Awakening 52

Disorientation. Confusion. Fortunately, no pain. A kind of milky greyness and a sensation of floating. Thankfully I still seem to be able to remember who and what I was. Memory sort of fuzzy, but intact nevertheless. The accident. Now that I really can remember clearly; no fuzziness there.

And so, to the assumption. I realise that I'm in a coma, and I feel hopeful that it is one of those drug-induced ones; a deliberate attempt by the doctors to give my body time to heal. The well-remembered accident was, after all, a big one. Me on my mid-life crisis Honda superbike versus the front end of a double-decker bus. Not exactly much of a contest there. I'm wondering just how bad the damage is. To me, not the bus. Or the bike, come to that. A stupid idea anyway, the bike. Man turns forty, tries to recapture his youth. Ridiculous. And, quite clearly, bloody dangerous. Strangely, I feel tired. Is it possible to have periods of sleep during a coma?

Apparently so. God knows how I know, but I'm sure time has just passed; that I... slept?

And again. The lustreless greyness seems to have lightened, and I pray that the voice I believe I just heard wasn't a case of wishful thinking. Looking good, it said. I'm trying to move but can't seem to fathom how to do it. Nothing seems to be working. Not my hands, nor my feet and I wonder whether that is a sign of paralysis. Given the bike-bus mismatch, it seems probable. But there again, I can't move my lips or my eyes. Perhaps I'm paralysed from the neck up. I seem to recall someone saying that to me when I bought that bloody Honda. Tired again.

More time has passed. This time I'm positive it has, and the greyness is lifting slowly. Again, I've heard someone. Another forty-eight hours; a male voice, a faint Caribbean twang. I try moving again, to no avail, but at least I seem to feel something. I don't seem to be floating any longer. Perhaps it's the bed beneath me that I can feel. I'm too confused to concentrate for long, but despite everything, I don't feel alarmed or worried. You see, I've just realised that, whatever the damage, I'm alive. And my mind seems to be intact. No drooling vegetable in this bed.

It's later and there are more voices. The Caribbean guy's been back to see me and if I heard him right – and if he really exists, of course – it's a miracle that I'm alive, but I'm making magnificent progress. They're going to bring me up to full consciousness over the next twenty-four hours. I promised them I'd do my best to help. Of course, since I can't move anything, they didn't notice. I'll just get some quick shut-eye so I'm well rested before the exertions to come.

I'm beginning to think this isn't such a good idea. The fact that I can now feel sensation in my arms and legs might, by some, be construed as a good sign. Unfortunately, the sensation is comprised of an eclectic mixture of pain and outright agony.

The greyness is clearing slowly. It reminds me of one of those summer morning mists, and I can almost see the wisps of vapour dissipating as the heat of the day rises. The voices are back; the Caribbean guy and two others, both female.

'Vital signs good, heart rate's rising to eighty-seven.' A young female, maybe Scottish.

'He'll be awake in a few minutes.' The Caribbean.

If I could just complete the journey back, I'll be able to ask for some painkillers. I try desperately hard – although I've no idea what I'm trying to do.

'Here he comes!' The other female. She sounds both excited and slightly incredulous.

And then it happens. I feel a soft hand on my face and an eyelid is pulled open. Daylight floods into my skull and it brings a whole new level of agony with it. And it brings me back. A tube is pulled from my mouth and I cry out, my voice strangely hoarse and high pitched after so much disuse.

'It's okay,' The Scottish nurse soothes my as I begin to writhe on the bed, 'You're going to be just fine.'

Although I've yet to say anything that could be termed coherent, I seem to have communicated well enough for the assembled company to realise that I'm in excruciating pain. I feel someone fumbling at my wrist and suddenly the pain rapidly subsides. I lay gasping, trying to focus eyes that seem to have lost the knack. I realise that I'm being spoken to.

'Try to relax,' the calming, dark brown tones of the Caribbean says to me, 'You've suffered an incredible trauma, and things are going to seem pretty dire for a while. We've just given you some painkillers to ease the physical discomfort.'

I try to thank him, but still can't seem to find my voice.

'You're going to start feeling sleepy,' the Caribbean continues, 'Don't struggle against it.'

Giving up on my vocal efforts, I try to nod instead. This also proves useless, and I'm fairly certain that I can feel some sort of restraint preventing my head from moving. Whether it's the effort to get back, the painkillers or pure laziness, I really do feel sleepy. A soft, small hand is caressing my arm and I decide to take the Caribbean's advice.

I don't know how long I've just slept for, but I'm awake again. The hand is still on my arm, motionless now. I'm almost frightened to open my eyes, worried that I'll still not be able to focus. The pain is back, but not nearly so severe.

I open my eyes and for a moment or two my fears seem justified, but now they seem to be functioning again. My head really is restrained, but as I finally focus on my surroundings, I realise that I'm in a half-sitting position and there's a few seconds of giddiness as my internal gyro adjusts to this fact.

The first thing I focus properly on is the small, blonde nurse, asleep in a chair by my side. It is her hand that rests on my arm under a pale green sheet that covers me from the neck down. Her hair is loose, falling gently over her left shoulder in soft waves. Her lips are parted slightly, bright white teeth just visible. Her nurse's uniform is an even brighter white, and I notice that the top three or four studs have popped open. I also notice that it affords me an excellent view of her right breast, barely concealed in a lacy, translucent bra cup. My mind reacts to this pleasing sight with all its normal vigour, but fortunately my body doesn't. I couldn't imagine a more embarrassing scenario; the Caribbean doctor arriving to check on me and me doing a tent impersonation with the sheet.

In fact, my body doesn't seem to be reacting at all as it should. It feels light, floaty somehow, and almost disconnected from its control centre. I try to move my arm and after a few seconds I feel my fingers flex. I try the same think with my legs and feel toes curling under the sheet. The sensation is still far from normal, but at least it happened. I'm not a vegetable and nor am I paralysed. And another glance at the front of the nurse's uniform assures me that my desire for life has not diminished.

I look up quickly as the nurse yawns and opens her eyes, presumably disturbed by my movement.

'Well, hello,' she smiles, shaking her head in what appears to be disbelief, 'How are you feeling?' She's the Scottish one.

I try to get my vocal chords organised enough to respond, but when I try all that issues forth is a high-pitched croak.

She reaches forward and lays a small hand on my shoulder, 'Don't worry, it normally takes a while to find your voice. I'll pop and get you a sip of water; that should help.'

I try to nod, but the device around my head prevents me. I watch as the pretty nurse straightens and moves off to my right, out of my range of vision. She returns quickly with a plastic cup and sits herself carefully beside me, leaning forward to offer the cup to my lips. My tongue feels furry and reluctant to move, but the water simply trickles into my mouth and I finally manage to swallow a few sips.

'Thank you,' I manage, my voice wobbling madly as it had for a few days when I was thirteen.

'It's wonderful to see you awake,' she tells me, 'No-one can believe that you made it through.'

'What...' I try to ask what happened, how I really am, but I can't seem to get used to speech. The nurse seems to know what I mean though.

'I should really wait until Dr Stephenson is here,' she smiled at me, 'But since he's tied up in surgery for another hour or so, I guess it'll do no harm.'

'Thank you,' I manage once more. As she sits back on the chair beside me, I notice that she hasn't done up any of the studs on her uniform, and I'm treated to an even better view of her small, pert breast. Thankfully, the expected erection doesn't materialise.

'Well, let's see now,' she evidently hasn't noticed my surreptitious glance, 'The accident was four months ago. Do you remember anything about it?'

'Y... yes. Bike and bus.'

As she talks, she checks my pulse, temperature and blood-pressure. All three are likely to be a little higher than they should, thanks to her lackadaisical dress sense.

'Then I'm sure you can imagine you were in a pretty bad way afterwards. Luckily for you, the air-ambulance brought you here. Anywhere else and I'd pretty much guarantee that you'd not have made it. The fact that you have, you can put down to Dr Stephenson. He's an incredible surgeon, and his revolutionary techniques are what saved you.'

I'm about to ask her what the prognosis for me is, when a tall black doctor enters the room at a trot. He's still wearing theatre greens, and a mask is hanging loose around his neck.

'Janice,' he smiles at her, 'Thanks for bleeping me. I handed over to Phillips so I could get here and see for myself.'

He, too, I notice, seems to carry an air of disbelief as his eyes move on to me. His gaze is intense and captivating; I barely notice the nurse leave the room. For the next half an hour he tells me everything and more that I need and want to know. Much of the medical-speak I can't understand anyway, although words like trauma and transplant seem to lodge in my brain. What interested me most during those barely comprehensible thirty minutes, was that he expected me to make a full recovery in time. He leaves me with another disbelieving smile on his face, and I find that despite being comatose for seventeen weeks and only awake for an hour, I'm once again dog-tired.

Five days have passed now, and I'm able to stay awake for longer and longer periods. Janice, the Scottish nurse, has been in attendance round the clock – or so it seems – and she seems to get prettier every time I waken. She has told me almost everything about herself and her life, but has studiously avoided probing me about my background. For that, I'm grateful. In fact, I'm grateful to her for everything she says and does. This morning, she told me that she's been giving me regular bed-baths and I laughingly suggested that she should wait until I was awake next time. That earned me a very strange look, but at least she didn't slap my face or anything. I guess my old habits have come through unscathed, as well.

My voice still seems weird to my ears, but I've been told that it is to be expected in the circumstances. I find movement both painful and difficult, and although I've asked to see what damage there is to my middle-aged, much-traumatised body, no-one will let me. I guess it's not such a pretty sight under the sheet, but hell, who cares? I'll ask again later.

The past week has seen a steady improvement every day and I've even managed to take some solid foods. They were reluctant at first but they relented this morning. Apparently I'm catheterised which makes fluids the preferred option for the staff, but as Dr Stephenson reluctantly pointed out, if I'm to make a full recovery, I've got to start eating sometime. Besides, from the feel of things, I've lost a ton of weight. Not that I'd recommend dieting like this to anyone.

Janice has just come in and she looks lovelier than ever.

'How is my favourite patient this morning?'

'Much better now that you're here,' I tell her.

Her smile fades a little and she seems on the point of saying something, but after a small shake of her head, she crosses to my bedside and reaches under the sheet. Light restraints keeps my arms and legs still, and she quickly undoes the one around my right wrist, settling on the bed as she does so. As she does, the skirt of her uniform rides high on her thighs and I'm afforded a wonderful view of white panties. My pulse rate begins to quicken – so much so, that Janice looks up sharply into my face. As I blush and begin to stammer an apology, she straightens, pulling down at the hem of the uniform. She waves away my apology.

'It's me that should be sorry,' she shrugs at me, 'But it's hard to remember...' she trails off and shakes her head. Sitting back beside me, carefully keeping the uniform in place this time, she reaches back under the sheet and grasps my wrist lightly.

'At least it shows I'm not too badly affected,' I tell her, by way of explanation and apology. I receive another strange look.

I've heard before that long term patients fall for their nurses, and I wonder now whether my infatuation for Janice is related to that syndrome, or a normal, natural reaction to a pretty young blonde.

'As I told you,' she sighs, 'There's no need to apologise.'

I'm emboldened. 'You're extraordinarily attractive, you know.' I try to lower my still-squeaky voice, without success.

'That's... very kind of you,' Janice isn't looking at me now.

'If I really do make a full recovery,' I continue, unable to stop myself, 'I really must thank you for all you've done. Maybe a dinner somewhere?'

She looks up sharply, 'That's not a great idea.'

Her features seem unable to decide whether they should be shocked, determined or confused. 'I didn't mean that we should... well, you know?' I assure her.

'That's not...' she trails off and gives her characteristic head-shake.

'I don't look that bad, do I?' I keep my tone light in the hope of one of her reassuring smiles and compliments.

Another shake of the head and a brief closing of the eyes, 'I just... don't believe in having relationships with patients,' she says quietly.

'Frightened my transplanted bits will get overheated?' I intend this light-heartedly, but the look she gives me now is verging on horror.

Flustered, she gets to her feet and reaches for the sphygmomanometer, quickly strapping the rubber belt around my upper arm. She takes a long, deep breath as she pumps the bulb of the device, 'I...' she begins before lapsing into silence.

Her confusion has transferred itself to me, and as she releases the strap, I attempt to stop her moving away, looking for an answer. My hand, clumsy and barely controllable after such a period of disuse, misses its intended target and somehow slides up her thigh. She gasps and attempts to disentangle herself from my awkward fumbling. I try to help, but control is beyond me. I really don't want to upset her, but I can't free myself.

Our tussle ends abruptly when I freeze. My eyes travel down to where my hand is still entangled; down a length of pale and delicate arm that emerges by my side from the sheet. Janice grasps my wrist firmly, reaching up under her uniform to do so. Even though the motion hoists the garment almost to her waist, I don't look at her at all. My eyes are locked onto my arm. Or rather, not my arm. It's not mine at all; no dark hairs, no childhood scar just above the wrist. I look at the hand Janice is holding, herself also frozen for the moment, and see long slender fingers, not the short stubby ones that I've grown used to over the years.

'They've given me a new arm,' I say quietly, as much to myself as to Janice.

I look up at her face and see another strange melange of emotions. Uppermost seems to be something akin to pain. A strange sense of fear courses through me, 'What... what else?' I demand, far more sharply than I intended.

Janice shakes her head, a gesture close to desperation, 'I... can't-' she begins.

I snatch my hand away from her, surprising us both, and before Janice can react I pluck at the sheet, tearing it from the bed. Too late – far too late – Janice tries to stop me. The sheet floats gently to the floor.

'I would have told you,' she says quickly, apologetically, 'But Dr Stephenson-'

'It's everything!' I interrupt, staring down the length of a totally unfamiliar body. Not just a little unfamiliar, either. My mind is trying to tell me that it's an optical illusion, but I know it's nothing of the sort. The legs are long, straight and gently muscled. A dark triangular thatch of pubic hair forms a perfect V at the conjunction of the thighs. The belly is flat, in fact slightly concave and above that... perfectly shaped breasts, rising to dark-nippled points. 'I'm a woman,' I whisper, finally realising why my voice is so strange to me, 'But... how?' I can't drag my eyes off of myself, and I realise with both shock and something much more akin to hysteria, that my new body is turning me on.

'It's a pioneering new process,' Janice's voice sounds distant, but I can still detect an element of misery under its surface, 'You should count yourself very fortunate-'

'He really did carry out a transplant, didn't he?' I interrupt, 'He transplanted my bloody brain!'

'It was the only suitable body available,' Janice is talking rapidly now, 'I really did want to tell you earlier-'

'A woman's body!' I'm still too shocked to listen to her, but she continues anyway.

'It had to be someone young and fit for you to stand a chance of surviving; in fact, you're the first person ever to come through the process and seem intact. Please listen to me,' she pleads, 'You really should be grateful.'

I finally manage to tear my eyes away from the vision of beauty that I've become, and I look up at the distraught Janice, 'I am grateful,' I smile, shocked to find that I mean it. I pause for a second or two and then laugh, 'There's no chance you might be a lesbian, is there?'