Chapter 4

Chapter Four

At nine o’clock sharp Kayla and I walked through the gleaming doors of Carmel General Hospital. We were immediately assaulted by the smell of antiseptic cleaning detergent and the sights and sounds typically associated with hospitals.

 

“Do you know where we’re going?” I asked Kayla, a little unsure of myself.

“Mom said to ask for her at reception and she’d come to find us and show us around.” she replied, heading over to the receptionist. “We’re here to see Doctor Lana Cook.”

The receptionist, in typical receptionist fashion, looked up at us from behind her desk before returning to examine her perfectly manicured talons. “Do you have an appointment?”

“Yes, she’s my mother and knows that we’re coming.”

The receptionist glanced up at us, unbelieving, before she picked up the phone and dialled Dr Cook’s office. Before our eyes the ice-queen melted and suddenly the receptionist was bubbly and welcoming, ushering us toward the waiting room and offering us magazines to read while we waited.

“So, what’s the bet that she’s actually a bi-polar patient who escaped from the psychiatric ward and suffers from delusions of being a receptionist?” Kayla whispered to me as the woman glided back to her desk.

Dr Cook appeared in the waiting room five minutes later, her stethoscope hanging around her neck in true doctor fashion. Looking at her made me think of an older version of Kayla, complete with long blonde hair and flawless ivory skin.

 

“Come on girls, let’s put you to work.” she called, guiding us to the staff change room where she handed us a pair of white, shapeless dresses to put over our clothes and a matching apron. “Hand these back to me at the end of the day so that they can get laundered. Now sign these consent and indemnity forms, put on those uniforms and meet me outside.”

We rushed to do as she said; knowing that each moment she wasted showing us around was a moment she could be seeing to patients. The uniforms looked ridiculous but the aprons helped their appearance by ridding them of their shapeless form. Hair tied back and forms in hand, we joined Dr Cook. She began her tour by explaining what was expected of us. For instance, we were only to do what a doctor or nurse asked us to do. We were not allowed to read the medical charts of the patients unless given permission to do so, and we had to remain professional at all times.

“Kayla, you’ll be with me today. Callista, you’ll be heading over to Neurology to help my husband.” she motioned the way to the ward with her hands as she spoke.

I sent Kayla a nervous smile as we parted ways, venturing forth into unknown territory. The large, steel doors of the Neurology ward reminded me strangely of the gates of Hades as they were depicted in one of my father’s textbooks. I pushed through them and was stopped by a nurse who called Dr David Cook to see to me.

“Ah, hello Callie. I’m glad you came to join us today.” he greeted me warmly, grabbing my hand in his. “Welcome to my playground, and please call me Doc. That’s my name around these parts.”

Slightly shorter than his wife, Doc had the appearance of the brain surgeon he was. A thick mop of blonde hair sat upon his round face, stylish glasses perched on his nose and a pristine white lab coat over his shirt and tie finished his attire. 

He introduced me to all of his staff and showed me around the ward. Many of his patient’s had thick bandages covering the top half of their heads; the remains of surgery, no doubt. It reminded me quite a bit of those videos you see where soldiers from the World Wars lay in hospital bleeding to death.

“Well, Callie, what do you think? Do you think you can stomach a place like this or would you rather go to the maternity ward and help out with the babies?”

I thought about it for a split second, but the prospect of being guarded like a criminal in the maternity ward didn’t appeal to me. “I think I’ll do just fine here.”

A broad smile creased his features and I got the sense that he may have been surprised that I didn’t squirm my way out of the doors; neurology wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea. The staff set me to work immediately, obviously pleased that I had decided to stick around. It was then that I discovered that the “L” shaped ward consisted of two separate sections with two separate types of patients. The first section was reserved for those patients who had had brain trauma or brain surgery, these patients were under constant supervision just in case something went wrong therefore their beds were placed in the ward directly in front of the nurses’ station. The second type was what the staff termed “non-responsive”, patients who were in comas but did not require life support. They were situated in the shorted part of the “L” behind a set of glass doors in a room all to their own.

“It’s like they’re stuck in continuous sleep.” one of the nurses explained. “Many of them may never wake up, but if one does then the monitors beside their beds will set off the alarms at the nurses’ station so we can rush to their side and stop them from trying to climb out of bed.’

I stared at the five beds where the coma patients slept in complete oblivion to the rest of the world. “Do they know that we’re here?” I whispered, almost as if I was trying not to wake them.

 

The nurse smiled at me and put her hand on my shoulder. “Some research has revealed that even though coma patients are unresponsive, all of their senses still work. They can most likely still hear your voice or feel your touch, so they probably do know that we’re here.”

I suddenly felt conscious of the fact that we were talking in front of patients who probably heard every word we said, and yet the nurse spoke as if they would never wake up. We turned and walked back to the station where Doc waited for me, giving me the task of organizing the supply cupboards and taking stock of everything that was in them.

The morning flew by faster than I could have imagined. Doc taught me how to change the patients’ bandages and tasked me with feeding some of the patients whose coordination had been damaged by their brain injuries. He said that most of them would require special therapy to help them use their limbs and talk properly again; I couldn’t imagine what that might be like. By the time it was lunch my mind was in turmoil. I had asked Doc about each and every one of his surgery patients until he eventually gave up and asked the patients if they minded if I looked at their files. None of them refused, so I spent an hour reading each and every one. The more I read the more interested I became, captured by the complexity of the brain and how much the staff were helping the patients and saving lives.

 After a quick lunch on the park bench outside the hospital, we returned to the ward. Doc had to go into surgery so he left me in the care of the nurses who sent me on menial errands until they finally ran out of things to do. Eventually one of them came up with an idea.

 

“You could read to the coma patients. Doc usually gets one of us to do it but since we’ve got nothing else for you to do... Would you mind?”

 

How hard could reading a book to a bunch of sleeping people be? I got the book from the nurse and made my way to the coma unit. The buzz of machinery which monitored each patient’s blood-oxygen levels and heart rate greeted me as I entered. Remembering what the nurse had said about the patients probably being aware of my presence, I thought it best to introduce myself to them. I walked from bed to bed cautiously, as if any loud noise or sudden movement would wake them. Each patient’s name was written above their bed in bold writing along with the date they had been admitted. One of the patients had been in the hospital for over five years! I couldn’t imagine what that must be like. If he ever woke up it would be as if he had time travelled to an unfamiliar place... I mean five years ago there was so many things that hadn't yet happened in the world, let alone things that may have happened in his family.

As I made my way to the last bed I felt an undeniable pull. The board above the bed said his name was “John Doe”, clearly not his real name, and that he had been admitted five weeks ago. Where all the other patients in the unit had been clearly older than 35, the guy who occupied this bed looked closer to my age. Looking down at him, I had to resist the urge to touch him. His coal-black hair, a bit longer than I usually liked, swept across his forehead and matched his long eyelashes which fell against his stubbled cheek in slumber, his lips parted slightly as he breathed. I gave into the urge which nagged me and brushed his hair back, half expecting him to protest but he remained locked in sleep.

I opened the curtain next to his bed and let the sunlight brush against his skin as I sat down to read Sherlock Holmes aloud. Always an avid reader, I lost myself in the pages of the mystery so when I heard a nurse call my name, I jumped.

“I’m sorry to disturb, Callista, but it’s visiting time and some of the family members are here to see the coma patients.” she smiled as she ushered me out of the room, letting a family through the glass doors as we exited.

“The patient in the last bed, John Doe, does no one know any details about him?” I asked, probing subtly for information.

A puzzled look flashed across the nurse’s face as she turned to me.

“He was found in an empty field by a farmer just over a month ago, no ID, no cellphone and no clothes. The police department searched through all the missing persons reports but no one has reported him missing so we have no details at all. Even his fingerprints turned up empty. They were thinking that he was an illegal immigrant, but the police are still trying to figure out where he came from as he doesn't seem to be from one of our neighboring countries.”

I found myself mulling over the mystery at hand and barely heard Doc say that he would take me home since Kayla had been sent home earlier by her mother. Apparently she had thrown up all over a patient whose bandages were being changed; hopefully that would be a big enough hint to her parents that she wasn’t suited to the medical field.

My parents were both waiting for me when I got home, wanting to hear how my volunteering had gone. Filling them in while I ate dinner helped me organise my thoughts, still a bit overactive from the day’s festivities.

Later when I was lying in bed my mind kept returning to the ward, flashes of what happened throughout the day ran like a low budget movie. I think that I may have found my calling in that ward, and I was thrilled to see what more it could offer. I eventually fell asleep clutching my duvet to my chest.

And that was the first night I dreamed of him.