Page 8 of Colt
Allison
When I wake up the next morning, I feel dizzy and a bit disoriented. I blame the interrupted sleep I got last night, not that sleeping in the hospital room is all that comfortable to begin with.
It’s why Cindy needed to take a break.
There’s a window seat bed in the hospital, but there’s something about it that I couldn’t get used to, so I ended up just sitting in the recliner.
Still, I’m out of sorts, which is just a testament to this whole thing. It’s been a week from hell. And of course, now that Colt is awake, it’s not like he’s making things any easier. I can’t really be mad at him about last night.
He was borderline hallucinating, I’m sure.
Between the morphine and how out of it and exhausted he has to be just from his body trying to heal these injuries, there’s no way he can be held accountable for his nonsense.
I’m just glad that there’s a team of doctors taking care of him. And not me. He’s guaranteed to be the worst patient alive. Thisis maybe the only time that I’m glad I’m not quite done with nursing school.
Being in the hospital, though, is giving me a window into the way my life is going to look when I start clinical rotations. When I graduate.
It still seems far away now, but I guess it’s not really.
I stand up and I look at him. There’s no one here. I haven’t been alone with him other than last night and now. I take the moment to just look. He’s hooked up to all manner of wires, his leg in traction. He seems totally out.
He’s still got an oxygen tube just below his nostrils, his face still a little swollen. There’s so much bruising around his stitches, one artful contusion and an abrasion on his high cheekbone. The kind of injury they would put on the hero in an action movie. The rest of his injuries, though, are less aesthetic. I know that his midsection was pretty severely gored, and even though he didn’t sustain any injuries to his internal organs, his skin was torn open through the muscle in parts.
Right now, his leg is the big concern as far as long term effects. But being gored had to have been so…awful.
I suddenly feel lightheaded, thinking about all of his injuries. All the pain that he must be in.
I decide that I need to go get some breakfast. I wander down to the cafeteria and get in line. For some reason, scenes of his accident keep playing in my mind, over and over again.
Him getting thrown off and landing on the ground. The bull going after him. Slashing him.
I blink, trying to wipe my mind clean of the image, and then keep walking forward. I take a carton of milk out of the fridge, and I’m about to go over and grab an apple from the fruit bowl when I start to feel woozy. By the time I see black spots in front of my eyes, it’s too late. My stomach cramps unbearably. I feel so sick, like I’m going to…
Not vomit.
It almost feels like I’m dying.
Then, my knees lock and I fall. Forward. I hit my head on the corner of the counter and fall backward onto the floor as I lose consciousness. I’m out, then back. The blackness recedes, and I lie there, the back of my neck sweaty, my body hot and cold at the same time.
Hospital staff are converging on me. Then, someone is shining a light in my eyes and checking my vitals.
“I’m okay,” I say. “I passed out.”
“You hit your head,” one of the women hovering above me says.
“Oh.” I touch my forehead. It hurts. Yes. I did hit my head. I know that. I know that I hit my head.
“I think you have a concussion,” the nurse says, shining a light in my eyes.
I try to turn away from the blinding sight. “Oh.”
They help me sit up slowly. And then I’m the one getting taken into triage, getting examined.
“You know what caused you to pass out?”
“I just think it was because I hadn’t eaten,” I say. I admit that it’s probably from imagining Colt’s accident. Thinking about it again makes my stomach cramp up. I don’t know why it’s affecting me like this. It’s ridiculous. It’s definitely not because of some crush I had on him when I was thirteen. I know it has something to do with the violent nature of all of it, but I’ve been watching videos. I’ve been working toward being able to be in emergency room-type situations, and I’m supposed to be… Able to handle this. I’m supposed to know what I’m doing. I’m supposed to be good at it.
“I’m a nursing student,” I say.
