Recovery Vingettes - Glimpses
1. Surfacing
Glimpses
Like a TV with someone flicking the remote on and off, disjointed glimpses of the world returned-- brief bursts of sound and color with gaps of an empty gray nothingness in between. His mind tried to process it, to piece it together like a giant puzzle.
"Mr. Carpenter. Michael. Can you hear me?" a voice asked from the grayness, and he struggled to open his eyes; his world exploded into pain, white light flooding his vision as it shattered.
It took a moment, but he forced a reply a marginally coherent noise through the respirator, an abbreviated jerk of his head.
"Good." There was a pause. Michael tried to focus but his vision swam, partially obstructed by the bandages over his left eye. "Do you remember what happened?"
Another nod. The island, the Fallen, saving the Archive and Marcone, Harry telling him to go first and then Tessa with the gun; he'd told Sanya carrying the thing was a bad idea.
He made another sound, a question this time, and the doctor started to answer, explaining his injuries even though that hadn't been what he wanted to know. The recitation of his injuries was interrupted by a nurse checking his IV, giving him a shot as the doctor spoke; he only made out part of it, heart damage, spinal injury, collapsed lung, before his eyes were drifting closed.
"I don't know whether to describe him as lucky or blessed. . ." The doctor said to the nurse; he didn't hear her reply as the world went black again.
2. Angel
"Daniel made calls, postponed what work he could, took a few of the simple jobs himself, recommended other contractors for the rest." He nodded in response to her recitation, his clients knew that he could be called away, they were used to it.
"As long as he's going to school," he said. She shuffled papers but didn't answer and he looked over at her.
He hated the tightness that had turned her mouth into a thin line, the worry that creased her brow; his final prognosis was still uncertain and he knew on top of that she was dealing with a houseful of kids and mounting bills. Fist of God didn't exactly come with medical insurance.
"Charity?" He didn't think he could handle it. It wasn't the possibility that he'd have to use a wheelchair, or the loss of vision that meant he may never wield a sword or more importantly a hammer again-- neither of those were as painful as the expression that had etched itself onto her face
"He wants to work, Michael, and he's old enough to know we need the help." He sighed, nodded though he didn't like it.
"Only until I'm back on my feet," he could handle a lot- had handled a lot- seen things most people couldn't comprehend; but this he couldn't take. Of all the pictures that will stay in his head forever, her face will be among the most vivid.
It's not the fear, the horror, the worry that's getting to him. It's not the pale, drained look of utter anguish. It's the confusion. Written clearly across her expressive features is the truth that she doesn't understand. She doesn't understand why this was allowed to happen, doesn't understand how it happened, doesn't understand why God wasn't somehow able to stop it.
"We'll be fine, angel," he reassured her, covering her hand with his own and tugging her out of her chair; she climbed onto the bed with him and curled against his side carefully. "He only gives us those trials he knows we can withstand. You have to believe as He does that we will make it through this."
It wasn't the hard work he knew was waiting for them that kept him awake at night; it was that he wasn't sure his faith could survive a failure of hers.
3. Therapy
Michael tried hard to lengthen his stride and lighten his step as he maneuvered the railed walkway but the pain and stiffness were just too powerful to ignore.
"You need a break?" His physiotherapist, Ryan, was at his elbow, but didn't do more than ask. The other man had gotten used to letting Michael decide if he'd reached his limit.
He shook his head, the thin sheen of sweat clearly visible now, he concentrated on taking the next step but again the knife like pain took his breath away. He forced himself to ignore it as he pushed his foot forward.
He was almost at the end of the walkway when his knees buckled. His focus had been entirely on his objective and he hadn't noticed Ryan coming round the rail, but he felt the strong hands that caught him and pulled him back to standing, felt his arm being draped over a firm shoulder, and tried to process the other sensations as the nausea hit.
The edges of the world grayed and then swirled before he pulled it back into focus; he was sitting on a weight bench.
"You're pushing too hard." No accusation, just fact. "You're going to end up getting hurt and you'll have to start all over again."
"I know." He waited for the platitudes, you have to walk before you can run, baby steps, you're lucky to be alive; but none of them came.
"Don't make me call your wife." There was a pause. "That woman scares the hell out of me."
It was a sign of how tired he was that he didn't even wince at the word choice, or admonish Ryan's language the way he once would have.
"What's next?"
4. Friendship
"I should never have gotten you involved," the comment was bitter, self- recriminating.
"Do you think I would not have gotten involved without your help? With so many of the Fallen on hand that He would have left Sanya or I out of it?" Michael had to force the lightness into his tone. His own spiraling negative emotions were enough; he didn't think he had the strength to carry both of them, so he needed Harry to keep his spirits up. To keep Molly going so that Charity had the support she needed.
"It wasn't your fault Harry. What happened, none of it was your fault."
There was silence for a moment, broken by static, and Michael could see his friend's face as clearly as if he was in the same room and not on the phone. Harry would know that he was right, but that was the rational part of his mind. The wizard rarely let the rational part get in the way of the emotional part.
Michael swallowed. "Not your fault Harry." he reassured.