The Lighthouse | ARTHUR CURRY: I

EIGHTEEN

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The hospital is where I woke up. Its dull walls were oddly bright when I opened my eyes. The smell that lingers in every hospital was something that by day three, I was used to. My torso and back were tight and stiff, with the slightest of movement my stitches would protest against my skin. The doctors had explained that I needed to not stay in bed, that I needed to get up and walk around, and as I prepared for my daily walk with a nurse, I wished I could go back to sleep.

My grip on my IV pole was tight, knuckles white and my arm shaking as I ventured down the hall with a cautious hand on my hip. My nurse was named Sally and was sweet as can be, and I was grateful that she was next to me. Her soft voices encouraged another step, promising a refreshing drink of water at the end of the hall. My tongue instinctively darts between my lips to coat my cracked and now smiling lips. I nodded with determination, ignoring the protest in my muscles and my entire body.

The welcome sight of my bed almost made my knees buckle. Sally and I's trip down the hall had taken more out of me than I had hoped and while she said that I had gotten a few feet farther than I had the day before, I still felt utterly defeated. There was a new bouquet of Peonies sitting in my room when I finally shuffled back in. Every day, a unique vase with fresh flowers would be in my room, I never see who leaves them, but I assume it's Leslie.

She visited me yesterday and talked for hours about how the store has been doing. I think she's nervous and worried for me, so I let her talk the most, it seems to calm her. Every time there was a pause I wanted to tell her, but I don't. I think it's because I'm just not ready to explain anything to her yet. I've tried before and couldn't do it then. Today, she said she wasn't going to be able to stop by to see me, something about The Lighthouse- I had fallen asleep halfway through our conversation yesterday, and when I had woke, she was gone.

My dad had called and said he was driving up with his family and would be here to take me home at the end of the week. I was excited to see him. I needed a loved one that wasn't a friend. Sally tucked the light blue scratchy blanket up around my waist and fluffed my pillow for me. I smiled at her, and she told me the doctor would be in after my nap. I didn't sleep, though. Nightmares plagued my dreams and terrified me awake every night when someone would ask if I was asleep. I would lie and say I slept as well as I could with stitches all over my body. I stared at the wall for a better of an hour before an all too familiar nurse popped her head in to announce it was time for a change of gauze and bandages.

I think the hardest parts of the days were when my bandages needed to be changed. As slow as I would be allowed, I was to sit up and lift my arms after my gown was untied and pooled at my hips. The thought of someone walking in scared me even if the door was locked and the privacy blind was pulled, I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. With anticipation and fear on my part and ease and control on the nurse's end, the bandages would be unwrapped from my torso, and the gauze would be pulled softly from my healing skin. With a special soap, the areas would be cleaned, and I would bite my lip at every sharp pain and tug of skin. I never wanted to look at my wounds. It was something I didn't need to see. My doctor says I'll have to look at them eventually, that It'll help with the healing process if I know what's been done to my body. He explained that by not looking at them I'm not accepting what happened.