Three Days Later...
Why does it feel like someone split my head open with an axe? I open my eyes, looking for the soot-covered man, who was sitting at my bedside every time I gained consciousness. I sit up, flustered with the dangling obstacles attached to my arm. Beeping machines and flashing lights add to my frustration as I try to swing my legs over the edge of the bed. The door opens, and a nurse rushes in, alarmed at the change in vitals sent to the nursing station caused by my persistent effort to get up.
“Hey.” She grabs for my arm as I start to tip over. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To the bathroom, and then to find the doctor with the dimples to find out what’s going on.”
She guides me to sit on the edge of the bed as the door swings open, and a concerned physician rushes into the room, stopping dead at the sight of me sitting there. “What are you doing?”
There is frustration in his tone, but I’d know those eyes anywhere. “I need to go to the bathroom.”
“Are you kidding me?” he stares at the nurse as he rounds the end of the bed. “Rose. You have serious head trauma.”
“Was I in an accident?”
They glance at each other. “You still don’t remember?” he asks sympathetically.
“No.”
“Do you remember your name?”
I do remember now. “Rose O’Brien.”
He nods his head. “That’s satisfactory progress. Do you remember me?”
He seems familiar, but I’m unsure. I shake my head.
“Well, that’s a shame,” he teases. “I’m a great guy.”
The nurse rolls her eyes, and I manage a small smile. I feel numb from the medications they’re giving me for the swelling and the pain.
“How long have I been out?”
“Three days.”
I look between the two frontline workers standing in front of me, wearing full personal protective gear. “Not long enough for them to find a cure for COVID, obviously.”
“Sadly, no,” the nurse adds as she tugs the wires out from underneath me.
“What happened to me?”
The doctor takes a small, somewhat laboured breath, and hesitates. “You’re a firefighter.”
I remember now. A small rush of anxiety washes over me. “I was hurt during a call.”
“There was a huge fire.”
I search every corner of my mind trying to recover the details. The nurse stares at the doctor, discreetly shaking her head in silent disapproval. He takes note of her gesture but ignores her. “You helped many people get out before the explosion.”
I lift my hands and look at my bandaged arms. I feel ill. “How bad are the burns?”
“Ah,” he says cheerfully. “That’s the good news. The burns are superficial. You were incredibly lucky the blast shot you a hundred feet away from the inferno. We’re just not taking any chances with infection. Unfortunately, you were hit hard with shrapnel, and we had to do surgery to release the pressure and swelling inside your skull. It took quite a bit of work to get you stable.”
“I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.”
He nods. “You have a severe concussion. So, we need you to stay calm and quiet to keep the swelling down and heal that brain of yours.”
I gently touch the top of my head and immediately feel a stabbing pain. “I’m not using a bedpan,” I inform him.
I can tell from the ghost of a smile on his lips that he knows me well enough not to argue with me. He scratches his head. “Well, nurse, if she insists on going, you had better get her a wheelchair.
She nods, but I can tell she’s not impressed. “Anything you say, Dr. Dimples,” she says stoically as she leaves the room.
He lowers his brow and looks down at me. “Dr. Dimples? What’s that all about?”
I shrug but I’m sure he notices me blush.
That one short trip to the bathroom was exhausting, and I hate that the IV medications rob me of my independence. I grumble as the nurse helps me back into bed. I drift off for what seems like a moment when a whisper awakens me. Several firefighters stand quietly around my bed, some holding flowers. My memory becomes less foggy as I look around the room at the familiar, mask-covered faces.
“Hey,” the chief says in an unusually gentle and quiet tone. “The nurse said we could come in as long as we kept quiet.”
I look around the room. “I didn’t think any of you knew how to be quiet.”
“We don’t,” someone adds. “We lied.”
I can see the chief, take inventory of my injuries, as he approaches the side of my hospital bed. He tries, unsuccessfully, to hide what looks like remorse. “There was no way they were keeping us out. We’ve all been worried.”
“I’m doing okay,” I assure him. He helps me sit up, and I close my eyes tightly until the sharp jabbing pain in my brain subsides.
“What the?” I hear the nurse say as she enters the room. “I said a few, not the whole squad,” she scolds the chief as she collects the bouquets and gifts and places them by the window ledge.
The chief ignores her. “Grant says you’re having trouble remembering things.”
“I’m having trouble recalling the event itself. Names and people are starting to come back to me. He says it’s only temporary due to the concussion and swelling.” There’s a sudden change in the energy in the room that makes me feel anxious. “Was anybody else hurt?”
Most of the squad avoids eye contact with me. Those who don’t, look at me with tear-filled eyes. The chief places his hand on mine in a comforting gesture. “All the residents made it out safely.”
I experience a moment of clarity. “Including the three kids trapped on the sixth floor?”
He nods. “Yes, they all got out safe. You’re a hero.”
His statement aggravates me. I don’t know why. My heart begins to pound in my chest, and the gauze around my head feels like it’s tightening, causing painful pressure. “I’m not,” I insist. “I’m not a hero.”
The nurse returns and injects something into my IV to help steady my rising blood pressure. “You all need to leave now.”
Grant is sitting on the side of my bed when I open my eyes later that day. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I was hit in the head by a rock from an exploding volcano.”
He grins. “Good analogy.”
I acknowledge the transparent plastic face shield he’s wearing today. “New headgear.”
“Yeah. I have to check in on some of my elderly patients, and I feel like they’re getting a little more human interaction if they can see my face.”
“It makes a difference.”
He smiles, and I feel a warm attraction to him.
“I have a surprise for you,” he says, looking excited.
“You do?”
“Mmhmm,” he hands me a tablet covered in plastic. “It’s been wiped clean,” he assures me.
I reach out and take it from him and wait for an explanation.
“Honey? Is that you, Rose? I can’t see you.”
I tip the tablet upwards. “Mom?” I look up at Grant with childlike excitement.