Incommunicable

Room full of faces, all facing me.

I am heard, but unheeded.

"Are any of you LISTENING?!"

I sense my internal core temperature rising precipitously. I can detect the genesis of perspiration under my arms. Secondarily, I notice there is sweat on my brow, and in my palms.

I have said it before but I am sincere this time: this is the last time I do this.

I've been standing here behind the lectern for over an hour, pouring forth golden words from the fountain of wisdom, espousing some of the deepest doctrines ever formulated by the mind of mankind, in a manner carefully designed to evoke curiosity as well as comprehension, and requiring untold thousands of hours of studious and disciplined effort on my part to glean and parse and repackage, in the earnest attempt to illuminate these fledgling adolescents, and yet they do not seem to evince the slightest interest, or perhaps they lack the basic capacity to focus their feeble attentions for the mere fraction of a day they are required to do, in my thrice weekly lectures.

What I'm trying to communicate to them is of the direst importance, if they could only hear me, and understand.

"Can anyone tell me, in a few words, what we've been talking about here, today?"

Silence.

The back of my shirt feels moist as well. I am on the edge of breakdown.

"You mean, what you've been talking about?"

Scattered laughter.

"Excuse me?!"

My heart rate is so elevated that I am uncertain what was just said. Regardless, I am aware of the tone of the room, and I can infer.

I cannot believe the audacity. I am so infuriated that I lack any sort of retort. I stand there, paralyzed, trembling from knees to nose.

More silence.

Finally,

"F-f-fine. if that's how you all feel, then class dismissed... I wish you good luck during your preparations for the examination. You will need it. Good afternoon."

They are not jarred by this threat. In fact, they appear a little relieved, now that they are allowed to finally be released from this apparent torture. It's as if they could not care any less. They file out, wordless, glanceless.

They are unfazed, I am shellacked.

I stand there, notes in hand, for a full minute, still teetering on the edge of outburst. I have so much to offer these youths, if only I could just get them to listen. But they refuse to. Or I am incapable of getting them to. Despite my entire armada of efforts, we remain at stalemate. Or that's what I've been telling myself. But after today it's clear, and I cannot evade the truth: I'm losing.

Sit

phew. im wiped out. that was a tough damn day. or a damn tough day, i dunno which. im bout ready to hit the sack. but first gonna watch some shows. been up since the butt crack of dawn, and this the eighth or ninth day in a row.

wonder whats on the TV. or what cuzzo is gonna wanna talk bout. sometimes i really love talking about all his fancy ideas, but lately i just havent had the energy.

Chat

I cannot recall anything from the commute home. Something was playing on the radio, a song I recognized, something toe-tapping, but I do not now remember what it was. The "incident" earlier occupied all of my cognitive faculties. I am trying to banish these thoughts now, so I can come in cheerful rather than somber. I don't want to turn him away as well.

As expected, he is recumbent on the loveseat sofa, legs dangling over the arm, indolently watching a broadcast, probably syndicated. I doubt I will be able to rouse him to engage with me in a dialectical exchange. Nevertheless, I desperately want to share the rest of my lecture, and also the event which abridged it.

"Greetings my good sir."

"hey cuz."

"How are you this fine evening?"

"im wiped out man."

"Arduous day?"

"yeah."

"I see. Well can I tell you about my travails?"

"k."

Sure enough, even my most provocative anecdotes and discerning insights are insufficient to stir him from his stupor. I recognize that he has a difficult job, but so do I, and in fact mine is much more intellectually taxing. Not to mention the willpower I am required to demonstrate on days like today, to refrain from reprimanding my students (as they deserve). But times are different now. The parents would be rioting in the streets if their children faced the slighted reproof, justified or not. But my thoughts are becoming discursive.

"To come at once to the root problem, I feel that my optimism is beginning to wane. I'm nearly halfway through my quote unquote eminent career, as the department prorector described it, and yet I've accomplished absolutely nil."

"that aint true and you know it."

"Well, perhaps you're right. But it certainly feels like that, compared to my original ambitions. Remember when we were children? We used to play video games for interminable hours, and we found ourselves utterly engrossed."

"course."

"I was simultaneously horrified and fascinated that something could grip my attention for so long, so completely. Then, as we got older, I discovered the same phenomenon with literature, and psychology, and philosophy, except that those experiences latched onto me for much longer after I was finished with them, memetically impregnating my mind with ideas that swept me up for weeks at time. So I've been chasing that feeling."

"yeah all your big books and stuff. so what are you sayin?"

"Since then, I have had this desperate desire to capture the imagination and attention of others, in the same way that the games did to us, and then later on the way the words did to me. I want to become eternal, to transcend my physical body, to become like Abraham, the father of many. Just as all the creators of those experiences live on in the minds of their audience, I want to do the same. But I'm beginning to disbelieve my own potential to realize these aspirations. I'm beginning to doubt whether I will ever influence anyone."

"well you got your students."

"They do not listen."

"so its their fault?"

"Well, not exactly. That's why I stated that it is my lack of ability."

"it aint that."

"What is it then?"

"even if i told you, you wouldnt listen. you gotta figure it out on your own."

"Hmm... enigmatic."

"yeah."

Somnolence is overtaking him. I am likewise exhausted. Not physically, but otherwise. Rather deflated, like a balloon that has lost its helium. I can find no one with a similar congenial desire to discuss these electrifying ideas. Sometimes I find myself so full of enthusiasm that I cannot breathe. Perhaps my rhetoric is inadequate to properly persuade others of the significance of these ideas. Or maybe I'm just the only one with the capacity to comprehend them. But I know that's not true either.

Regardless, one begins to feel futility accumulating like snow drifts outside the door, marooning us within our home for days, even weeks. But maybe this time this snow will not melt come Spring. Or when it does, there will be so much snowmelt it will drown us. Or maybe, it won't matter because there will be no one left inside to care, anyways.

Halt

Grating tones disturb me from a delightful dream. I feel groggy. One more day. I can do this.

Ah, the "brand" new shiny red corolla, purchased at a significant discount, post negotiations, almost 18 months ago hence. I thought the novelty would alleviate some of my despondency. It did... for about three weeks. How long have I been encouraging myself with assurances that the end is nearly in sight?

The sun's ascent is astonishing this morning. I don't really have the luxury to appreciate it today, as I have a few important lecture notes to review, in my mind, during the commute to campus. But I need to add something too. Perhaps I'll try a bit of wry humor during today's sessions. Attempt to infuse a sense of comedy into the otherwise content, without diluting its gravity. Something has got to give.

So far, I've narrowly avoided a collision with at least three separate drivers, or rather, their vehicles. I'm a bit distracted, to say the least, with more important things than depressing and releasing two levers and gyrating a wheel, something that the others seem incapable of doing with any sort of competency. Moreover, I am a bit fatigued, as I was a bit dilatory with my curfew last night, poring over some of the finest words ever written, communing with the only men who truly understand me, or at least they would, I suppose, if they were alive. But I understand them, and that's enough. I hear their words, even if they cannot hear mine.

As I pursue this parallel thought process, I am suddenly arrested in my forward motion. I should have stopped at that light. My world is inverted. I believe I have made a severe error.

...

Wake

I am conscious.

I am in here.¹

Where is here?

Beeping. Incessant beeping.

I open my eyes. The room is rather dim, and I cannot distinguish any of its features. The walls appear to be stark white. My blanket is coarse, rather uncomfortable. This is not my blanket.

Something wet is in my nose. I try to blow my nose, but I cannot raise my hands. I cannot feel my left hand at all. I can feel it with my right, so I know it still exists. It seems like it belongs to someone else, however. Did it fall asleep? But I cannot get the sensation to return.

I elevate my head to peer around, but I see nothing. Just the walls, and a door. Something is still beeping. What in God's name could be the purpose of that beeping?

"Hello?"

Silence.

Sort of par for the course, I should say.

"Hello?! Can anyone hear me?"

Sheering bright lights. I shut my eyelids.

"Hi hun, did you say something?"

"Uh, yes, hello. Where am I?"

She is wearing an aquamarine shirt and matching pants.

"There's no need to talk to me like that. I'm just here to help."

"I apologize, it was not my intention to be impolite. Can you please tell me where we are?"

"Look, hun, if you're gonna keep that talk up, I'm out of here. Do you need anything?"

"I don't know what you mean. Just tell me what's going on."

"Fine, have it your way." She shuts the door, rather ungently.

What sort of trickery is going on here? I'm awake, I know that. This must be a hospital, given her uniform, and the garish lighting which must be intended to incite madness in the patients, or else wakefulness in the staff, or probably both.

I think I'd prefer to return to unconsciousness and wake up somewhere else next time, if you please.

Nod

"Yeah, I'm not kidding you. Over 20 nurses and docs were in the trauma room when the paramedics brought him in."

"No way. 20?"

"Ok well it was packed wall to wall."

"Did you get a look at him?"

"No, but I saw the stream of blood trickling onto the floor as they wheeled him into the ED."

"Sheesh."

"He was in surgery for six hours or something."

"Did they fix him?"

"Well, they stopped the bleeding. But by that time a lot of the damage had already been done. His brain didn't have oxygen for a while. You can't really fix that."

"Hello?"

"Oh damn, he's awake."

They walk over to me.

"Hi, good morning. Can you tell me where I am?"

"Hey buddy, there's no need for profanity."

"I'm not using profanity."

"I told you he does that."

"Yeah you're not kidding."

"Does what?"

"Is it tourettes?"

"No, aphasia. Docs think he can't understand language anymore."

"I can understand language! Where am I?"

"Are you sure? He seems like he's trying to say something."

"I dunno. He sort of just does that all the time. Just leave him alone."

"Have you tried talking to him?"

"I'm talking to you right now!"

"Nah man, that's not my job. I'm not his therapist, I just gotta keep the guy alive."

"Real professional, man."

"Hey you and I both know we already don't get paid enough to work as hard as we do, and then to ask us to actually give a shit about these guys? Who has the capacity for that?"

"Excuse me, I can hear you."

"Hey calm down, buddy. What do you need?"

"I need to know where I am right now, please."

"Look, I don't understand you. Can you understand me?"

The other one walks out of the room and throws his hands up.

"Yes, of course I can understand you."

"No, that's not gonna work. Hmm.. you can't keep doing that.... If you can understand me, just nod your head."

"What sort of game is this?"

"Just nod your head if you can understand me."

I sigh. This is exasperating. I nod my head, slowly, dramatically.

"Ahhh, now there's something. So you know what I'm saying?"

Nodding.

"Good. Now, let's see... do you know where you are?"

"No, of course not, that's what I keep asking you."

"No, that doesn't work. just nod your head or shake your head."

This is ridiculous. Why can't these morons understand what I'm saying to them?

"Do you know where you are?"

I shake my head.

"I see. Well you are in Saint John's Hospital, 8th floor."

I've already deduced that I'm in a hospital, but the relevant question is: why?

"Do you remember what happened?"

Shake.

"You were in a car accident. Do you remember that?"

Shake.

Wait.

Nod.

"You do?"

Nod.

"Well, it was a pretty bad one, and you hit your head. I think you're gonna be alright though."

Alright? I can't move the left side of my body, and no one can understand me. How does that qualify as all right??

"Listen, I'll be right back, but we'll talk later."

Yeah... talk.

Cry

"cuz your not lookin so pretty"

"Not exactly my most important concern, at the moment."

"haha damn straight"

"Can you get me out of here?"

"dont get mad at me man, I'm not the bad guy."

"I'm not angry, I just want to depart these premises."

"yeah nurse said youd keep doing that. he told me to try to play the yes no game with you"

"So you don't understand me either?"

"look, you talking aint gonna get us nowhere, you dont make any sense. just tell me how your feeling...

shit, that's not a yes or no question.... umm... does anything hurt?"

Sigh. Nod.

"well should i get the doc?"

Shake.

"anything I can do to make it better?"

Shake

"alright. you gettin enough food?"

Nod.

I can't bear this inane dialogue. I've got to get through to him, to say what I really need to say.

I try to demonstrate someone leaving a hospital.

"you wanna go swimming? hah, we haven't done that in years!

on second thought tho, i dont think thatd be the best idea for you right now. given your condition."

I shake my head vigorously.

"no? what do you want"

I try to demonstrate someone walking out of a hospital.

"you wanna go for a walk? same problem, cuzzo. nurses say you cant even stand."

Dammit, nothing seems to work. I can't get through to anyone, not even him, anymore.

I try to demonstrate the motion of writing on a tablet.

"you want something to write with?"

Vigorous nod.

"well ill be damned. didnt know you could read." A hearty laugh.

He leaves the room and returns shortly with a pen and pad.

I try to write, which, using my nondominant hand, is rather pitiful. I scribble: GET ME OUT.

"looks like just a bunch of worms and lightning bolts, cuzman. this some sort of egyptian myth that you teach about in your classes?"

I throw the pen and pad across the room. This is maddening.

"woah now, i was just jokin. take a chill pill."

I close my eyes and keep them shut. The fool.

"alright, if your gonna throw a hissy fit, then ill just let you steam and spout."

Eyes shut. I don't want him to see me cry.

"fine, ill see ya tomorrow... hang in there buddy. I love you."

Hear

this hospital coffee aint half bad, ya know? stuff from seven eleven is all i drink most days, on the way to the site. dont usually drink a second cup this late in the day, but im dog tired this week and i really dont have the energy right now to bear with cuzzo gettin all pissy at me. dont know if id rather him talk my ear off like he used to, or curse me to hell a dozen times. oh well. poor guy has been thru a lot, so i better lend him my ear.

i take the elevator to the eighth floor and go to his room.

"hey cuzzo."

he turns away from the window. smiles at me. sorta like a wounded dog.

"how ya doin?"

he sort of shrugs.

"yeah, same shit different day huh? well i brought you some shipley donuts, your favorite."

he smiles, and takes the donuts. we both partake in silence. after a while he says,

"Hammer work."

"whats that?"

"Hammer work."

"what do you mean cuzzo? did I use a hammer today?"

he sort of shrugs and then nods.

"uhh, no not today. why?"

"Work Work."

"what are you tryna say cuz?"

he points to himself. "Bed." then points to the clock. "Day."

"youve been in bed all day?"

he nods.

"well no shit, you can't walk!" that makes me chuckle,

he just smiles. then points at me, then the clock, then says, "Work Work?"

"what have i been doing today?"

he nods.

"well ill be damned. been a while since you asked that. and glad to see you stopped cursing. i guess you recognized that tryin to talk dont work too well for you anymore."

he continues to stare at me, waiting for something.

"right, my day... well today i had to cut down a bunch of trees where we wanna lay the foundation on this new house. i used a chainsaw to get the trunks, then we brought in a subcontractor to get the stumps out, but i helped em with that, why not? anyways, well...

well cuz you dont to hear about this do ya?"

he nods.

"you do?"

he nods. hes staring at me. actually looking at me. think hes actually paying attention.

"alright then."

i go on and on about my day for nearly an hour. he just sits there and listens the whole time. he doesn't try to say a thing. wonder if hes lost his mind or something. i gotta tell the nurse.

Meet

Dispatch has perfect timing as always. Just as we get our takeout order, I hear them hailing us over the radio, "Medic 22."

I fumble with my bag and pick up the mic, "This is Medic 22, go ahead."

"Medic 22, Saint John's to a residence in Athersville, 36 male with a TBI."

"Copy, we're en route to Saint John's."

"Fourteen sixteen."

Damn that's pretty young. Only 36. Usually the brain injuries are from older folks who have a bad fall at home. Wonder what happened to the guy. Could be a drug overdose. Maybe he's a gangbanger and had a gunshot wound to the head. Or slipped from up high somewhere. Lots of hikers and climbers here in Colorado.

Before I know it, we are at the hospital. We park the ambulance, bring the stretcher inside.

"Hey fellas. Where ya goin?"

"8th floor."

"Here's your badge."

We scan the badge reader at the elevator and ride up to the post-op floor. We roll the stretcher around the corner. The nurses see us and already know why we're here.

"Hey Chris, the paramedics are here."

"God fucking dammit!"

That came from the patient. Well this is going to be interesting. Sounds like he is not very happy to see us. I look in the room and he's trying to shit into a bedpan, three nurses huddled around him to help him out. I can't blame him for his frustration. Pretty embarrassing situation to be in.

I wait outside at the nurses' station to give him some privacy, and pull the report up on my laptop. One of the nurses comes out, rubbing his hands with sanitizer.

"Hey, I'm Chris. You guys here for 822?"

"Yeah. What's his story?"

"He was in an motor vehicle accident two weeks ago and suffered a traumatic brain injury."

"Damn. Any neurological deficits?"

"No, not really, he's got full control of extremities. He initially had right-sided --no-- left-sided paraplegia, but has since recovered. Main thing right now is he's pretty wobbly when he tries to stand, and also has expressive aphasia."

"Got it. So he can follow commands?"

"Yeah, he's alert and oriented. He seems to know what's going on, but he's lost his grip on language. He can understand what you say, but pretty much just curses all the time. Don't take it personally."

"Hah. So that explains the warm welcome."

"Yeah, exactly. Sometimes he babbles nonsense, or so it seems to us. He can answer yes/no questions though. Otherwise, he has no other significant medical history. Anything else you need?"

"Just his paperwork and a last set of vitals."

"I'll get you that right away."

Care

Half an hour later and we've got the patient in the back of the ambulance. He has this stupid grin on his face most of the time. The guy's worse than an old sailor, the way he curses every time we hit a bump in the road. But he's growing on me, because he also laughs every time he says something. It seems like he's realized that it helps smooth things over. Like he knows people don't really understand him, and it's all just a big joke.

Still, I sense somewhere in there is someone who is actually with it, and knows more than he lets on. Poor guy. Trapped in his own little world in there. Not a single person on this earth can understand what's on his mind. Might as well be deaf, dumb, and blind.

I remember I once heard about this philosophy that some people have, where they think the whole world is just a fiction that their own mind created. That everything that exists is just them and their brain. I wonder if this guy feels that way. Totally lost in space, but also right here.

We hit a particularly big pothole and it rattles the whole rig. "Sorry about that, buddy."

"Son of a bitch."

"Yeah; these roads are not the most well-maintained."

He laughs, then shrugs. "Football."

"Yep." I don't really know what to say to that.

He laughs again, then turns away from me.

I can tell he's in a lot of pain. Nurses once again were stingy on the morphine. I can see his arms sticking out of the sleeves of his hospital gown, and they're covered in bruises. I can only imagine what his skin looks like underneath the gown. Probably a lot of unhealed fractures too. I imagine every little bump in the street feels like an electric shock up his spine.

But he doesn't say much. Just sort of avoids eye contact, clearly embarrassed. We're sitting here right next to each other, about the distance you would sit with your best friend, so close we can smell each other. And yet we can't talk. The air is heavy with awkwardness.

After a minute, he points at me. "Life guard."

"What's that?"

He laughs. "Life guard."

I laugh too. "Yeah, I guess you could call me that. Though I have a bit more training than your average high-schooler."

"Piece of shit."

"Excuse me?"

He shakes his head. Then thinks for a minute.

"Tell."

"Tell what?"

"Tell Life guard."

"I don't know what you mean."

He points at himself. "Crash." Then hits his palm against his forehead. Then points at himself. "Bed."

"Yeah, I heard you were in a crash. I heard it was really bad."

He nods. Then points at himself again. "Bed."

"Yeah, you're in a bed."

Then he points at me.

"Tell Life guard."

"You want me to tell you about myself?"

He nods. "Life guard."

Ok, I guess that will help remove some of the awkwardness. I don't mind talking about myself.

"Alright, sure."

I tell him about my day. He looks intently at me. Nods from time to time. Laughs. This feels funny, like talking to a stranger across one of those glass windows in the prison, except his phone doesn't work.

We start hitting a lot of bumps.

"We're getting on the freeway now."

He tries hide his grimace by looking out the window. It's hard to see through the tinting. Then there is a look of recognition on his face. He turns to me, worried.

"Crew cab."

"What's that?"

"Crew cab."

"Uhhh, yeah, I guess you could call this a crew cab." It's more like a bench seat, where I'm sitting, perpendicular to the stretcher, in the back of the ambulance.

He shakes his head twice. "Crew cab."

"What do you mean?"

He points at me, then the back of the seat.

I shake my head, confused. "I don't understand, buddy."

I try to start talking about myself again, but he stops me. He points at himself, and his seatbelt, then himself, then the seatbelt.

"Yeah, you're strapped in pretty tight. Don’t worry; you’re not going anywhere."

Then he points at me, and the back of my seat. "Crew cab."

"You want me to put on my seatbelt?"

He smiles and nods.

"Hah. Ok. Will do."

I put it on.

He laughs.

I laugh too.

It's funny. I've taken hundreds of patients in the back of this bus, and not a single one has ever expressed concern for my safety. Of course, a lot of them are sicker than Saturday morning, a lot of them are going home for the last time, a lot of them are on their last limb, literally. We say that one of the hardest parts of this job is that you are often meeting people on the worst day of their lives.

I've seen the whole gamut of personalities. Some patients are pretty optimistic about their situation. One guy had diabetes so bad that he lost his foot, and they had to amputate his whole leg up to the knee. His whole attitude was basically: "Well, that's life. I've had a good one so far. I can't complain." It always amazes me when they are able to take tragedies like that it in stride.

On the other end of the spectrum, some patients love to play the sick person, crying out at every little every bump, every time we move them, etc. They love to elicit sympathy, even if they aren't suffering much, relatively.

But then there's this guy, completely unlike any of the others. He handles the ride pretty well, even though I know he's hurting a lot. But it's more than that. He actually listens to me. He actually worries about me. It's odd. It's like he actually recognizes that I'm also a person, with my own feelings and fears and hopes and dreams, and not just an attendant to serve him. And I'm happy to serve my patients, that's my job. But this just feels different.

We get off the highway, pull up to his home, and drop him off. His brother or friend is there to open the door. Seems like the two are happy to see each other, as the brother gives him a lot of grief, and the patient just laughs and curses.

For me, it's on to the next one.

Crash

A couple of weeks have passed since the ‘old sailor,’ as my partner and I call him, but I still put on my seatbelt in the back of the rig. My partner thinks it's dumb and a waste of time, but I don't care. He's been working here twice as long as me, and he's never been in a wreck. I guess the chances are very low. Nevertheless, I put it on, every time.

We're cruising along Westrover right now, just enjoying the calm before the storm. School's back in session now that we are entering September, and things get pretty trafficky once the day starts. But we've already been on shift a couple of hours. Saw a good sunrise too. I open my thermos and pour another cup of espresso. I'm riding in the back right now, since we don't have any patients. I like to kick my legs up on the stretcher.

"Medic 22."

I hear my partner respond. "Medic 22. Westrover and 88th."

"Medic 22, Family Neighborhood Clinic to the nearest ER, 68 female with strokelike symptoms."

"Copy, en route."

"Seven fifty three."

This should be exciting. Stroke calls are always interesting. Sometimes it's just a false alarm, like just a migraine, or low blood sugar. We hit a u-turn and head down 82nd ave to the urgent care. We should be there in about 10. A bit early in the day for such a call. Wonder what she was doing up. But I guess older folks don't sleep as much. Seems like I only need more and more sleep as time goes on. Can't wait til I get to that age and can finally relax a bit.

"Hey, can you put some tunes on?"

"Yeah sure."

I'm pretty tired today. I think we both are. I see my partner looking down at his phone, searching for the right playlist.

As he does, I look through the ambulance and out the front windshield.

In an instant, I see a red car pull through the intersection. He didn't stop. It's too late. We're going way too fast.

I feel the brakes slam, and see my partner swerve the wheel, but in a less than a second I hear a colossal crash, and then y thermos goes flying toward the ceiling, and I feel my feet leave the floor.

Shit.

...

THE END

Footnote

1. I’d like to give credit to the opening sequence of Infinite Jest for inspiring this story. Plus an amalgamation of similar experiences that happened to me on the job. All the details of the events have been changed, including names, room numbers, and other specifics. The story is fictional.