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The Dead Man's Pulse |
| Written by erik grossman | |
| Thursday, 01 March 2007 | |
I can't even finish the thought before my chest tightens up and sends a rush of sickly air up through my throat, forcefully pushing its way out of my mouth. Something accompanies the air on it's exit. It is warm and thick; it’s as though syrup is dangling from my hands, just not as sticky. I move my hand away from my mouth to see the same thing I have been seeing for the past hour. The blood drips in smooth motions off my fingertips. It gently falls from one finger to another, wrapping itself around each tip before moving on. When it gets to my pinky, it widens to travel down my finger. It starts to fall slowly, dancing with the slight breeze I have let in through the open window. It begins to climb down to my lap, thinning itself out into a fine needle point. I don’t care anymore. I grasp onto my steering wheel and punch the gas pedal to the floor. In a matter of seconds I hit one hundred and twenty miles per hour. I am like a raging bull as I fly through stop signs and red lights. I have no concern for others around me; I’m suddenly encompassed in my own selfishness. A whirlwind of excess blood is thrown around the car from my mouth. My chest tightens up, and I can feel my lungs being strangled until they’re finally let go and gasp for air. The air in my lungs picks up something on its way up that sends another hurricane of blood shooting from my mouth. The blood splatters onto my windshield and all over my control panel. It doesn’t matter, I am almost there. I spin the steering wheel and fly the car at ninety miles an hour into the hospital’s parking lot. I speed into the emergency parking space and struggle with my seatbelt for an instant. I realize I have entered a state of shock; I can barely think. I slow down for a moment and pull myself together. I undo my seat belt, and get out of the car. The minute I step foot on safe ground, hysteria takes over and I burst into the hospital exhausted and out of breath. My eyes are shaking and I can feel the tears forming. My lungs take one last breath. I fall to my knee and brace myself. The nurse at the counter leans over and shouts something at me, but I cannot hear it. The only thing I can make out at the moment is the pulse of my heart beating in my ears. My lungs tighten up as they spit out another dose of blood onto the floor. The pounding of my pulse has stopped and the faint screaming of nurses and doctors rushing to my aide are all I can hear. I turn my head to see who my voyeurs are. A little girl gripping her mother’s arm as if it was the last thing in life looks at me in terror. The woman turns her daughter’s head away from me while covering her own eyes. Am I a monster? I am shaken back into reality by the tug of a doctor and the push of a nurse; and I’m settled down into a wheelchair they have brought out. The doctor begins bombarding me with all kinds of questions. What have I eaten? What did I do? Had I taken any drugs? Do I have any allergies? I do not have any time to answer any of them before the next question is asked. The nurse asks her superior where to take me. “Take him to the nosebleed ward,” he says. They have a nosebleed ward? My mouth has become a faucet for my blood and the doctor, in all his wisdom, wants to put me in a nosebleed ward? They start rolling me down a hauntingly plain hallway with pure white walls, as though they were constructed from paper. Ahead of me lie two steel metal doors which burst open as I am pushed through. They take a sharp left that jerks me to the right. I cannot believe it; before my eyes lies a door which reads, “Nosebleed Ward”. My mouth drops open in disbelief. The nurse goes ahead of the doctor and me to open the door. As soon as she does, and I’m pushed into a new type of nightmare. Red is the choice of color here, dark in some areas, light in others. All around me are sobbing children and the soft wince of older patients, all of them shooting blood from their nose like an orchestrated water show. “Oh no!” My nurse screams. “What?” I ask. She does not answer me but instead speaks to the doctor, as though none of this is my business. Her next statement contains the words I never thought I would hear when speaking of a nosebleed ward. “It’s full.” She says. They have a nosebleed ward, and it’s full. I want to argue with them, I want to tell them that I am in pain and need medical attention right away! I do not need to. My chest folds in, my throat tightens up, I can feel the giant pulse of air gathering. In seconds I release a maelstrom of blood onto the ground and my legs, only adding to the red color scheme of the room. That is all it took for the doctor to make a decision. “Take him to critical.” The doctor says. They turn me around and push me down some hallways and through other doors. For a room that is “critical” it seems awfully far away. Finally I am there. They take my off the cold leather prison with wheels and lay me down on a cold cloth cell with silver bars and two white sheets. They poke and prod me in various areas; suddenly I am a voodoo doll, and they are wishing terrible luck to someone’s arms, chest, and face. Flashlights send a bright beam of solid white into my eye. Great, now I’m coughing up blood, and I’m blind. With a few blinks, the after effect goes away and I can see again. My bed has no privacy, but the other two beside me do. They have three sheets while I only have two. The third sheet acts as a barrier between us. The doctor jots down some notes and leave. Of course, the minute he does, I contaminate the air with a dose of infectious blood that explodes from my mouth. I lay my head down and stare at the ceiling. Everything turns silent except for a continuous beep...beep...beep. I turn my head to the left to see the offender, a man whose detested heartbeat continually shatters my peace. He is not moving. It does not seem like he is even breathing, but the constant beep of the heart monitor says he is. Like an itch that cannot be scratched, it irritates me. I begin wincing at each of its declarations of life. Beep...beep...beep. I’m trying so hard to concentrate on the silence that my head starts to hurt and my eyes start to shake. Beep...beep...beep. I grip the sheets of my bed in anger. I tell myself to calm down, it is not his fault, he is practically dead. Either that or he’s sleeping. Just calm down, everything is going to be OK. The doctors will come back with some medicine, fix you up, and send you home. Next thing you know you’ll wake up tomorrow right as rain and go grab some breakfast. My mind starts to visualize it all: the warm, hot, deliciously brown pancakes; the golden, greasy layer of hashbrowns; the sizzling strips of bacon and sausage; the wonderful smell of commerce, law, and order. It all seemed so peaceful. Beep...beep...beep...beep. I start raking through my mind, how the hell can I get better when I can feel myself getting worse; not only that, I can feel my sanity dwindling. I grab the “call nurse” remote and frantically start pressing the button-- within moments the nurse arrives. From the few blood-spurting fits I have had while in the hospital garb they put me into, I am completely covered in blood. Maybe that is why I react the way I do when the nurse comes in and asks me, “Is anything wrong?” I start screaming. I scream of all my worries and all my problems as panic takes hold once again. I scream of how I’m still broken and the doctor will not come and fix me. I scream of how I cannot even get a moment of silence because the man on my left will not get better and leave or just die. I am shouting so loud I start crying. I can feel the sensation coming yet again: blood shoots from my mouth like a star and sprays over my stiffened attire. All I want is closure; all I want is to leave this place and get on with life. I want my pancakes in the morning-- I want those sizzling strips of bacon and sausage. I want to wake up in the morning knowing everything is alright. I want, I want, I want, I want! I am so loud that I barely noticed the beeping had stopped. I tone my levels down as the nurse and I turn to the man on my left. The beeping had been replaced during my tantrum. There is no more beeping, just one, continuous...beep. Everything seems quieter now. I remain sitting up, out of breath, covered in blood and tears. The nurse backs up slowly at first, but gathers the courage to approach the man on my left. She takes a deep breath after awhile, which she lets out in successions of short release. She backs up and sits down on a nearby stool, tears gathering in her eyes. I watch as one by one the small drops roll down her pale white skin and begin to hang on her chin. Her bottom jaw starts to quiver and the tear drops down to her lap. She rests her hands on her knees as she tries to control herself. It is no use. She breaks down and cries. I’m not dying. I’m not even close. I had popped a blood vessel in my nose which formed blood clots in my throat. The blood clots irritate my throat, initiating a cough which causes a harsh vibration which will, in turn, pop the blood clots. The end result is blood pouring from my mouth. It is nothing serious. I belong in the nosebleed ward. The man on my left died tonight; if it was because of me, I’ll never know for sure. The doctor who arrives says that my sudden tantrum might have caused his heart to seize up. Is that possible? Apparently it is. The doctor explains how sound vibrations create a this and a that, it all goes in one ear and out the other. The man on my left had a wife and two kids. His wife is a nurse. The doctor’s words fade as he continues talking. I piece my atrocious crime together in my head; I called the man's wife into the room, and then I killed him. Whether it was the cruel hand of god or my tantrum doesn’t matter to the nurse. She feels no hate, no anger, and no injustice. She feels only sadness and misery. I go home at six in the morning after a long night at the hospital. I start to wonder, did all that seriously just happen? On my way home, I stop by my favorite breakfast joint. I order two hot cakes, some golden hashbrowns, and two strips of bacon and sausage. The Nosebleed Ward, the blood covered walls, even the dead man who lay next to me do not matter. Nothing matters now; nothing besides my bacon. Just as I seem to find peace and quiet with my hearty breakfast, I find my silence broken once more. I try to shake it out of my head, I try to convince myself that it is not there, that I am not hearing it. I realize it is no use, there is nothing I can do. I place another strip of bacon into my mouth and swallow it in surrender. The sound is stuck in my head, and I doubt it will ever leave. I give up and accept that I am haunted by the long, continuous beep, the sound of the dead man's pulse. Copyright 2007 erik grossman {moscomment} |
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