Redemption 3/8 part 1
Redemption 3/8
(Arc 1 of a three part series - rehab)
Author: Neonchica (with assistance by co-author Betzz)
Title: Redemption 3/8 (Chapter 3, part 1)
Author: Neonchica (and Betzz)
Rating: R
Characters: Sam, Dean
Disclaimer: Not mine
Spoilers: Anything through season 2 is fair game.
Summary: Death was always an option. This - this was not. Dean has been rendered permanantly disabled by one of his enemies. Now, quadriplegic and ventilator dependant, Dean and Sam must work hard to overcome these new obstacles and learn to accept this new definition of living.
A/N: So, what I had feared would happen is beginning to happen... While no one has actually said anything negative to me (Thank You!) I'm beginning to feel just a tad anxious about writing such a horrendous injury for Dean. This is not an easy subject to read, nor is it easy to write. And in light of that, I wanted to maybe explain my reasons behind it - if nothing else, to make me feel better.
For as long as I can remember I have been enamored with anything pertaining to the medical field, particularly the brain and spinal cord and the effects of damage to these fragile structures. The Central nervous system, in general, is fascinating because it is the only part of our bodies that does not completely and unquestionably regenerate, and it takes intense and constant rehabilitation to offer even a glimmer of hope of returning to ones old life. Ever since I was old enough to understand this I have known I wanted to be a part of that hope, and I will graduate next Spring with a Master's degree in Speech-Language Pathology, with an emphasis on Traumatic Brain Injury.
I have been writing these injuries and disabilities into fiction for just as long (with my own characters and for my own enjoyment), so when I discovered that I could connect with the Winchester boys in such a way that I felt I could do their characters justice it was only natural for me to transfer my interest into that fanfiction realm. At first, my goal was simply to write something that hadn't been written. In just a year into the show I had already seen stories dealing with every injury and emotional conflice under the sun, but at that point I had yet to see anything dealing with permanent injury, particularly to the brain or Spinal cord. With Weston House, I hoped to share my knowledge as well as prod others to write that type of injury into their fics (and some have - would LOVE to read more!!!).
As Weston House came to a close, though, I realized that it wasn't just about influencing other fics in that genre, but also about providing a complete and accurate account of the effects this kind of injury has on the body and the mind. By no means do I claim to be an expert, and I'm always seeking more knowledge, but I try to be as accurate in these stories as I can. I know sometimes that can come off as a bit "too intense" for the more squeamish readers, and I apologize for that, but I feel like I would be doing a disservice to the thousands of people living with injuries just like those I write if I were to ignore the less "pretty" aspects of daily life. I seek to inform and to entertain, and hopefully am succeeding at that. And while I'm sorry that it has to be Dean...just remember that the "real" Dean is still fully intact and off fighting the good fight every Thursday night on the CW! LOL.
Anyway, hopefully that explains some of "me." And if nothing else, at least I feel better. : ) Thanks for listening to my ramblings.
Sam is in the hallway when he hears the alarms scream out from his brother’s room and sees the flurry of medical staff come flying down the hall. He’d returned several minutes before and was just waiting for the door to open and Holly to emerge before he went back in to join Dean.
Now, he frantically follows the doctors and nurses into the room, but gets no further than the doorway before he stops, panic preventing him from going any closer to the bed. They wouldn’t have allowed it anyway, knows he would be shuffled aside immediately even if he did manage to make it to Dean’s side, but right now he can’t manage to make his feet work to save his life.
Holly and the doctor on call are hovering over his brother, calling to him and examining him as two other nurses help to check every inch of his body and the hoses surrounding him. Dean is writhing on the bed, limbs flailing, head shifting, and for a minute Sam thinks maybe Dean has gotten sensation and movement back in his useless body. But there’s too much anxiety surrounding the situation, not enough relief.
“Dean, can you hear us sweetheart? It’s going to be okay. We’ll get this figured out, we’ve got you.” It’s Holly’s voice that Sam hears, her hands that he sees planted firmly on either side of Dean’s cheeks as the young doctor spouts orders and consults Dean’s chart. He spews out orders for medications, administers the drugs himself through the port on Dean’s IV line, waits impatiently for the flailing to stop and Dean to relax.
When the initial panic is over the doctor spouts new orders and suddenly there’s a flurry of fresh activity as one of the nurses pushes past Sam and disappears out into the hall, returning soon after with an orderly pushing a gurney. They prepare Dean, work and maneuver him to slip a sheet underneath and then the whole crew takes hold of different parts of the sheet and transfer him from the bed onto the gurney, swapping out the room ventilator for a portable vent and gathering up the IV lines and tubes before rushing their patient from the room.
No one seems to notice Sam is even there until the room is empty of staff once again and it’s suddenly only Sam and Holly. She’s stayed behind to finish cleaning up the remnants of the bowel routine and Dean’s dinner, allowing the trauma team to do their work without her intervention. In shock, Sam slowly makes his way to the chair near Dean’s bed and sinks into it, startling the nurse out of her own daze.
“Sam, you scared me,” Holly says, clasping her well manicured hand to her chest. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“What just happened?” he demands, not interested in small talk. “What’s going on with my brother?”
She grimaces and drops the load of sheets she’s holding back onto the bed in a giant ball. “That’s what they’re trying to figure out,” she tells him. “He seemed a little off when I got here, but when I asked him if he was feeling alright he said he was fine. As near as we can tell he’s suffering from a condition called autonomic dysreflexia. Dr. Robinson was able to stabilize him but they took him for some testing to figure out what’s causing it.”
“I don’t know what that is,” Sam says, brushing the hair out of his eyes and looking imploringly at the grandmotherly nurse. He considers telling her that he’s not surprised Dean didn’t complain, but decides that isn’t important right now. What is important is making sure his brother gets better. “How serious is it?”
“It can be very serious if it’s not caught in time. Autonomic dysreflexia is where the blood pressure soars dangerously high, and can occur from any number of different irritants. It can be a blocked catheter, backed up bowel, an infection, even a wrinkle in the sheet pressing on his skin, anything that affects the body and causes it to react negatively can lead to AD. You should be aware of the early symptoms, things to watch out for, like tingling and dizziness, headaches, excessive sweating and a feeling of heat to the skin, sometimes a flush as well. I think your brother may have been experiencing some of those symptoms, but, like I said, he told me he was feeling fine.”
Now’s the time to tell her, Sam thinks as he realizes he missed some key signs earlier in the day too. Damn you, Dean! You have to tell us when you’re sick. “Dean sometimes thinks he’s invincible - you know, that the little things won’t hurt him. I guess, in the grand scheme of things, he figured a little headache wasn’t much to complain about. He’s stubborn that way.” Sam says it apologetically, as though it’s his fault that Dean keeps these things to himself.
“Well he can’t be stubborn like that anymore,” Holly says gently. “A little headache can indicate something much bigger. If he had told one of us that he wasn’t feeling well earlier a lot of this probably could have been prevented.”
Silence follows as Sam takes in the information she’s presenting him. He hesitates, wonders if he should ask the next question, then slowly does. “He um...I mean I saw...he was moving.”
Holly’s face pinches up in nervous reservation and she immediately goes back to concentrating on cleaning up the bed and preparing it for Dean’s return. She doesn’t seem to want to look at Sam anymore, and stalls as long as she can before coming out with an answer.
“Please, Holly, just tell me. That means he’s getting better, right?”
Finally realizing she can’t escape this, Holly turns back around and looks at Sam, propping a hip against the bed for support. “No, Sam, I’m sorry. What you saw were involuntary spasms. It’s just a misfire in the nerve synapses - not a sign that he’s improving. I’m sorry, Sam. I really am.”
“Oh,” he says softly, looking down at his hands and blinking furiously to keep from crying. Stupid, stupid! “I just thought...I mean it kind of-”
He feels hands wrapping around his own and Sam looks up to see Holly staring at him, compassion filling her expression. “Sam, I wish I could tell you that he’s going to get better, I really do. But the reality of the situation is that he’s going to be paralyzed like this for the rest of his life. Give it time, honey. You both just need some time to wrap your minds around this, to process everything.”
Sam isn’t sure what to say to that, how to respond, and instead he just sinks further back into the chair and closes his eyes. He didn’t want to get his hopes up, yet he did anyway, and the disappointment is suffocating. But all he really hears is that Dean hasn’t improved yet, doesn’t hear Holly’s conviction that he’ll never improve. That one little ray of hope is the only thing Sam has left to hold on to. He’s seen miracles in his line of work, has seen things happen when they shouldn’t have. There is no reason to think that this time will be any different.
Right now, he shouldn’t even be worrying about whether Dean will walk or not, he finally tells himself as he hears Holly gather up the remainder of the stuff and tiptoe out of the room. Right now it’s about focusing on what’s just happened, making sure Dean recovers from that. Everything is going to be fine.
* * *
It’s hours later when they return Dean to his room and Sam hasn’t left his post once in all that time, frustrated as he waits for word from the doctors. Holly is still on duty and she joins the doctor and the two orderlies as they work in reverse to return Dean to his special bed. She then takes over his care, arranging him back in the frame and checking the tubes and wires once again to make sure everything is in working order.
Sam had jumped out of the way to allow the staff to work, but now stands imposingly over the doctor, pleading with his eyes for information. Dr. Robinson sighs and asks Sam to take a seat, tells him exactly what Holly had about autonomic dysreflexia and the life threatening problems it can cause if not caught in time.
“In Dean’s case,” he continues, “the AD was caused by a delayed infection inside his trachea from the less than sterile environment when the procedure was performed, and then exacerbated by the attack a few days ago. He’s apparently been trying to fight off the bacteria, but finally succumbed to it. I’ve put him on a high dose of antibiotics to fight the infection, and also some blood pressure medication temporarily to counter-balance the effects of his elevated blood pressure.”
The news, although still scary, isn’t as bad as Sam had originally anticipated and he sighs in relief, allows his shoulders to loosen up and drop slightly. “So we can prevent this in the future if he just starts to admit when he’s not feeling well?”
“That’s a very large part of it,” Dr. Robinson agrees. “He probably could have prevented such a severe infection in itself, as well. As it is, his throat’s nearly swollen shut around the breathing tube and I’m afraid swallowing will be out of the question for a while. As a result of this, I also went ahead and inserted a gastrostomy tube - a feeding tube - directly into his stomach so we can bypass his throat and still get sustenance into him.”
As he explains this, the doctor pulls down the sheet covering Dean’s torso and shows Sam the location of the tube sticking out just above the belly button. Sam cringes, distraught to see yet another tube coming out of his brother’s body. It sticks out about six inches, is capped off at the end like his IV ports, and gauze covers the swollen area around the surgical site.
“We will let this sit for a few hours and allow Dean to recover from the mild anesthetic we administered. Later this evening the nurses will set him up for a continuous, slow drip feed. He should be consuming at least 2000 calories a day, as much as 2500, but even before this was happening your brother was barely getting 1000. He just wasn’t eating enough of his meals. This will be good for him. He needs energy if he’s going to stand a fighting chance at rehab.”
Sam’s ears perk up at that, encouraged by the doctors words. “Rehab?” Sam asks eagerly, hoping for clarification.
The doctor nods. “Of course. As soon as he’s ready we need to get him admitted into a rehab hospital, need to get him sitting up in a wheelchair and learning to maneuver it, hopefully some day get him home with family that loves him.”
“Oh. Right, of course.” Sam’s heart sinks and he tries to hide his disappointment as his eyes roam over the still, sleeping form of his now quadriplegic brother. He’s still unnerved by the ventilator and the catheter, the IV’s, and now the G-tube, as though his brother is merely a piece of machinery pumping fluids in and back out. He doesn’t ever think he’ll get used to that.
And he’s sick to death of hearing about rehab, tired of the doctors redefining the word. They may as well call it coping or making do, because what they’re considering rehab isn’t going to make his brother better. That’s not rehab. Not in Sam’s book.
* * *
Dean is clearly exhausted. It takes him until the next afternoon to fight off the effects of the sedative, and even then Sam can see the glassiness that seems to have taken up residence over his brother’s eyes. He’s barely alert, has trouble focusing on Sam or anything else, and doesn’t seem capable of keeping his eyes open for more than a few minutes at a time.
Nonetheless, Sam makes a valiant effort to pull Dean out of the fog every time he sees his brother open his eyes.
“Dean, hey there, hey Dean,” Sam calls gently, leaning over the bed and putting himself well within eye sight. His thumb has taken up a permanent residence over Dean’s temple, and Sam is surprised that he hasn’t rubbed the spot raw yet.
He smiles as his brother blinks groggily up at him and moves his lips, maybe mouthing something. Sam convinces himself that it’s his name Dean’s trying to say.
“Hey now, come on, I’m getting bored sitting here all by myself. Think you can wake up and keep me company?”
Dean blinks a few more times, licks his dry lips with his sandpaper tongue, then closes his eyes again.
“Dean? Come on, man, wake up. Come on,” Sam pleads, rubbing a little harder at the temple. But that’s the end of it, and he soon sighs and retreats back to the chair beside the bed, resumes watching the bed rotate and listening to the ventilator and the monitors.
A little after three when Holly came on duty she’d stopped in the room to check the leads and tubes, and had pored a new can of Ensure into the slow drip dispenser that now feeds Dean almost constantly. For a while, Sam watches the thick beige glop make its way down the plastic tubing and into Dean’s stomach, fascinated and disgusted all at the same time.
He almost misses hearing the soft footsteps that come into the room and stop just inside the doorway, doesn’t look up until he hears the clearing of a throat.
The doctor from Dean’s captivity is standing there, arms tucked up tight across her chest as she tries to pull in on herself and look as small as possible. Her eyes dart from brother to brother, resting too long on Dean as she takes everything in once again.
“Milla,” Sam says rather harshly. He’s forgotten about her in all the confusion of the last several days, but seeing her now - now that he knows Dean’s future - brings feelings of hatred and even violence bubbling to the surface. He knows he shouldn’t be angry with her, but try as he might he just can’t manage to think anything but.
“Why are you here?” he demands coldly, laying a protective hand across Dean’s chest.
“I- I heard,” she replies timidly, hand gesturing out towards Dean and then quickly retreating back to its original position under her armpit. “Thought there might be something I could do.”
“Don’t you think you’ve done enough?”
She bites her bottom lip and takes a step closer, eyes imploring Sam to give her a chance. “I can’t blame you for being angry with me. But I’ve done some digging and, well, it doesn’t appear that the two of you have any other family to speak of. And I know how draining an injury like this can be - not just on the victim, but also on loved ones.”
Sam glares at her, his steely eyed gaze slicing right through her already hesitant exterior. “Yeah? So what’s your point?”
“I want to help, Sam.” She spits it out, hurrying through the suggestion before she loses her nerve. “I- I know this is partly my fault, and you can’t go it alone. I want to be around, give you guys a hand.”
He knows he should tell her it’s ok, not her fault, tell her he knows she was just a victim of circumstance and manipulation. But right now all he can think of is the idea of her touching his brother and how sick to his stomach it makes him feel. “Are you crazy?” His entire body is quivering with rage and he jumps up, forgets his knee for a minute and storms toward her. He grabs the woman roughly by the arm and drags her out of the room, away from Dean.
“You think I want you anywhere close to my brother right now?” he hisses through clenched teeth, trying to keep his voice down so he doesn’t attract a crowd. “You think there’s any way in hell that I’m gonna let you help take care of him? I think you better get your brain checked, lady, cause you’re delusional. Think maybe Adam did more damage than we thought.”
Milla flinches and pulls her arm out of Sam’s grasp when he lets go, but she doesn’t entirely back down. He can see her hands are shaking, and he’s not sure if it’s a reaction to him or if they’ve been shaking all along, but either way he retreats a step. The last thing he needs is for the staff on this floor to see him blow up and deny him access to Dean.
“I can see this wasn’t the best time to try and talk to you,” Milla says, somehow managing to compose herself and keep the tremble in her voice under control. “But my offer stands. I want to help. Please, just...just think it over.”
She doesn’t even make eye contact as she turns away. Sam watches her walk a few steps down the hallway, hesitate and put a hand on the wall, then continue on her way. He waits until she’s out of sight before limping back into the room, knee now protesting the abrupt exercise it’s been forced to endure.
Dean is still asleep, oblivious to the strange turn of events that just took place around him, and for once Sam is grateful for that. He can’t imagine the emotional toil it would create for his brother to have to come face to face with Milla again. And letting her help? If the thought wasn’t so downright terrifying it might just be laughable. He’ll take care of his brother on his own, thank you very much. They’ll be fine. They always are.
SUPERNATURAL
The first time Dean is really aware of his surroundings again is nearly three days later when his fever finally breaks and the doctors declare him to be on the downhill slope of fighting the infection. He soon learns of the G-tube in his stomach from Sam, and tries desperately to forget about it immediately, doesn’t want to think of one more thing that’s been taken from him. Can’t move, can’t breath, can’t talk, now I can’t even eat. Useless.
‘Wanna get out of here,’ he mouths to Sam, face screwed up in anguish. Sam’s the only one he can really talk to, the only one who understands him. As much as they try, most of the nurses can only understand a portion of what he says to them and they pretty much stick to yes or no questions. The doctors barely even try that, mostly relying on Sam for interpretation.
He’s tired of it. Tired of lying in bed, tired of being sick, tired of not being able to communicate. He doesn’t want to be like this, but if he has to then he wants to go somewhere where it’s just him and Sam. Somewhere safe and secluded and away from all the hospital sights and sounds and smells. Somewhere where he can focus solely on getting his life back.
“I know, Dean. I want to get you out of here more than you know. I wish it were that simple.”
‘Don’t patronize me,’ Dean begs. ‘Just figure it out.’
“Not this time, bro. Sorry. We gotta focus on getting you better - but that means rehab and more doctors and therapists. I want you up and walking again.” And I don’t know how to take care of you, he silently adds.
Hearing about the G-tube was the last straw for Dean, and ever since he’s felt himself sinking into a deep pit of despair. Things are clearly not getting any better - worse, if anything - and he’s pretty much resigned himself to living like this for the rest of his life. If Sam wants to play optimist then fine, let him. Dean’s done with it.
He looks away, blinks to ward off the push of tears he feels at the back of his eyes.
“Come on, man,” Sam pleads. “Don’t turn away. Don’t be giving up hope, okay? Please...we’ll figure this out. We will.”
He says it with such conviction Dean’s inclined to believe him. Almost does. But then Jeanette knocks on the door for the daily lunch routine, makes a big deal out of the fact that Dean is alert again as she sends Sam from the room. It’s all too much, gets him thinking once again about all the crap they’ve got him hooked up to, keeping him alive.
Sam throws out one more mournful, “Dean, please,” as he leaves the room but Dean can’t bring himself to look at his brother. His eyes glisten with tears as he keeps his head turned away as far as it can go and he has to bite his lip to keep it from trembling.
“What was that all about?” Jeanette asks gently. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, arms braced straight on either side of him as she gazes down with concern.
Dean blinks furiously, swallows down the lump in his throat, and hates himself for the fact that he’s crying - in front of a woman no less - and he can’t do a damn thing about it. ‘Nothing,’ he mouths. He doesn’t look at her until he feels her soft hands press on either side of his face, but he can’t help the look of relief that comes across at the contact and he finally directs his gaze to her.
“I’m here if you need to talk,” Jeanette tells him, using her thumbs to nudge the tears away. She pretends not to notice, and he’s grateful for that, but it still hurts to know his emotions are just as out of his control as the rest of his body.
He blinks twice for ‘no’ and leaves it at that, doesn’t even try to explain away the situation.
They sit like that for another minute or so, Dean just relishing the feel of contact while Jeanette’s expression urges him to open up to her. Finally she sighs, accepting things as they are, and pulls away. “You know the drill. You ready?”
Emotions still running high, Dean can only blink his grudging approval before he squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to think about this routine.
Lunch is no longer a part of it, replaced instead by another can of Ensure being fed into the dispenser. He never thought he would miss eating the bland hospital food they’d insisted on feeding him, but he’s already yearning for the too thin mashed potatoes and the sticky oatmeal. Now, the only satisfaction that he gets from food is the slight feeling of fullness that just barely manages to slip past the paralyzed synapses into his brain. And even that comes with a price as it will inevitably lead to another humiliating bowel routine.
* * *
When Sam returns they both pretend that the earlier conversation didn’t happen, and instead fall into an uneasy silence that is filled only by the sounds of the television and, of course, Dean’s machinery. At some point, Dean glances over at his brother and realizes that Sam isn’t actually watching the TV but rather is staring at him, his hands more precisely, as they rest crossed against his stomach as he was last left.
He watches Sam right back, frustrated as the bed continues to rotate on its frame making it close to impossible to get his brother’s attention. But finally, on the third rotation, Sam catches sight of Dean’s eyes on him and he breaks his trance. “You okay?”
‘You’re staring,’ Dean mouths. ‘Why?’
Sam shrugs, drags his hands through his hair nervously, and lies. “Nothing. I just...I thought...It’s nothing, Dean.”
‘Sam?’ Even as incapacitated as he is, Dean is still perfectly capable of getting his point across with facial expressions, and this time is no different. He demands truth with one word and a steely look, and Sam shrinks back.
“I thought I saw something,” Sam says, sighing heavily. “But it wasn’t what I thought. Just...go back to the show. I’m sorry.”
For now, Dean lets it go. He rolls his eyes, but looks back up at the screen mounted from the ceiling and tries to ignore his brother, who doesn’t avert his gaze from Dean’s hand.
Ten more minutes go by, the end of one show and the beginning of another, yet Sam hasn’t once looked up at the TV. And then Sam leans forward, arms bumping into the bed, and mere seconds later he’s literally shrieking with delight as he jumps from his seat and dances awkwardly in front of Dean.
In an afterthought, Sam reaches out and hits the switch on the bed, bringing it to an abrupt halt. He’s babbling wildly, screaming, “you did it! I knew it - knew you could. This is great!”
Dean stares at his little brother in shocked wonderment, trying desperately to decipher the rambling excitement. But honestly, Dean has no idea what the hell Sam is talking about, and truth be told his little brother is looking a little bit on the lock ‘em down crazy side of things. He can’t even catch his eye to ask him what the hell he’s so all over the place about, not really sure what there is exactly to be all happy about anyway.
“We’ve gotta get someone in here,” Sam is saying now, obviously talking to himself because he sure as hell hasn’t been talking to Dean for the last couple of minutes. “Do you think you can do it again? Could you show the doctors, Dean?”
I don’t know what the hell you think I did in the first place! Dean thinks to himself, couldn’t relay the question even if he could speak since Sam hasn’t once looked down at his face since this whole thing started. And then his little brother is out the door and hollering down the hall to anyone who’ll listen that he’s got something great to show them.
Just wish I knew what it is I’m supposed to be doing.
It isn’t long before Sam has a whole team of medical personnel gathered around Dean’s bed, all looking expectantly down at their bewildered patient. Jeanette comes, and another nurse who has checked in on Dean a time or two. Dr. Prentiss is back on call today, so he’s here with his arms crossed sternly against his chest, and he’s brought with him two new nameless, voiceless med students who stand back in the shadows but try and cran their necks around the gathering crowd to see the show.
Prentiss takes control of the situation, leaning over Dean and scowling. “Your brother says he saw you move your finger, Dean. Can you show us?”
I did? I don’t think... Dean’s eyebrows scrunch in confusion as he stretches his gaze down to his right hand where he can just barely make out the tips of the fingers.
He puts forth every ounce of concentration he’s got, willing and pleading and begging the fingers to move, to twitch. Hell, just to flicker. Sam says he saw them move; that’s why they’ve got this big crowd gathered around. And if Sam says he saw it then it must be true. Right?
But they don’t move. Nothing. And when Dean looks back up to apologize he first lands his gaze on Sam’s desperate face, the look of determination and sheer will, and he can’t stand to be the one to let his baby brother down.
Looking back down at his fingers, this time Dean prays and bargains, promises to go to church five days a week and say the rosary every hour on the hour if he can just move one damn finger. For Sam. Always for Sam.
It’s actually Jeanette who breaks into the tense silence of the room. She steps forward and leans over Dean, blocking his view of his hand as she embraces his cheeks with her warm hands. “Dean, honey, you can stop now. I don’t think it’s going to happen.”
He looks back at her, tears glistening on the surface. ‘Sam says it happened,’ he mouths desperately. ‘If I can just-”
“Shhhh shh shh, it’s okay, Dean. We’ll try it again later. Maybe you’re just tired.”
Prentiss is already standing, turning to leave the room with his entourage, and he makes a gesture towards Sam for him to follow them out. Hands in pockets, shoulders slumped, Sam does just that as Jeanette tends to Dean.
Dean wants to call out to them, tell them to come back, that he can do better - will do better. He’s got a million thoughts running through his head about the possibility that maybe he’d moved his hand a few minutes earlier, and that maybe it was a fluke - a one time deal. He wants to apologize, to ask questions, needs to talk to Sam about this and find out exactly what he saw. But no one turns to look at him, and he’s lost in the silence of the ventilator. He watches as the doctor leaves and the students. And Sam.
And then he can’t hold his tears back any longer and he begins to cry, noiselessly and effortlessly. His chest doesn’t hitch up and he never loses his breath, doesn’t make a sound. But the tears fall all the same and Jeanette is there to comfort him, hands stroking over his face and carding through his hair, using tissues to dry his eyes as she whispers soothing words of comfort and hope.
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