“I Don’t Remember”

            “Ah, we are awake now,” the nurse said in a lilting Gaelic accent.

            She hated it when a person used the word “we” when referring to her.  It made her sound imperious and feel patronized at the same time.  Hospital personnel were notorious for substituting the word “we” for you.”

            “Yes.  What happened?” she asked with the meekness of a mouse.

            The nurse removed an object from her finger that resembled a paper binder clip.  After adjusting one of the knobs on the beeping machine, she returned the clip to her finger.

            “The doctor will come to speak with you,” the nurse replied with the crispness of a saltine cracker.

            Wrapping a blood pressure cuff around her arm, the nurse positioned the portable sphygmomanometer so only she could see the measurement.  She felt as though her arm would explode by the time the pressure on the cuff began to subside.  The nurse made a clucking sound as she made a recording on a chart.

            The nurse quickly adjusted the hospital linen on the bed and left the room.

            Her head began throbbing a few minutes later, and it was when she put a hand up to massage her temple that she realized her head was bandaged.  Touching her head gently with both hands, she realized her entire head was bandaged.  The upper right side of her head felt very sore, especially when she pressed down on it.

            A doctor entered the room, making clip-clop sounds with his clogs.  He wore green surgical scrubs and had the customary stethoscope slung around his neck.  His jet black hair and medium-brown skin color were identifying markers of his East Indian lineage.

            “How are we feeling?” he asked.

            There it was again, she thought.  The “we.”

            “I have a headache.” she replied through lips as dry as straw.

            “That’s to be expected.  You have a concussion, plus we had to give you about six sutures in the scalp.  I’ll have the nurse bring you a couple of painkillers.

            “What happened?  I don’t remember.”

            “You don’t remember anything?” the doctor asked.  She noted the guarded tone of his voice.  Removing a small pen light from his jacket pocket.  He switched on the light over the bed.  He shined the light into each of her eyes.

            “Do you remember your name?”

            “Yes.  My name is Doreen Burke.”

            “OK, good.  Doreen, do you know what year this is?”

            “It’s 2006.”

            “Who is the President of the United States, Doreen?”

            “George W. Bush.”

            The doctor pressed the nurse’s call button.  For some reason, this frightened Doreen.

            “You don’t have any problem with your long-term memory, but the shock of the accident seems to have affected your short-term memory.”

            “Yes, doctor?” the nurse appeared.

            “We’re going to need 3 cc’s of Phenobarbital.  Stat.”

            “Right away, doctor,” she said and left the room quickly.

            “Accident?”  Doreen asked, her heart now pounding along with her head.

            “You’ve been here in the hospital for about a week.  You’ve been under sedation for most of that time.  I thought it best under the circumstances.”

            “What kind of accident?”

            At that moment, the nurse returned to the room.  She was carrying a syringe and several alcohol pads.  Doreen watched as she tore the cellophane wrapper off the syringe and stuck the needle end into a small bottle.

            “You were in a car accident,” the doctor continued.  “The accident occurred on the same day that you were discharged from this hospital for another reason.

            Thoroughly puzzled now, Doreen watched as the nurse capped the needle and set the syringe down on the table beside the bed.

            “Doreen, do you remember being hospitalized before you awakened in this room?”

            “No.”

            The nurse ripped open an alcohol gauze pad and rubbed a section of Doreen’s forearm with it.

            “Doreen, you have suffered a terrible loss that has caused a terrible shock.  You need to relax.  We are going to administer another sedative.”

            “Doctor, please tell me what happened.  I don’t remember!”

            “Dr. Phelps will be here shortly, and –“

            At that moment, another doctor entered the room, and Doreen recognized him immediately.  It was her gynecologist.

            “Doreen, we need you to relax.”

            “No,” she screamed struggling to sit up in bed.

            Taking a deep breath, Dr. Phelps continued.

            “For the past five years, you and your husband have been trying to conceive a child.  You finally succeeded and carried the baby to term.”

            “Oh, my God!  Was my child stillborn?”

            “No.  You gave birth to a healthy baby girl.”

            Doreen noted that the Indian doctor was now standing on the opposite side of the bed from the nurse.

            “On the day you were discharged from the hospital, your husband arrived to take you and your daughter home.  All you wanted to do was hold your daughter.  You refused to put her in the car seat.

            The nurse uncapped the syringe as Dr. Phelps continued speaking.

            “Both your husband and your daughter were killed instantly when a truck ran a red light, and –“

            The horror of the accident came flooding back to her memory, from the monumental impact to the unbearable feeling of emptiness as her newborn catapulted from her arms through the car’s windshield.  The sound of a wounded animal tore from her lips as the agony of her two-fold loss washed over her.

            “No!” she screeched as the Indian doctor held her shoulders down.  The nurse jabbed the needle into her left arm.  The screech instantly became a whimper and faded into silence as she welcomed the waiting oblivion.

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