"COVER," ECHOES IN my ear as I get a glimpse of his large body tackling me. We're both blown back. I'm alive, I think. I hear, "I'm not gonna leave you. Stay with me, Alex. Stay with me." I can't see him because I can't keep my eyes open, but I know that voice. I've tried to banish it from my memory, but to no avail.
"Dr. Hart," a woman's voice asks.
I open my eyes. "Drew," I say.
The pity on her face is obvious. I recognize that look because I've used it before with my own patients. "There's no one here named Drew."
My head hurts so badly. Actually my entire body feels like it's been put through a meat grinder. Even taking a breath causes the ache to worsen. "I saw him. He saved me," I mutter.
"You got hit. You're on a lot of pain medication," she explains.
She thinks I'm crazy. This nurse actually thinks I don't know what I saw. "It's not the meds. I saw Drew," I insist.
"Drew who? I'll check for you."
"Foster. His name is Drew Foster," my voice cracks.
She smiles politely. "Okay, I'll be back. Just try to rest."
While I wait, I clench my eyes closed. I see the explosion. I see him. It's as real as anything I've ever known.
When she returns momentarily, she confirms. "I'm sorry, Dr. Hart. There's no Drew Foster in your company."
"I'm not crazy. I know it was him at the explosion. I recognized his voice!" I yell, completely frustrated.
She nods. "Why don't I call in someone to come talk with you? Maybe that would help."
I shake my head. "No. I don't understand why you're keeping him from me."
"We're not keeping him from you. There is no one deployed that would have been in the same area by that name," she insists.
"Surely he would have been hurt with me. He'd be here with me." Then my thoughts wander into uncharted territory. It's not a place I can fathom being. Maybe he's dead. What if I was on the brink of death and saw him? Like in the movies. I've had patients tell me that they saw loved ones when they were in critical condition and we weren't sure they'd make it. I swallow the large lump in my throat. The familiar feeling of bricks taking occupancy on my chest resumes. It's been a long time since I felt this kind of pain, this kind of pressure. "Fatalities?"
"None," she smiles proudly as she puts medication through my IV. "This is just another dose for pain."
I gasp for air, like I've been holding my breath underwater for hours. "Thank goodness for that." That still doesn't explain my situation. I know I saw him. "Thank you for your help," I offer.
In my experience as a physician, if I don't cool it, they will think I've completely lost my mind. Maybe I have. Fatigue sets in from whatever she just gave me, and I drift back into the phase of sleep where I can hear what's going on around me, but I really couldn't care less.
This is when I hear what I had feared. "I think she has Acute Stress Disorder. She keeps asking for someone named Drew Foster. Talking about the explosion."
***
I DON'T KNOW how long it's been, or where I am for that matter since I've been in and out of consciousness, but mostly out. My entire body aches. My right leg is in traction. It only takes me a second to realize it's my knee that hurts. I reach over and press the nurse call button. The intercom comes on, "How can we help you?"
"Send my nurse, please," I manage to mutter.
The voice comes back with, "Anything she can bring to you?"
"Can I get something for pain?" I ask, trying to hold my breath to manage the pain.
"I'll ask her. She'll be in soon."
"Thanks," I mumble, then try to doze back off to sleep. Except the pain is too much for me to do anything other than grimace, wondering what my prognosis will be.
The door opens and a nurse appears. "Hi there, Dr. Hart."
"Hi." I nod.
"I've got some pain medication that will go through your IV."
I glance down to my hands, and I see bruises. That's not surprising, since I've never had the best veins. The IV is actually now in my forearm. I offer it to her. "Where am I? What about Drew? Have you been able to find him?"
"Oh. You're in Germany." Her pleasant demeanor changes. "I heard you might ask about him."
I roll my eyes. "I saw him. This isn't Acute Stress Disorder," I plead. "I'm a doctor for cryin' out loud." The more I talk, the more I hurt. My heart and my body. "I know what I saw. It was real, he was real."
She shakes her head. "I'm sure he was. It's just we haven't been able to locate anyone by that name." She disposes of the syringe into the red sharps container, pulls the trigger of the foam hand sanitizer, and then leans up against the wall. "This must be so hard for you. When you're feeling better, we can get a psych consult. It might help to just talk to someone. Sort through what you saw, experienced."
"Sure,"I sigh. The medicine is making the lids of my eyes heavy. "Whatever."
***
THREE MONTHS LATER
IT'S BELIEVED THAT I have Acute Stress Disorder, so I was transferred to a rehab facility. It's a known fact that when people are told something enough times, they start to believe it. So it's been difficult to wrap my mind around my own situation. Am I absolutely sure it was Drew? There was that one time at the creek when I saw my dad, but it was really Drew. What if it wasn't either one of them? What if all this time, I dreamed him? My own little coping mechanism.
My time is spent trying to figure out if hearing his voice was some sort of a vision, or if it was real. Even though every other part of him was unidentifiable, those eyes were so familiar. The most unique milk chocolaty brown I've ever seen. When I looked into them, it was like I was looking into my soul, my inner home.
The evidence certainly points to me being crazy. They've looked for him. The facts can't be denied that there is and was no Drew Foster deployed with me. So for that, I can't blame the medical professionals for believing the explosion triggered memories of my parent's death...of Drew, but I know myself. It's not something I'm ready to believe or accept.
The physical injuries I've sustained are nothing compared to the mental blows. At this point, I almost wish I hadn't survived. Every sight or sound triggers a compartmentalized box of horrific images I stored while deployed.
Even the most gruesome Hollywood movie can't do justice for what I just experienced. Maybe that's because in movies we only experience the visual. Touching the blood is impossible. Smelling the stench of death can't be captured on a film roll. Watching the death of a main character can't compare to losing the people I have lived with and loved as if they are my brother or sister over and over again.
Thankfully, my phone rings and distracts me from this dark path my thoughts were headed down. "Hello."
"Alex?" Memaw asks, her voice quivering.
My mind starts to race, and thoughts immediately go to my Papa. I dread getting phone calls like these. Immediately, I can tell something is wrong and that my life will forever be changed, usually for the worst. I don't want to say anything. I just sit here hoping that maybe if I hold my breath, if I don't say a word, my dreaded fears won't be confirmed.
"Alex?" She asks again.
I mumble a weak, "Yeah."
The pit in my stomach, the aching in my soul, it's familiar. Bricks start piling on my chest. Breathing becomes challenging. I know what she's going to say, but it doesn't prepare my heart. "It's your Papa."
Wetness streams down the sides of my face. There's a small ounce of hope that resides in a tiny box deep within my being. "Okay," I mutter, begging, praying, and pleading with God to please not let this be the worst case scenario. "What about him?" I ask.
"It was his heart, Alex," she cries. Was. It was his heart. My chest begins to pound, and there is no containing the wails that quickly follow. This pain, this hurt, has been such a mainstay of my life, yet I will never be used to it. The thought that I didn't get to say goodbye plays on repeat in my mind. Not this kind of goodbye.
Papa said every year, "This might be my last Christmas, ya know." No matter how many times he said it, I would always roll my eyes and swat his arm as I said, "Nonsense. Don't talk like that." And all I can think about right now is that he was right. There will be no more Christmases, no more birthdays, no more sitting on his lap. He was my strength in every tragedy I've ever experienced. I don't know how I'll survive this. I wasn't ready. It can't be his time. I can't deal with this right now.
***
ONE DAY LATER
SINCE MEMAW AND Papa had custody of me they are, at this point, considered my next of kin. That meant I was granted emergency leave. The rehab facility for my knee injury and the Acute Stress Disorder is in Bethesda, Maryland, which meant that I had to fly home. I'm thankful for this time on the plane.
The thing about flights in the military is there are no posh seats, refreshments, Wi-Fi, or movies to entertain me. There might be a Private First Class, but there won't be a first class section. This time, I'm thankful for the hours to just think and reflect.
Everything happens for a reason, and I know it's all in good time, even if it's not in my time. I just don't understand. I can't grasp my head around it. I'm not sure I'll ever understand why it happened now, losing Papa. People used to always tell me after my parents passed away that God doesn't give us more than we can handle. I'm still alive, so there must be some truth to that, but sometimes I wonder if he thinks I'm super woman or something.
The only good that could come from this is that I might get some time to clear my head, do some extensive research, and figure out the mess that is my life. I am determined to use these few days to find Drew Foster. I need closure on that part of my life once and for all.
Maybe if I can get answers where he is concerned, I can accept my fate...whatever that may be? I've searched for him in the past. Everything I find is a dead end. I don't understand it. It's like he never even existed, and yet I know he did. I know he was real.
So I've decided to hire a professional when I get home after everything is sorted. It will give me a welcome distraction from the fact that I've lost three of the most important people in my life. Papa. Just when I was so close to getting home to see him again.
I wish I had been given the opportunity to say goodbye to him, to tell him how much I loved him. Not that there is any doubt in my mind that he knew, but because I want to tell him just one more time. Mom's smiling face is clear in my mind. Clenching my eyes closed, I inhale as I remember the conversation she had with me after my great grandmother passed away.
She'd mailed me a birthday card, knowing that because of the holiday the day before my birthday, it'd be late if she didn't send it two days ahead. She passed away on that very holiday. The day after she mailed my card, the day before I actually got it.
As the postal carrier brought our mail, we all knew what was awaiting me. Bricks began piling on my chest as she handed it to me. "This is for you, Boo Boo. You'll want to keep this forever. It was probably the last thing she ever wrote."
Even though I squeezed my eyes as tight as I could, it wasn't enough to keep my tears contained. "I wish I could have told her thank you one more time. That I loved her one more time."
Mom pulled me into an embrace. "You can't live life like that. No matter how much time you spent with someone, you'll always wish that you had done more." She kissed my hair as she rubbed my back. "When the people you love leave you, it will always feel like you could have done more."
My chest heaved up and down as my cries turned into full blown sobs.
"Let it out, Alex. Cry. It's okay. She knew you loved her, and she loved you so much. So much that she left you stuff before she even passed away. She knew she was dying, and she wanted to see the joy in you receiving her gifts. She wanted to know you had the things she wanted you to have."
"Uh huh," I muttered between sobs, my voice cracking from the tightness in my throat.
"I love you, Alex. If I could take your pain, I would. Just remember in life that you can't over say I love you."
Laughter snuck into my wails. "Papa always tells me that, too."
"See. If I'd told it to you, you wouldn't believe me because I'm your mother. Kids never think their mother's know anything. But because he told you, you know it's true. Your Papa is one wise man."
The giggles began to win against the sobs. She wiped my tears, and I swiped the gunk coming from my nose. We spent the rest of the afternoon eating ice cream and sharing our favorite stories about my Greatmama.
Ever since that conversation I did what I could to make the time count with the people I love, but the thing I regret the most is my decision to spend so much time away at school and then joining the military. If I'd not done those two things, I would have had so much more time with him. Maybe I could have even been there to save him.
Bringing my legs to my chest, knees bent, I wrap my arms around them, and bury my head into my skin as the familiar emotions of loss and grief consume me. It's something I'm well versed in...guilt, grief. Even though my mind knows from a textbook that the anger and bargaining are normal stages, it's still hard for me to accept that he's gone, that my time with him is over. There's another hole of emptiness. So many in my heart have been left vacant, I can't help but feeling slightly robbed. The funny thing is that even if I had been able to have five hundred years with him, I'd still feel the same way.