Page 23 of Forget Me Knot

NSYNC

JACK

My head pounds in a steady rhythm. I can’t lift my face from beneath the pillow blocking the light from outside. I wish I had the wherewithal to shut my blinds, but any movement, no matter how simple, isn’t possible right now. I don't know how long I've been here like this, but I know it's nowhere close to waning. This happens less and less lately, but when it does, I’m incapacitated for the unforeseeable future.

The banging starts again, and I realize that it isn’t just in my head, but at the door too. I say a silent prayer that whoever’s out there will either give up or break in but, for the love of everything, stop their insistent hammering on my door.

The sound finally stops, but a wave of nausea hits. I drag my body as far over the edge of the bed as possible, grab the trash can waiting there, and lose the contents of my stomach inside.

“Whoa, Jack.” Owen rushes around the bed, coming to my side and lifting the trash can closer to my mouth. He knows it's me, because for whatever reason, my counterpart doesn’t experience this particular side effect. Lucky guy.

“What can I do, man? Did you take your meds?”

I groan and hope he understands it means I haven’t.

“I’m gonna grab them, okay? I’ll be right back.” He takes the trash bag out, replacing it with another at the bottom of the bin, and then I hear the faint sounds of him rummaging around in my bathroom.

My family have all taken turns seeing me like this at different points since my accident. It’s another humbling factor of my specific TBI that I can’t seem to escape. I need help. It may be infrequent, but it’s necessary.

“Here ya go, bro.” He returns, slipping the pills into my clenched fist. I tip them into my mouth and accept the water and straw he brings to my lips. “Bad one, huh? I haven’t seen you like this in a while.”

Vaguely, I have the sense that I try to shake my head in thanks, but I don't think it translates.

“You’re welcome, man.” He squats down beside the bed, and though my eyes are closed and my head is buried under the pillow again, I can tell he’s at eye level. “Take another sip. It's always better if you’re not dehydrated.”

Opening my mouth without looking, I wait for the straw again and take a long sip of water before he pulls it away. We’ve been here before, so it's all par for the course.

“I'm gonna whip up some eggs for when the meds kick in, okay? I'll come right back.”

He softly walks out, and I'm left to wait on the meds to do their job. The ringing in my ears and a painful pulse are still present in my head, along with the dark thoughts about how long I might have to live this way.

I’ve never been one for self-pity, but during moments like these, it’s becoming more difficult not to wallow a bit. When I can feel every particle of fabric scratching like sandpaper against my skin. When my breath smells like death and the steadyrhythm of my heart aligns with the throbbing sensation at my temples. My every thought painfully zeroes in on the discomfort I can’t ignore.

My little brother, who should be living his own life, will spend the rest of the day here looking after me, and if it wasn’t him, it’d be one of our parents or Winnie.

I feel emasculated, but thankful for all they sacrifice. Angry, and yet gloriously grateful to be alive. My therapist calls it a conflicted emotional state. Dad, a retired preacher, says it’s an opportunity to depend on something other than myself. A season of prayer.

I say, whatever it is, I’m tired.

It isn't long before exhaustion takes me under, offering me rest as a reprieve from the pain.

At some point, Owen pads softly back into the room and rests a heavy hand on my back before draping a weighted heating pad there in its stead. I’m not sure how long it’s been, but the room doesn’t feel like it's spinning right now.

“Heat good?”

“Y… yes,” my voice cracks, but I’m able to speak.

We have a protocol. Heat and weight on my body, cold packs on my eyes when I can take it. So before I can even say a word otherwise, Owen slips the familiar, cool, nylon face mask over my head and eyes. The combo of meds, the blanket, and the mask bring almost instantaneous relief. If history is any indication, I’ll be here for the rest of the day and maybe tomorrow, but at least I don’t feel like my brain is splitting in two anymore.

“Better?” Owen asks, keeping his voice low and soft.

I nod once. “How…?” My throat feels dry.

As if he can tell, Owen puts the straw back to my mouth and holds it there while I take a few more sips.

“Greg called Winnie when you didn’t come downstairs this mornin’. She has a twelve hour client at the parlor and couldn’t get here fast enough. Figured you’d rather me than Mama or Dad.”

Nodding again, my other senses start to slowly return. My brother’s foot taps gently on the floor, always moving and active. The sweats I slept in last night are soft but suddenly too warm to be wearing any longer. And like it has for weeks now, the faint smell of fresh baked bread and butter drifts in from next door.

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