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I can’t do this without Mark. I just can’t.
What if he lives, but he’s not in there? Can I truly help him die?
I hear his voice in my head every time that question crosses my mind – which is often. There’s a difference between existing and living, Charlie. If I’m merely existing, I’d rather die.
I’m a wreck, barely sleeping, barely eating, haunted by fears I’m too afraid to face. Every other day brings a new surgery. Explosions force debris deep into the body, creating wounds that have to be reopened and cleaned frequently. Every other day, it’s more anesthesia, more risk, more chances of losing him. I’m hanging on by the thinnest of threads. I tell myself over and over he’ll be okay, and I clutch at that hope with every ounce of my strength, but in those moments when my guard is down, fear consumes me, and I can barely breathe.
No one can tell if there’s permanent brain damage yet. Mark might still be in there, or he might not. He’s heavily sedated until his lungs improve, and until he’s off sedation, they can’t accurately assess his mental status. Not knowing is wringing me out, and if it weren’t for my frequent talks with Lila and Tucker, I don’t think I’d survive. I don’t tell them that, though.
Days blur together. I measure time by milestones. I can’t tell you what day of the week it is, but I know that the fifth day after my arrival, they’re pleased enough with his CT scans to remove the drains from his skull. Three days later, his lungs have improved enough to lower his ventilator settings, encouraging him to breathe on his own with the tube still in place. The next day, Dr. Paxton approaches me in the hall.
“I’m removing his breathing tube. He’s done well with minimal sedation, and I think he’s ready.” He pats my upper arm reassuringly.
If Mark can’t manage without the tube, it will mean a tracheostomy – a permanent hole in his throat for breathing. It’s yet another thing he wouldn’t want, and I pace in the hall until Dr. Paxton comes out, reassuring me that everything went perfectly.
Good news is a welcome relief.
I spend all afternoon by his side, talking and holding his hand. Most of his facial swelling has resolved, and the purple bruises have faded to green and yellow. He’s breathing easily, with simple nasal oxygen for support, but he’s still asleep, so I keep talking, stubbornly prodding him, willing him back to me.
“I have a house in the mountains. You’ll like it. It’s in Tucker’s hometown, a place called Cedar Ridge. He and Lila live just a few minutes from me, and they’ve got horses and goats. Can you believe it? Lila has goats, ten or twelve of them, all girls, all named after supermodels. I’m sure they’d be offended if they knew. The models, I mean, not the goats.” I chuckle. “I think you’ll be comfortable at my house. It’s way too big for just me, but it spoke to my soul. Sounds weird, I know, but it’s true. It’s in the woods where it’s green and quiet. You know me. I need the quiet. It has five bedrooms and tons of windows, and the views are incredible, with the most amazing sunsets I’ve ever seen. The sun paints the mountains this brilliant red. That’s how they got their name. Sangre de Cristo? It means the blood of Christ. I think they were named by a priest. Or maybe it was an explorer? I can’t remember –”
“You talk a lot, Baby Girl.”
I nearly jump out of my skin at the hoarse whisper. Mark’s pale blue eyes are open, and he has a tired smile on his haggard face. I shriek and launch myself at him, burying my face in his chest and bursting into tears. He leans forward and kisses the top of my head, slowly dragging his right arm up to stiffly rub my shoulders. “It’s okay, Charlie. Don’t cry.” His voice is gruff, sandpapery.
His words finally register in my exhausted brain. He called me Baby Girl! He called me Charlie!
“You remember me!” I sob, and he stops moving. “They weren’t sure you would,” I ramble, wiping my eyes and sitting up, catching his befuddled expression. “I’m sorry. You’re the one who’s been through hell and I’m over here falling apart.” I cradle his face in my hands. “I was so afraid I was going to lose you.” Fresh tears stream down my cheeks. “I can’t lose you, Mark. I can’t.”
He shakes his head, then winces. “I’ll never leave you, Baby Girl. You’re stuck with me.”
“I’m holding you to that.” I dry my eyes again and press the call button. “I’ve got to tell Monica you’re awake.” I kiss his stubbled cheek, resting my head on his chest again. We’ve finally turned a major corner.
Things progress erratically once he regains consciousness. Mark makes steady advances in some areas but lags behind in others. The morning after he wakes up, I’m delighted to find him up in the recliner, staring at the pink and orange clouds streaking the sky. He still has numerous tubes and lines, and he’s pale, thin, and scruffy, but he’s upright, and his mind seems fully intact.
“Tell me you brought real coffee.” His voice is still raspy from the breathing tube. “This stuff is horrible.”
I smile, holding up two cups. “I sensed your desperate need for caffeine.” I pass him the taller cup and kiss the top of his head. He slides an arm around my waist and I lean gently against him, thrilled at how much he’s improved in twenty-four hours. “How are you feeling?”
He purses his lips. “I made it to the chair. I never thought that would be an accomplishment.”
I rub his upper back. “Baby steps, Big Guy. Yesterday you were still intubated. This is a massive improvement.”
Dr. Paxton had been pleased to see Mark awake last night, but when Mark pressed him about his recovery, he’d been direct.
Very direct.
“Your body has taken some extremely hard hits, Captain,” he’d said, dragging a chair to his bedside. “Your lungs are healing, but it will take months to regain stamina. Recovery from your brain injury could take a year or more. It’s normal to experience memory gaps, mood swings, angry outbursts, inappropriate emotional responses, depression, and anxiety following a head injury, and it’s possible to see those changes linger for years or even decades, though medication can reduce the symptoms. Your abdominal injuries are improving, but your core muscles have to knit together before you can begin strengthening them. You’ll be more prone to infections without your spleen, so before procedures, you’ll require antibiotics.”
Then he’d pulled the covers back to expose Mark’s right leg, or more accurately, what remained of it. Mark’s jaw tightened. I slipped my hand in his and he gripped it tightly, tension radiating from him in waves.
Dr. Paxton raised the hospital gown to Mark’s upper thigh and gestured to the swath of thick gauze encircling his leg from his hip to where it ended several inches below his knee. “You sustained a large burn along the outside of this thigh. The explosion produced a flash burn, hot and fast, so the damage was relatively confined. We removed the damaged tissue and placed a skin graft here.” He traced the outline with his fingertip. “There’s another burn along your left inner thigh, but it was shallow enough that it didn’t require grafting. Your right leg took the majority of the damage.”
I’d glanced at Mark’s face, but it remained expressionless, his stare fixed on Dr. Paxton’s face. He remained motionless but for the repeated flexing of his jaw.
He didn’t look down at his leg even once.
“Your right femur was shattered,” he continued. “They attempted unsuccessfully to repair it at the field hospital. When you arrived, we rebuilt your femur with plates, pins, and screws. That will take several months to fully heal.” Dr. Paxton hesitated. “Your lower leg was ripped apart by the blast. The bones ended in splinters just below your calf, and what little tissue remained was torn to ribbons. The medics stopped the bleeding and flew you to the field hospital. The field hospital amputated lower than what you see now. When you arrived, it was infected, and we had to remove additional tissue to preserve the limb.” He studied Mark, gauging his reaction. “Down the road, when your femur fully heals, you’d be ideal for a procedure called osseointegration. We would implant a porous rod in the center of your remaining bone, allowing you to use a mechanically-connected prosthesis rather than one that slips on over your stump.”
