Conversion

Start writing here…I’m choking, but I’m trying to cough. A frightening thought that I’m drowning erupts in my head, but I know that I’m not. There’s something shoved down my throat, and I can feel my lungs expand against its forceful pressure.

What is this? Why can’t I breathe? Something is impending me from taking a full deep breath. The thick, crushed glue on my eyelids break as I open my eyes, a fluorescent light blinding me for a moment. My eyes itch, but I can’t scratch them. There’s foam restraints wrapped around my wrists. How inconvenient.

There’s a tube. There’s no one around to know that I’m awake; I want to scream, but it won’t do me any courtesy. Beside me, there is a computer monitor alarming, a fast-paced, deafening medical ding. A slender, silver pole is decorated with totems of intravenous medication pumps.

Finally, someone enters. She seems familiar, but I cannot place where I know her. It’s an uncomfortable grocery store encounter. Neither of us know names, or of our connection. All we know is that we may know each other.

“Hey,” Her voice is warm, with motherly honey oozing from its core. Her hand slips over mine, her fingers slide in the little cinnamon roll center of my fist. “You’re okay. Blink twice if you understand me.”

I blink.

“I just spoke to your doctor. I told him that you’re awake and breathing without the ventilator. He gave me the okay to get that breathing tube out.”

Why is she speaking to me like I’m a layperson? I work in this hospital! I’m a nurse!

Her name badge is secured onto her scrub top, just to my right, and I turn my head to glance at it. In the egg-white film over my eyes, I can see the bold black letters below her picture. Ah. There it is. Gwen. I’ve never come across her name in the hospital at all. Instead, I can only think of Gwyneth Paltrow and how much I dislike her. She acts as if someone performed a back-street lobotomy on her.

“Hey. Look who’s here,” Gwen’s talking to me again. I give her my full attention, my gaze following her across the room as she stands at the end of my bed. I don’t want to move the tube too much; it’s getting to be a nagging in my throat.

I can hear a pair shoes hitting the floor solidly as they step into my room. A man has emerged, standing in a white coat. I know he’s a doctor, judging by his cleanly-shaven face. Oh, and that his title is embroidered on the left side, beneath and to the left of the lapels. The black stitched lettering is blurry at this distance, but I know I’m going to find out his name sooner rather than later. He’s wearing the stereotypical physician uniform over street clothes, a navy sweater pulled over a plaid buttoned shirt. He has a small belly, which sticks out slightly, and I know it’s from posture and not from a diet of gas station hog dogs and Coke. He’s in his forties, but not over 43. That seems like a decent age.

“Do you remember him?” Gwen asks, tilting her head to the end of my bed, nodding up at the doctor. I refocus my gaze, surveying him. I’m reaching deep down, using my memory fishing pole to hopefully catch a memory. But, there’s nothing. He looks like I might have seen him in the grocery store, or in the street. He doesn’t look like a physician I work with. Maybe he’s new? Cautiously, I shake my head, my eyes looking at Gwen first, and then back to the physician.

He steps forward, his hand gripping the creamy plastic foot of the hospital bed. I can see his face drain of color, his olive-toned skin faded into nearly porcelain. Is he angry? Or is he sad? I can’t tell what emotion he’s feeling right now, but I can assume it’s not a good one. Huffing, he crosses his arms and rotates himself to glare at Gwen.

“It’s alright,” Gwen starts, her words slightly pointed towards him. “We need to give her space.”

Space? What do I need space for? For all I know I could actually be in space!

Gwen continues, her sweet, golden eyes warming me. “I’m going to take your breathing tube out. It’s going to be uncomfortable, and you may feel like you can’t breathe. It may also gag you a bit. I want you to relax, and let us remove it to be more comfortable for you.”

The physician, who smells faintly of a Tom Ford cologne that I sampled once at a department store counter, steps behind Gwen to lean against the wall. I like her, but I’m not sure about him yet. He appears annoyed, off-put that he was inconvenienced to come up here and watch the nurse extubate me. I’ve done this more times than I can even remember. If I had a mirror, I could do it myself.

Gwen’s unwrapping the stethoscope from her neck to listen to me. As she leans over, a strand of her coppery ponytail slips over the cliff of her shoulder. Her natural highlights glimmer under the fluorescent glow from the ceiling, and it makes me think of how my hair looks. I can only imagine how disgusting and matted it is, but that’s all dependent on how long I’ve been here. My thoughts are interrupted with the cold diaphragm pressing against my chest. She’s telling me to take deep breaths—that’s what I’m trying to do, not Gwyneth Paltrow.

My nurse steps away to pick up something off of the counter across the room, slinging the stethoscope around her neck. Gwen arrives back at my side and unwraps the clear plastic of a non-rebreather mask. Please, get the tube out of me! I can feel it crunch against my trachea, feeling like I swallowed a Dorito crooked with one of the corners scraping down my esophagus.

Gwen sits me up, elevating my head of the bed so that I’m sitting at nearly 90 degrees. She starts pressing buttons on the touch-screen of the ventilator. Now, there is nothing, except for me, to breathe. I have no assistance, but I have to do this! I will not allow myself to lose this battle with my lungs. This thought scares me, the fear of having to be put back on the ventilator is incredibly present.

Gwen is reaching across me slightly, her warm arms pressed against mine. I would move, but I can’t because I’m tied. Some people would enjoy my position at the moment. Not me. She puts the yankauer catheter into my mouth, the suction forceful as it touches my tongue. There’s thick, clear secretions in the far back. I can smell my breath—Good Lord! Didn’t they brush my teeth or something?

Finally, the gagging torture ends, and Gwen lifts my head, reaching around me to un-velcro the strap around my matted hair. I can smell her, and she smells so good! I haven’t smelled anything like her perfume in so long. Just like the doctor’s department-store cologne, I realize have no idea about time.

What day even is it? Month? Oh shit. Year? What if I’ve been in a coma, like a character on Days of our Lives, for like.. The last twenty years!?

I feel the strap come undone, the thick, tacky-like pads still stuck to my face. I guess I’m going to get my cheeks waxed today. Gwen’s telling me that she’s going to suction one more time, and then the tube is going to come out. The physician has tucked his hands into the waist pockets of his coat, his gaze fixed on Gwen’s actions.

Does he have a thing for her? He seems flat--like two day-old soda, so I think he’s probably not. But honestly, why is he here? He could go outside to chart, then come back once it’s done to talk to me. Instead, the doctor stands and stares. His eyes are like every quintessential character in a novel, a brilliant blue. But, his are cerulean, with dark navy and brown flecks in them. Despite his distance, I can still notice the details, as his eyes are narrowed, and pointed directly at me.

The tube is being adjusted, the sticky securing pads peeled from my face. Ouch. I know it’s not the worst part-- the gagging is coming. She deflates the balloon which holds the tube in place, and begins her countdown. Ugh, I hate countdowns. I never do them for my patients--I always go on two. Quite a pain in the ass, aren’t I?

My attention is rapidly brought back to the tube about to be pulled from my trachea. Gwen ends her count on one, and with the pull of her wrist, it’s out. Oh God. I can’t breathe! Heat is radiating from my face as I cough. Saliva is sputtering out of my mouth as I struggle to stop the incessant coughing. I think I’m going to be sick, and I gag. The yankauer suction catheter is in my mouth, between my open, cracked lips. Tears start to leak out of the corners of my eyes.

The non-rebreather mask is adjusted to my face, pinched at the bridge of my nose. Green elastic is slipped behind my head, settling above my ears. Finally, I’m free of anything in my mouth, and I close my lips, feeling their crusting. They’re like a painting that has its aging surface cracked by the shrinking of the canvas.

I read somewhere about what that was called… Craquelure. I’m relishing in the feeling of my unobstructed mouth when the deeply-rooted desire for cool water pushes to my surface. I salivate at the very thought.

Just as I’m about to motion to Gwen and request it, there’s a warm washcloth pressed against my eyes, wiping firmly to remove the hardened crust that has formed on my lashes. I wonder for a brief moment, if I’m actually slipping back into unconsciousness. It’s bright again, and my heart slows. My eyelashes are clumped together, I notice as I blink and they brush the tops of my cheeks with their bread-like crumb coating.

I try to speak, but nothing’s coming out. The mask makes it difficult to hear if I’m making a sound, the high amount of oxygen rushing at me like the dryer at the end of a car wash. Gwen shakes her head, putting her hand on my arm. With my eyes, I motion to my wrists, begging her to get me out of the fucking restraints. They’re not comfortable, despite their foam padding.

“I’m going to take her restraints off now, Dr. Fuller. Is that alright with you?” Her head is twisted backwards towards him. He nods, his eyes glazed over and one hand folded at his lips. He appears distracted. So, that’s his name. Dr. Fuller, with his fancy white coat, expensive fountain pen resting in his pocket, and typical middle-aged male hairstyle. It’s the color of a deep tree trunk in the summer, silver lines darting throughout. The subtle waves of his hair are parted to one side, the length on top combed back from his forehead.

I look down to watch Gwen undo the velcro, and I notice that the wrist bands are on too tight--they’re supposed to allow someone to slip two fingers between the skin and restraint. Cold air meets my bare skin, and I smile beneath the clear layer of my oxygen mask.

Reaching my hands up, I study them. My fingers are elongated, with my fingernails painted a vibrant red. I never paint my nails--the hospital doesn’t allow it.. Roadmaps of sky-blue veins rope and twist over my caramel-tinted skin. I hold my left hand closer, startled at the porcelain band of skin at the base of my ring finger. I furrow my brow over towards Gwen, and she comes around to my left side. I’m pointing with my right hand, towards my left ring finger.

“Oh! You’d like your rings?” Gwen’s eyebrows are raised in recognition of our unannounced game of Charades. I have that sickly sensation of my heart burning like icy-hot, my stomach sinking deep into the pit of my abdomen. Something is wrong; why do I have a ring?

Dr. Fuller steps forward, prompting me to hold out my hand, palm towards the ceiling. With furrowed eyebrows, I comply. His fingers are warm to the touch, tender against my sensitive hand. I refocus my vision, eyes wide as I look upon the jewelry in my hand.

An oval-shaped diamond ring is glaring at me. It’s framed with small diamonds, enlarging the look of it against the slender, silver band. Next to it is a wider band of round diamonds. The artificial light in this hospital room makes it sparkle, and I pick both rings up with my right hand. Sliding them over my left ring finger, they pause at the knuckle for a brief moment. Then, they’re at the base, a perfect fit.

I flip my head up, confused as to why Dr. Fuller had my rings. No, not my rings. Someone’s rings that somehow fit me perfectly. The first glimpse of a smile spreads on his face, his eyes sparkling slightly. Gwen’s touch turns my head towards her, and she takes my left hand. She studies the rings closely, her back arched as she’s leaned over. Now, she stands straight and grins. “You’re so lucky to have these. He did a great job, picking out the ones you wanted from Tiffany’s. Do you… Do you remember who gave these to you?”

No. I remember nothing! Clenching my eyes shut, I force all of my bodily energy into trying to bring up a memory. My breathing increases, the throb of my racing heart is pounding against my chest wall. My eyes flutter open, and Gwen’s face is turned downward in sympathy, putting my hand back on the bed.

“Do you truly not remember me?” He asks, his voice vastly different from what I had imagined it to be. It’s deep, as if the earth would crumble with the weight of his words. He speaks slow, drawing out his words so that they linger on his slender lips. I shake my head, staring down at my left hand once more.

“Please, we said we’d give Elisabeth time.” Gwen interludes, playing Devil’s advocate.

Elisabeth? Is she referring to me?

“Elisabeth’s had time. Two months! She will remember me… She has to. I’m her husband.”