Page 70 of Loving Josy
I stare at the ceiling, willing myself to stay calm. Someone has to come in eventually, right?
As I’m trying to make sense of everything, the door creaks open, and a nurse walks in. Her eyes are glued to the tablet in her hands, her fingers scrolling as she mutters something under her breath. She hasn’t noticed me yet.
I part my lips to say something, but my throat feels like a desert, and no sound comes out. Before I can try again, her head snaps up, and her gaze meets mine.
“Oh! You’re awake!” she exclaims, a bright smile spreading across her face as she steps closer. “Hi, I’m so glad to see you up. How are you feeling?”
I try to answer, but my throat rebels, the words caught somewhere between thought and sound. She must see the struggle on my face because her smile softens, and she leans closer.
“It’s okay. Don’t strain yourself,” she says, her voice calm and reassuring. She reaches over to the wall and presses a button. A soft beep follows, and then a voice crackles through the intercom.
“Yes?”
“Can you send Dr. Locke? Let him know that the patient on room 6 is awake,” she says into the speaker.
“Will do,” the voice replies.
The nurse nods, then turns back to me, her focus now entirely on my condition. “Let me check your vitals while we wait for the doctor,” she says, setting her tablet down on the small table beside my bed.
I motion toward my throat, trying to signal how dry it feels. She picks up on it instantly. “Your throat must feel pretty raw,” she says as she pours water into a small cup. “Here, take a few sips, just small ones for now.”
I take the cup with my good hand, the cool plastic pressing against my fingers. I bring it to my lips and let the first sip slide down my throat. The icy sensation feels like heaven, and I take another, slower this time, savoring the relief.
“Better?” she asks, watching me closely.
I nod, my voice still lost but the gratitude clear in my expression.
“Good. Now, just try to relax. The doctor will be here soon to assess everything,” she says, her tone encouraging but professional.
As she begins checking my blood pressure and jotting down notes, I find myself staring at her, hoping she’ll say more. Anything to help me piece together what’s happened. But she stays quiet, her focus on her tasks.
The quiet hum of the machines fills the room again, and I grip the cup of water tighter, wishing the answers would come as easily as the relief from those first few sips.
After a few minutes, a man in blue scrubs and a white lab coat walks into the room, a calm but focused expression on his face. He looks to be in his mid-fifties, with a professional air that exudes experience. In his hand, he holds a tablet, which he glances at briefly before looking at me.
“Welcome back,” he says with a reassuring smile. “I’m Dr. Locke, and I’ve been overseeing your care since you arrived on this floor. How are you feeling?”
I clear my throat, still slightly scratchy, but the water has helped. “I feel like I was hit by a truck,” I rasp, my voice hoarse but audible. “What happened?”
“You fell from a roof,” he explains, his tone gentle but matter-of-fact. “You’ve been here for the past week, recovering from the injuries you sustained.”
My eyes widen as his words sink in. Fell from a roof? Why the hell was I on a roof? The confusion swirls in my mind, but before I can ask, Dr. Locke steps closer, holding a small penlight.
“I need to check your eyes,” he says, leaning in. “Follow the light for me, please.”
He moves the light slowly, and I do my best to follow its movement, though my head feels heavy, and the effort makes my temples throb.
“You sustained a moderate traumatic brain injury,” he continues, his tone calm and professional. “You have a concussion, a broken arm—which is why you’re in a cast—and some deep bruising across your body. There’s also some swelling in your brain that we’ve been monitoring closely. The good news is that the swelling has started to subside, and your vital signs have been stable for the past 48 hours.”
“Can you tell me your name?” At his words, I try to think of my name, but I come up blank.
“I don’t know my name.”
“What about your birthday or what year it is? Do you have any memories at all?”
All these questions he’s asking have no answers. I don’t know how to respond to any of them, and a pit of unease grows in my stomach. “Why... why don’t I remember anything?” I manage to ask, my voice shaky.
Dr. Locke pauses, his gaze softening as he sets the penlight aside. “Memory loss isn’t uncommon after a head injury, especially one of this severity. It could be temporary, but it’s difficult to predict how long it might last. The type of memory loss you’re describing is called retrograde amnesia and can sometimes affect events leading up to the injury or, in some cases, larger periods of your life.”
