slowly began the sluggish walk across the ward floor towards the facilities.

Half way through my adventure, I had to stop.

My mind completely unable to process what I saw in front of me.

Two beds away from my own was occupied by an old lady, she was surrounded by her family, at count at least six different people. But as I walked past, I noticed one of these individuals from the corner of my eye. A man who I had not seen for quite some time.

My father.

There he was. Standing beside his lover and her family, wishing the old patient well and good company.

I just stood still. Like a rabbit in headlights. The man who had never been there for any of my previous hospital stays – stood right before me.

And he wasn’t there for me at all.

He didn’t even know I was there.

A few feet away, and still so completely and utterly apart.

Matron Mother asked me what was wrong; why I had stopped.

I pointed and said. “That’s my dad.”

She smiled. “That’s great. Let me just fetch him.”

“No.” I called out. She stopped and looked at me. “He…he isn’t here for me.”

Art by my wonderful friend. Jonathon Bone. http://aldersmoon.wix.com/aldersmoon

We continued onwards in silence. And as I looked at my reflection in the bathroom. I saw how destroyed I was. The bandage covered almost my entire face. My skin a mixed of dried blood and pale white. My eyes black and bloodshot. My lips cracked and dehydrated. My body had engaged in the worst fight of its existence, and it was victorious if not forever scarred.

And then came the flooding tears. The moment of destroyed ego. I had always had a strained relationship with my father. He never wanted a second son, him and his entire family. He always wanted a daughter.

He taught me nothing about being a good person. I was invisible to him, muted to his ears. I grew up hating and fearing every man I ever met because how he treated me. The only lesson he taught me was about betrayal. On how to get what you want and damn the consequences. He opened my heart only to exploit me, and left a sizable hole that could never be filled.

And at my weakest, most vulnerable time.

He didn’t see me.

Death saw me.

But he didn’t.

And so that’s my story. A story of a child fighting a war in two days on both the physical and emotional. I continued on at that point but something always was different. It wasn’t just the pain. It’s almost indescribable.

I lived that day, but only to experience agony.

I’m too afraid of dying, terrified of that horrifying pain. But now I’m too damage to continue living. Just like everyone else.