Rest - 5/16

I barely slept at all by the time the sun rose the next day. Pain and screaming had kept me awake, and the few times I did fall asleep, the nightmares quickly brought me back. By now, the alarms had mostly died out, leaving only the hustle and bustle of the tent.

It felt like ages since I had been first brought in, before finally, one of the staff members comes over and checks me in. From the looks of it, he hadn’t slept either. He did look in much better shape than the medic I had seen outside. At the very least, he was clean.

“So, I was told you could only blink to respond,” he starts, looking down at me with his tired eyes, clipboard slightly shaking along with his hands.

I could probably speak if I tried now, but I still felt far too lethargic to get out anything useful. Blinking would have to do. After all, if he were a trained medic, he shouldn’t need me to be awake to look me over properly.

I blink once.

“Lucky that man stayed with you, it helps that we know some of what happened from his story.”

Why does it matter what happened to me? The only thing you need to check out is why I can’t move, or to give me something for the pain.

I just stare at him and wait.

“Alright, said he dragged you out of a building before it fell, in and out of consciousness, lack of motor function. We’ll have to clean you off to see any bruising or contusions better. Blood loss was minimal before arrival. All that sounds correct?”

How am I supposed to know? I was unconscious.

I blink once, it was close enough to what I knew, and I sure wasn’t going to stop them from cleaning me off. I had assumed before this that a medical tent would clean you and check you out before you spend a whole night in their bed. I was mistaken.

He continues with some basic questioning about pain and motor function. When he touches my extremities, I can’t feel it, but the overall pain seems to indicate something is happening. It was unfortunate that I could still feel my body despite not being able to move it, but he said it was a good sign for my overall recovery. After he finishes, he writes some information down on a whiteboard at my feet, then leaves.

How is being unable to move a low priority?

My irritation grew over the lack of care. I had expected to be looked at already, if not taken to a real hospital. Some buildings falling during an earthquake would warrant a response from the National Guard or a disaster relief organization. Maybe they were still on the way, but I was disappointed in my care nonetheless.

It was half a day before they got to me.

Eventually, a man and woman come over and start washing me with what smells like dirty sewer water. As they do, my entire body ignites in pain over and over, but I can’t even wince enough to indicate that.

“We have to remove your clothes,” the man says as he cuts through my shirt with a pair of scissors. I don’t even remember what I was wearing. Whatever would have been sitting near the door.

“Can probably save your shoes. They’re washable at least. Miracle those things didn’t come off,” the woman adds, as if keeping my shoes was such a comfort to me in this situation. What had I even put on? Outside of the trapped girl's eyes, my memories are growing increasingly foggy from the day before.

Of course, that’s what I can’t forget.

After completing my bath, they put me in a gown, saying that anything of mine that they could save would be available when I left.

If I left.

More staff come over and discuss what they think of my situation. They conclude that, outside of C-spine precautions, whatever that means, there was nothing to be done at the moment, other than changing the IV bag and keeping me clean.

When they mentioned the IV, I was confused initially. As far as I was concerned, they had never given me one. There had been a bag hanging over me that they had changed a few times, but I’d assumed that was someone else’s. It turns out you don’t notice a needle in you when you can’t feel anything. Maybe they really were taking care of me.

They left me alone once more, and all I could do was sit and listen to the commotion around me.

Most of the bloodcurdling screaming had died down, replaced with generic raised voices you would hear in a busy street. The staff shouts orders at one another, occasionally berating someone who enters without permission or tries to get up without being told. Outside were the faint voices of people who were lining up for medical help, or maybe supplies. I couldn’t quite make it all out, but there was a lot of added ‘Wait your turn’ that carried louder than the rest.

What really stands out to me, though, is the constant sound of people shouting for their loved ones.

“Have you seen my son?”

“My mom is missing.”

“He’s five feet tall, black hair…”

The inquiries are never-ending. I’m not sure if they were being directed to anyone in particular. Perhaps nobody was even listening to them as they were. Nobody other than me, the last person on the planet who could help them.

They remind me of the blue-eyed girl I had left behind.

I'm the last person who would even help them.

Worryingly, the thing that seems to be permeating through all of the conversations is that help wasn’t here yet. Even more worryingly, help might not be coming at all.

I assure myself that this is just the panic setting in for people. I’d been thinking the same way, just lacking a way to vocalize it. Help was slow, but it would surely come.

It had to.

By the end of my eavesdropping, I had learned the names of most of the staff who had treated me earlier, although I was only able to place them by their voices. The two who had bathed me were named Jasper and Samantha, both of whom were nurses. I never got the name of the man who checked me in originally, but the other worker they had conferred with was named Marcos. Those three seemed to be running most of the small tasks in the tent, with other staff coming in for diagnosis and what I could only hope were medical procedures. If not, the snapping of the staple gun was even more concerning.

Despite the thin canvas walls of the tent, it felt isolated from the chaos of the day before, as well as the chaos I was hearing outside. Even with the yelling for equipment, bustling staff, and endless crying, I was almost starting to relax by the end of the day.