I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been in this damn bed—staring up at the ceiling.
Last I could remember, it was 43 days. The only way I can tell the days apart is by the different clothes my family wears when they visit me. Time just runs together and I find myself drifting off—it’s getting harder and harder to keep my focus.
My last memory before being in this bed was driving—either to, or back from, taking my son Jaxson to baseball practice—and I got t-boned by a pickup truck. I hope to God it was after I dropped him off and he wasn’t in the car with me, but goddamn is it getting hard to remember anything. If there’s a hell, it can’t be any worse than being frozen in my own body and stuck in this bed. At times I wish for death to take me away.
From what I’ve gathered throughout the times the doctor has talked to my wife, the accident put me in a serious coma. I don’t think there’s much of a chance I’m going to come out of it. And I would probably be okay with that if it weren’t for what it would do to my family. But even If I woke up, I would never be the same mentally—and that would be a worse burden on them than me dying. I can’t help thinking it might be best for everyone if I just slip away in the quiet of the night.
The days go on and on and I don’t even try to count them anymore. What’s the point? The trainers work my arms and legs to keep the muscles from withering away—like I’m going to ever use them again. I would like to know what they would think if they knew I could hear the shit they talk on all the other patients.
It would also be nice if someone could do something about the damn lights in my room. It’s bad enough I can’t move my body or control the opening and closing of my eyelids, but I don’t need to get a killer headache from the flickering fluorescent lights on top of everything else.
Either my visitors are coming by less often or my grasp on reality is waning more than ever. I hope it’s the former because it kills me to think about my loved ones wasting all of their time in this hospital instead of living their lives. I’m stuck in this bed, not them! This needs to end one way or another. I’m not sure how much more I can put up with before I absolutely lose my mind.
I’ve also noticed my breathing has become more difficult as of late. The machines I’m hooked up to have been working harder to keep me alive. I haven’t yet decided if that’s a good thing or not. The gaps of blackness where I can’t remember anything are not only becoming longer, but they’re happening more frequently, too. Can’t be long, now.
Even in the blackness I can hear the beep of my heart monitor; the pauses in between are getting longer and longer. You would think this would frighten me, but it doesn’t. There’s a strange comfort knowing it’s going to all be over soon—and we can all finally move on.
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