Hidden Pain

Most of you will recognize this story if you read my blog on a normal basis, but there are a few plot revisions.  The story seems much more stream-lined now, in my opinion.  Feel free to comment on it below!  Here is the revision of the story No Blood.  Here is Hidden Pain:

Hidden Pain

            I’ve always hated hospitals.  So when my friend, Rory, asked me to take her to the emergency room after our all-night marathon of movies, I was not the one who jumped right in and screamed “YES!”  In fact, I tried to figure out every possible way to get out of taking her.  However, since her mom was out of town and every other person in this world was busy, I was the only possible answer.  She pleaded with me to take her as tears strolled down her face.  Thus, I drove Rory, in my 2001 Chevy Malibu, across town to the emergency room. 

            This wasn’t the everyday sort of issue that you would think to see in the emergency room.  There was no blood.  No broken bones.  It was just excruciating body-wide pain caused by another lupus flare.  One would have thought that the exceedingly large amount of pain killers that she’s been prescribed would have stopped the pain long before an ER visit was necessary.  I found it bizarre that I was going to spend a glorious Saturday afternoon in the emergency room. 

            Registration seemed to take forever.  Rory had nine medications that they had to enter into their system.  Some were taken only one time a day and then there were others that she would take two pills here and two again later and if it was really a bad day then she could take this medicine.  Needless to say, I had a headache by the end of it.  All of Rory’s vitals were normal.  No surprise there.  She looked fine to me and perfectly fine to the registration people.  So, we were directed to go to the waiting room.  Actually, we had our choice of three waiting rooms.  Big whoop; I think we chose the worst one, but Rory didn’t want to move. 

            The room was plain.  The lights were dim and the walls were beige.  Nothing hung on the walls except a clock.  It was a big clock.  The clock had a second-hand that counted the moments spent in the waiting room.  The moments I was wasting away, on my only free weekend, sitting in a room that smelled like my grandma’s attic.  I was beginning to think otherwise about this friendship.  I had things to do, people to see.  I didn’t understand.  Rory has had these flares before.  Why did she have to come to the ER today?  Rory seemed fine all night.  Except for the few dizzy spells she had, but she didn’t seem to be caught off guard by them.  I didn’t want to be there.  I felt like I was getting sick just sitting in that room.  My mind was racing!  I even began to feel a bit light-headed. 

            Rory got out her cell phone.  Can you believe that she texted me?  I was sitting right next to her and she sent me a text rather than just talking to me!  I can’t even remember exactly what it said.  Something along the lines:  “Sorry for making you wait so long.  Hope you don’t mind waiting with me.”  At least she tried to show that she cared that I was here. 

            A young man walked into the room and took a seat across from Rory and me.  His cap nearly hid his black, shaggy hair.  His wire-frame glasses did not provide much protection from the sight of a tear sliding down his acne-filled face.  Why was he here?  What was wrong with him?  Again, there was no blood.  I didn’t understand. 

            Rory began to stare at this young man.  He was probably about our age anyway.  Except for the puffy eyes, he wasn’t too bad to look at.  Tears started rolling down Rory’s face.  I wasn’t sure what to do.  Was she crying because this man was crying?  He hadn’t said a word to us.  But something about him must have struck Rory strong enough to cause her to cry. 

            I tried to focus on what I was doing.  I was evaluating the room and counting the seconds spent in this boring, badly-decorated room.  Rory got out of her chair to throw away her tissues she had used to wipe her tears.  She took great care with each step, making sure she didn’t put too much pressure on either leg.  The way she hunched over reminded me again of my grandma.  I shook my head as if I were shaking out the memory. 

            When I came back to real life, Rory was pushing the buttons on her phone ever so slowly as if it was work to do so.  I wondered if she was back to texting me.  No, she must have updated her Facebook status.  If that was the case, it would only be moments before it would arrive at my phone.  A few weeks ago, I had set my Facebook settings to allow it to send her status updates to my phone as soon as they were posted. 

            Yes, she had updated her Facebook status, but her status confused me.  “Rory Holland is in the ER again.  Ugh.”   Again?  What did that mean?  Had she been in the ER before?  She did seem to breeze through registration as if she knew exactly what to do.  Although, Rory was older than me and she had been a nurse for a few years now.  Maybe she knew what to do because of her work experience.  Still, it didn’t explain her status.  What did “again” mean?  I resolved to ask her later, though I have yet to ask her and it’s been years since that Saturday spent in the ER.

            As I was saying, the young man that had come in earlier seemed atypical.  He had stopped crying now.  His eyes were focused.  I tried to trace what his eyes were looking at so intensely.  When I realized it was a red light switch, I chuckled.  Everyone in the room gave me a death glare, as if I were some crazy, old woman cackling in the quiet library!  It was only a red light switch.  What was so fascinating about it that his gaze would be fixed on a light switch?  Hadn’t he seen a light switch?  Sure, it was red but there was nothing special about it.  It worked the same way as every other light switch in the world.  It was the only colorful thing in the room, where everything was beige.  I wondered if Rory understood why he was staring at the red light switch.  In fact, after updating her Facebook status, she too began to stare at the switch like it was some magical switch that wanted to be turned on so that everyone could be cured of their illnesses.  It was ridiculous.  I whispered her name, “Rory.  Rory.”  It seemed useless to say it a third time.  I opted to poke her.  Her body was hot, as if it had been in a sauna, rather than this waiting room.  Rory swatted her hand back at me.  She hated being poked.  She said that it hurt when people touched or hugged her.  If that was the case, I can’t imagine what it was like to have the blood pressure cuff on her arm when registration took her vitals!  Her gaze moved away from the switch.  I still did not have any clue what the magic was behind the switch. 

            Rory got up.  She went to sit next to this guy.  I didn’t think Rory was one to pick up guys in the emergency room, so I eavesdropped. 

            “Hey, my name is Rory.  How are you doing?”

            “I’ve always hated that question.  It’s not like it matters anyway,” he said.

            “I hate that question too.  Sorry.  So, what are your plans tonight?” asked Rory.

            There it was.  Or so I thought.  Rory was picking up a date at the emergency room.  How unfair!

            “Nothing.  I don’t have plans,” he said.

            “Okay.  That’s cool.  You can sit back and chill at home.  I told you my name.  But, you haven’t told me your name yet.”

            “It’s Dylan,” he said as they shook hands.  He pulled his hand away quickly as he pulled his long sleeves back down across his forearms that looked like they had been in a losing battle with a cat. 

            Rory and Dylan didn’t say much to each other after that.  She just sat across the room with him.  I wasn’t really sure what to think.  She didn’t set up a date or anything with this guy.  She just sat there with him.  Rory reminded me of a visit to my grandma.  My grandma simply sat in her faded, pink recliner rocking back and forth clinging to her favorite afghan.  She never said a word my entire visit.  All of her memories were gone.  She had no idea who was sitting next to her.  She had no idea who her granddaughter was, nonetheless, the girl who learned how to cook at her grandma’s right-hand.  She had no idea that I admired her more than anyone else in the entire world.  So, for two whole hours, I sat on the loveseat where we used to cuddle, share stories, and eat the most delicious macaroni and cheese that anyone has ever tasted.  That time, I did nothing, said nothing, and didn’t cry a single tear. 

            “Mr. Stevenson,” the nurse called, “We’re ready for you.”

            The nurse’s deep voice brought me back to reality.  I watched as the middle-aged man, who was sitting under the clock, limped across the room.  “Looks like a sprained ankle,” I whispered under my breath.  Rory nodded my way in agreement.  I smiled back in hopes that she was feeling better and we could just leave.  I was tired of sitting and waiting.  Patience has never been a virtue I’ve been blessed with having. 

            I hoped that we would get a room soon.  I was tired of this plain room.  I was tired of seeing hurting people pile into this small room.  Of course, I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t say that I was annoyed with the people who were able to get a room before us.  I just wanted to be home.  I didn’t like just sitting.  I didn’t know what to say or what to do.  Rory seemed to have everything under control. 

            Dylan got up.  I wondered where he might be headed.  He was the only one we had talked to the entire time we were here, not counting the registration nurse. 

            “Where’s the bathroom?” Dylan asked.

            I overheard the nurse, who had sat outside the door ever since Dylan arrived, say, “It’s this way.  I have to take you there.  It’s part of procedure.” 

            Dylan was at the restroom for a long while.  Guess he had some business to take care of.  I chuckled again.  This time, the only stare I received was from Dylan who had just walked back into the room.  It wasn’t an evil stare, just an acknowledgement of my laughter.  The nurse returned his station outside the door, looking in the room every couple minutes.  It was like Dylan had a baby-sitter, someone to look after him to make sure he didn’t do anything wrong or hurt himself.

            I looked at the big clock.  I was more than impatient.  We had been at the ER for over an hour and a half and I was ready to be home.  I wanted to get home in time for dinner.  Dad had told me last night before I left for Rory’s that he was grilling for dinner tonight.  I pictured a big, juicy steak with grilled potatoes covered in butter and seasonings.  Yes, I was hoping to make it home in time for dinner. 

            It had been months since I last missed dinnertime.  In April, I went to see my grandma in her assisted living facility.  By this time, her memory was gone entirely.  I don’t think she knew where she was.  She would utter things, but they wouldn’t make sense.  She didn’t move at all.  They had moved her pink recliner to the assisted living facility, but the nurses had trouble lifting her out of such a well-loved chair.  Many times when I had gone to see her, she was in bed, with nine or ten pillows surrounding her and underneath her providing support from any potential sores.  It was a pitiful sight.  She wasn’t even able to be in her own bed.  They had to bring in a hospital bed.  Machines were all over the place; cords traced along the baseboards.  Nothing in her apartment-like room seemed like the grandma I once knew and loved.  I tried to talk to her like I used to, but it just wasn’t the same as before she lost her memory.  The conversations were awkward.

            I heard grandma mumble something incomprehensible.  The machine flat lined.  I didn’t know what to do.  I felt so helpless.  I frantically called out for the nurse.  Within minutes they were rushing my grandma out the door and into an ambulance.  I was left standing in the room to decide whether to go to the hospital or stay behind. 

            I called my mom as I was on the way to the emergency room.  She was going to meet me there.  I wasn’t sure how much good it would do.  I hoped and prayed the doctors could bring her back to life.  After hours of sitting in a plain ER waiting room with bad magazines, the doctor informed us of the news.  Grandma didn’t make it.  I ran out of the hospital crying and vowing never to return.

            But, there I was.  I was in the very hospital waiting room that I learned the news of my grandma’s death.  I was in the very hospital that I vowed never to return to at the request of my best friend.  Exactly six months later, I was sitting in the very spot where I learned of my grandma’s death. 

            Rory handed me a tissue.  “Oh, thanks,” I said, sniffling and wiping my eyes.

            “No problem.  Is everything alright?” she asked.

            I wasn’t sure what to respond.  I nodded yes.  I hated crying.  I just missed my grandma so much.  And I had never thought I would return to this place.  “How are you feeling?”

            “Like shit, but hopefully I’ll be able to go back soon.  My chest hurts so badly!  I feel like I’m having a heart attack,” Rory said.

            “Are you having a heart attack?”  I asked frantically.

“No.  That’s highly unlikely.  It’s just what it feels like.  Not too pleasant,” Rory said.

“Well, sorry you feel so bad.  I hope the doctors are able to stop the pain.”  I said this in hopes that it would perk up my mood towards the doctors.  Perhaps there was still a chance that they could earn their spot on my good list.  They didn’t do so well on the last attempt.  But somehow, I knew that my grandma was already dead to me before the doctors even made it to her bedside.  She had slowly died over the months and years of her memory loss. 

            “Me too,” Rory said with a hint of optimism. 

            Rory’s optimism always kept me going.  It was her shining feature.  Even when the worst of situations were at hand, she was always the encourager who was helping everyone to keep going no matter what.  Rory was the kind of person that stood up for what was right, even if she was standing alone. 

            I glanced over at Dylan.  “Is he alright?” I asked Rory.  His hazel eyes squinted and were focused once more on that red light switch. 

            “No, he isn’t right now.  But he will be.”  Rory gave a soft smile.  She must have known something that I didn’t know.  I probably had missed some conversation in the midst of my wandering mind. 

            The red light switch had seemed so insignificant before now.  The big clock ticked the moments away from my Saturday.  But it was still plain; the most colorful thing in the room was the red switch.  Why was it red?  Couldn’t they have chosen a color other than the color of blood?  Why didn’t they choose a color different than that which provokes anger and pain? 

            It was noticeable.  I had finally found an answer to my question.  In the emergency room, the color red is noticed.  I just wasn’t in a place to notice it before.  Rory had no blood.  No broken bones.  Yet pain was evident.  Even Dylan, who was eventually taken to the psych ward, had pain.  I just had to learn to look past the obvious to see the hidden pain.