© Copyright 2011 

All work is property of Leah Crichton, any duplication or reproduction of all or part of the work without explicit permission by the author is illegal.

Cognition: (kog-nish-en)

the mental processes of perception, memory, judgment, and reasoning, as contrasted with emotional and volitional processes.

That which comes to be known, as through perception, reasoning, or intuition; knowledge.

I couldn’t even almost-die right.

I read once that when your body teeters on the brink of death, you're supposed to have some sort of other worldly, paranormal experience. There was nothing. No bright lights, no tunnels, no angels. Instead, I was suspended in time, captive to dreams I can hardly recall.

The smell woke me. Not my mother's voice urging me back, not the constant beeping of life sustaining equipment or the rolling of the wheelchairs in the hallways, but the smell. The pungent mix of bleach and chemicals burned my nostrils as it swept a massive wave of nausea into my core. I couldn't puke because a tube was inserted in my throat.

I moved with a speed that was surprising for someone who was so immobile. In hindsight, it was probably the panic setting in as I brought my hands to my mouth without much thought and yanked at the plastic base with all the force I could muster.  One of the machines next to my bed began to scream. The noise was bad enough, but the pain I'd just inflicted on myself was inconceivable. Tears speared my eyes at the same time a second machine indicated that my pulse had skyrocketed.

I spoke, but the voice that came out didn't belong to me. It was strained, hoarse and raspy. “Mom? Mom?”

A woman who was very obviously not my mother raced into the room like she training for a sprint. She came to a dramatic halt at my bedside, green eyes wide and mouth agape. Her gaze danced from the screaming device to me and back again as waves of chestnut hair fell loosely over her stethoscope. Once she determined I hadn’t suddenly died on her, her hand fluttered to her heart and she exhaled. “You're alright.”

I didn't mean to scare her. “Sorry.” I nodded toward the noisemaker she just turned off and the plastic tube that made me see stars. “I shouldn't have done that. I freaked out.”

She shook her head, adjusting the buttons. “No,” she agreed, “you shouldn't have. How are you feeling?”

I rooted around in my brain to find an answer for her. I was shocked and frightened. Of what? I was about to tell her I didn't know how I was feeling when a lurid recollection flooded my mind. The screaming tires, the metal crunching, the sickening aroma of rust and blood. 

Where was my family?

“I want to see my mom,” I demanded. 

“Your mom is fine, sweetie,” she said. “She’s just down the hall getting a coffee. I’m going to have the doctor come in and examine you and then we can see if you’re up for a visit.” She placed a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll be right back, okay? My name’s Amanda. You just push this button on the side of the bed if you need anything at all. I’m going to page Doctor Stephenson.”

“I just want my mom.”

“I’ll find Mom, too. I’ll be right back.” With those words, she departed.

My head was splitting open, torn right through the middle, and my leg throbbed like it was the proud owner of its own pulse. I decided to use the opportunity to examine my injuries in more detail and pulled the sheet away to investigate. A monster of a cast began at my hip and ended at my ankle.

My temperature must’ve been off the charts. It felt as if my skin was going to spark and burst into flame at any moment. Gingerly I lifted the hospital gown up to reveal my chest and stomach. A huge bandage ran the length of my rib cage and another tube was inserted through the skin for drainage. I momentarily gave thanks that there were no contents in my stomach to vomit up. 

I brushed my fingertips across my face and winced. It was tender yet hard, like plastic. I forced the corners of my lips upward into a smile until a scab separated and prepared to bleed again.

Not a stellar idea.

Before I could do any more damage, I relaxed and sought the help button on the bed rail with my thumb. I pushed it down and waited. I pushed again and again until Amanda's voice blasted through the intercom. “Yes, Ireland? How can I help you?”

“I need a mirror,” I said. This was an awful idea, maybe the worst idea I’ve ever had, but morbid curiosity got the best of me and I had to see for myself.

“I'll be right there.” The click of the speaker disconnecting ricocheted in my brain like a jackhammer. She was already in the doorway before it stopped.

I repeated my request. “Do you have a mirror?”

“I’m afraid you need to see the doctor first.”

“I just want a mirror or my mom.”  These were reasonable requests, yet somehow she couldn’t produce either. Useless.  

Footsteps shuffling from the hallway interrupted any response she may have given me. “Here he is now,” she said, relieved. “Doctor first, then Mom, okay?”

 “Good afternoon.” Doctor Stephenson entered the room and paused to look down at his papers when an expression I was all too familiar with flashed across his face. He had surely read and reread the spot for my name ten times in the span of the last ten seconds. “Ireland, is it?”

“Yes,” I said. I couldn’t find the energy to make a snide remark about its origin or my parents.

“Interesting.”

Interesting is the think-out-loud way to ponder if my parents were incredibly cruel or ready to be committed. I opted to believe it was the latter; they weren’t consciously malicious, but rather lived in a state of blissful ignorance where people and unicorns co-exist in harmony.

He sat on the edge of my bed, put the stethoscope to his ears, and leaned forward. A bit intrusive, but his closeness allowed me a better look. His face was kinder than I expected and even with his brow furrowed in intense concentration, he offered a warm smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been hit by a truck,” I remarked sarcastically.

“You are a very lucky girl. You sustained incredible injuries. Three fractured ribs, a broken leg, internal bleeding, lacerations to your side and face, and a TBI.”

I didn’t speak doctor. “TBI?”

“Traumatic Brain Injury.” 

His words registered with the same force as a crushing blow to the gut. My heart hammered before it sank. Anything with the word traumatic followed by the word brain was unthinkable. My throat closed and tears formed, rolling down the side of my face until the salt burnt my cheek. “I want my mom.”

“A few questions first, if you don’t mind. What is your full name?”

I looked away, not wanting him to see me cry. “Ireland Quinn Brady.”

“How old are you, Ireland?”

“I’m sixteen.”

“Excellent.” He scribbled on his clipboard. “And when is your birthday?”

“April ninth.”

Reaching into his breast pocket, he retrieved something that looked like a flashlight, but smaller. His hand grabbed my eyelid and held it up. “Can you follow the light with your eyes?”

I tried to do as he directed but my eyes were defiant and refused to focus. “What’s wrong? Why aren’t they working?”

“Ireland,” he said as he clicked off his light and returned it to his pocket. “You’ve been unconscious for a while. You were in a comatose state.”

“A comatose state?”

“Yes, you’ve been in a coma.”

I shook my head like the action might help the words to sink in. “How long? What does that mean, exactly?”

“You’ve been comatose for a couple of weeks. There are several possible complications from the injury, including nerve damage, which may explain why you’re having difficulties controlling your eyes. We won’t be able to tell without further testing.”

The look on my face must have been enough. It had to be. I didn’t have any words for him.

“Try not to worry, Ireland,” he continued, “You’re conscious and coherent. That in itself is wonderful. Regretfully, some people in a coma never regain consciousness, so you’re already a step ahead.”

“A step ahead of what, the morgue?”

He laughed at my non-joke and rose to his feet. He moved to the foot of the bed and grabbed my toes revealing that even my toenails were in a world of hurt.

“Ouch!”

“Another great sign. Spinal cord damage could have paralyzed you. It’s wonderful that you can feel that. You’re doing great, kiddo, but you need some rest. We’ll discuss everything else when you’ve had a little time to adjust. Doctor's orders.” He smiled again, this time throwing in a wink for good measure, “I’ll go see if I can find Mom.”

Amanda moved to the side of my bed and once again adjusted the machines.  I think she drugged me because as she hummed quietly to herself, my eyes drooped with heaviness and, listening to her pretty tune, I fell asleep.

***

My mom was curled like a cat in the chair next to my bed. I swear she had a sixth sense because when my eyes opened, hers fluttered and she bolted upright. “Oh, sweetie. Thank God. I’ve never been so worried in my life.” Even from the bed I could tell she’d been crying. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen with dark circles underneath. She approached me and, as she did, the unmistakable glint of more tears glossed over them.

“Mom. Please don’t cry.”

“Oh Ireland,” her hand covered her heart and the tears that had been secure in her eyes moments ago rolled freely down her cheeks. If I could have moved I’d have wiped them away. Instead I managed to hold out my hand to take hers. “I’m sorry, baby,” she muttered. 

“Don’t be. That’s silly. I’ll be okay.”

She swiped at her nose, stiffened her shoulders and held her head up higher. “I know you’ll be okay sweetheart, you’re a Brady.”

As much as I wanted to, I didn’t point out my last name had no influence whatsoever on any particular outcome. “Where’s Luke? Where’s Dad? Are they okay?”

She hesitated and I expected the worst. “They’re okay. Luke is pretty shaken.  It took me forever to just convince him to go home. He spent the first week in that chair.” She pointed to an uncomfortable looking armchair in the corner of the room.

This revelation didn’t surprise me in the slightest. Luke had always been fiercely protective of me and, though he had many faults, his performance as world’s best brother was not one of them. “Where are they?”

“Luke’s at the new place. We’re taking shifts. Dad flew back home yesterday morning to tie up some loose ends and settle some business. He didn’t want to, but it wasn’t doing any of us any good to just sit around. He didn’t want to leave you, sweetie, but I just felt so much in my heart that he needed to get away from it all. He’s taking this whole thing very badly, blaming himself for what happened.”

I ignored the way my chest squeezed like it was in a vise, wishing more than anything that my dad was here so I could hug him. “It was an accident.”

“I know, but he’s struggling. Daddy was almost worse than Luke was. As it is I had to give Luke a project at home just to get him to go.” Her eyes lit up. “Oh my goodness, I should let them know. Will you be alright for a few minutes?”

“Yeah, sure,” I lied.

“You get some rest, okay?” When she turned to leave, dread gripped me.  What if I never see her again?  

I forced the thought from my mind. “Mom?”

“Yes, honey?”

“Do you have a mirror?”

“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.” 

“Mom, please.”

“Ireland, listen to me. You need rest, rest and nothing more. Can we worry about it later, please?”

I bit down hard on my lip to control the tremble in my voice. “I need to see,” I whispered. 

“I really think—”

“It’s not your face, Mom, please!”

She didn't protest long. I could have died and I knew she wouldn't be able to deny me. Her hand reached into her purse to collect a worn pink compact. “Before you look you need to know it’s already a lot better than it was.”

I nodded.   

She attempted to place the mirror in my hands but my hands shook, sending it falling onto the bed. She picked it up and angled it so I could see my reflection. 

I didn’t exactly expect a pleasant reflection, but nothing could have prepared me for the face looking back at me. I was literally repugnant. My head was secured in yards of gauze with protruding red curls, the top wild, matted, clumped and in dire need of a wash. 

The right side of my face had sustained the most damage. It was inflated, and my normally fair skin was stained deep purple and blue. My eye was swollen almost shut and a massive gash of what was now scab ran down my cheek into my split lip.

“Mom?”

She looked like she was about to cry again; her gentle suggestion to wait until later had been to protect me. I should have listened. “Yes?”

“I’m so sorry for everything. I was awful to you and Dad. I was trying to make you feel bad for moving. I didn’t mean it.”

“Don’t be sorry. The important thing is that you’re okay.” Her hand brushed the small amount of loose hair from my face.

“I love you, Mom.”

She touched my cheek. “I love you more. I need to call Luke.”

I didn't know if Luke was on rocket-launcher standby, but it didn't seem like very long at all before he’d joined my mom’s bedside vigil.

He kissed my forehead. “I.Q., I was so worried.”

He looked ten years older than I remembered and I couldn’t help but think it was my fault. “S’okay,” I say. “Don’t worry.”

“There’s a lot you need to know about what happened to you. I’ve been reading about it, doing some research.”

Of course he had.

“Ugh.” I tried to focus on his words, but I was drowsy and my head spun like I’d had one too many drinks.

“Your injuries were bad, to put it lightly, there isn’t much worse that could happen to someone. It’s a miracle you’re talking to us right now.” He gestured to my mom. “Your recovery is going to be long. You have to learn to walk again, to eat again, and to have basic control over your body again.”

I recalled dropping the mirror earlier and sighed. Luke was often right. He continued, “You will probably get incredible headaches, night terrors, vertigo, you could have difficulty distinguishing reality from dreams, personality changes. There is a strong possibility you could have nerve damage, which may or may not affect any one of your senses: hearing, sight, smell, touch, taste.”

Dr. Stephenson had mentioned nerve damage. They sounded like the same person, except I liked my brother a lot more.

As much as I liked him, I couldn’t hear any more. “Please, Luke, stop!”

“I’m sorry, I.Q., I just thought you should know.” He rested his hand gently on my arm. “You’re gonna get through it, okay? I’ve also done some research about the mind’s ability to heal the body. You’re a tough cookie. You’ll be okay.” Luke’s backpedaling was impressive. Often he would forget that his thirst for knowledge can connect in a very real way to the people he loved.

I spent the next month being tortured at the hands of doctors, nurses, and physiotherapists to learn to hold things in my hands, to walk, to speak, to write, the very basic functions I’d taken for granted my entire life. The headaches never ended. The medications were like horse tranquilizers and made everything harder. I gave until I had nothing left.

I gave until it paid off.

Two months to the day after I failed at dying I was released from the hospital with a schedule of regular rehabilitation appointments three days a week. Doctor Stephenson warned me about all of the things Luke already had and assured me that all of these would be normal for recovering from my injuries. The wound that ran the length of my face was healed, but a scarred pink line remained visible against my pale skin. My gigantic cast, which had begun to take on a horrendous odor, was removed, and I was outfitted with a pair of crutches.

None of this mattered anymore.

So many things I’d counted as vital to my very existence were inconsequential.

I survived.

I was a survivor.