#in october when i was in the hospital for my staph infection i remember after they flushed my system they left me alone in a kind of

[sixpiecechickenmcnobody]

23 in a week. god damn. what the fuck

[bittysvalentines]

From: @catericchant

To: @doggernaut

Content warnings: car accident, injury, anxiety

Jack comes awake to a voice. At first, that’s all it is, an indistinct series of noises that don’t make any sense. He’s reminded of the teacher from the old Charlie Brown cartoons: wah wah wah-wah wah wah-wah-wah. Then consciousness floods all the way back in and they’re words, English, carried on a warm, sweet accent.

“...you hear me? Hey, are you wakin’ up? You’re okay, I got you. Don’t move your head. An ambulance is comin’, honey, just you wait a few minutes.”

Jack pries his eyes open. The rearview mirror dangles precariously, reflecting the passenger seat. Through the cracked windshield, he can see snow, a tree lit by headlights, crumpled metal. A memory filters in, slow and reluctant, like it’s swimming to him through cold syrup. Hitting black ice, trying to accelerate out of the skid, the dark line of elms along the side of the road.

He crashed his car. Jack’s eyes widen and he tries to straighten up, but someone has their hands on his jaw, holding his neck in a straight line. “Don’t move!” the voice says, desperate. No one is there in the car with him, not that he can see. The hands belong to some disembodied spirit. An angel, maybe, here to stop him from ending his career by paralysis.

Jack begins to discover pain where there wasn’t before. His left elbow feels like a throbbing sun under his skin. His right ankle is almost as bad, thudding with his heartbeat. He tries to shift it and a pained grunt is yanked out of him involuntarily.

“I mean it,” the voice says again, more stern. Jack keeps forgetting it’s there. His head aches something awful, but the voice is steady. “Don’t move, you’re just gonna hurt yourself. What’s your name, honey? Can you tell me that?”

“Jack,” he says. He sounds like he’s been gargling gravel. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Eric,” the voice says. “I saw your car on the side of the road, there’s no one else around for miles.”

“Where are you? Are you an angel?”

“An ang-” The voice cuts off with a muffled laugh. “Oh, honey, no. I’m in your back seat, I’m supportin’ your neck, just in case you hurt your spine. I’m just a guy who called 911. I’m no angel, I promise.”

But Jack isn’t sure of that. When the ambulance comes, they put a neck brace on him, strap him to a backboard, and load him onto a stretcher. He can’t look around much, but he can see just how remote the road is. He could have been alone for hours, waiting for help, if Eric hadn’t come by when he did. As he’s lifted into the ambulance, he spots his saviour waiting by the doors. Eric is tinier than Jack imagined, blonde, with the biggest brown eyes Jack has ever seen. He matches his voice, warm and gentle. He looks like an angel.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he says.

The ambulance doors close, and Jack realizes he didn’t ask Eric’s last name.

---

There’s little good news at the hospital. Besides his concussion, Jack’s left elbow is broken, and while it isn’t a career-ending injury (they keep throwing that phrase around, they don’t know the panic it shoots through his chest every time), it’s going to keep him from playing the rest of this season. His right ankle is broken, too, just a hairline fracture. If he stays off of it, it should heal correctly in a matter of weeks.

“My son-in-law broke his ankle once and it wasn’t ever the same,” a nurse says, when she comes in to prop up Jack’s pillows and bring his lunch.

“Oh?” Jack tries to be polite, but anxiety spikes up inside of him, his ribs squeezing into a vice around his heart. If he can never play hockey again, then what? What else is there? Hello, I’d like to introduce you to the great Bad Bob Zimmermann, and his son Jack the photographer? He closes his eyes and breathes.

“I’m only scaring you a little so you’ll keep up with your PT once you heal,” the nurse says, patting his knee through the blanket. “My son-in-law is a lazy couch potato. You’ll be fine.”

“Wonderful, thank you,” Jack says, without opening his eyes.

“Here,” the nurse says, and lays a paperback book in his lap. “This got left for you. You ring if you need anything, okay?”

She goes and Jack decides he will not need anything at all until he gets out of here.  He forces himself to focus on the book in his lap instead of his pounding heart.

It’s a hand-bound cookbook. Slow-cooker recipes. Jack lays it in his lap and thumbs through with his good hand and a small envelope falls out of the page that reads “Slow Cooker Cherry Cobbler”.

The card inside the envelope is simple, plain white with red apples and blue flowers. It says “Get Well Soon”.

Jack,

I didn’t know your last name, so I hope this gets to you. I’ve hurt my wrist before, and I know how hard cooking for yourself can be with only one good hand. So here’s a book of recipes my family put together and passed out to all the kids. I contributed this one - I love cobbler. I wish we could have met under better circumstances. Feel better!

-Eric Bittle

Under the name, squished into the space like an afterthought or a greatly-debated addition, is a phone number, and the phrase: if you need anything at all.

---

Visitors come and go. A couple teammates, one with his family in tow. They’re nice, but Jack barely knows them. His manager calls, but she sounds grim, and Jack can’t help but wonder if she blames him for the accident. He doesn’t ask.

His parents call. Jack can barely talk to them. He reassures them he’s fine, he’ll be fine, it’s just one season. Come October, he’ll be right as rain. And then he tells them the doctor has come to talk to him, and he needs to go. When he hangs up, he’s alone in the room, but for the cookbook on his bedside table.

The nurse comes back, and when she grins at him, Jack hears “it wasn’t ever the same” on repeat.

“I hear they’re letting you go,” she says, as she wraps the blood pressure cuff around his arm. “Do you have somebody to drive you home?”

“No,” Jack says. “I’ll think of something. Uber, or a taxi.”

“Don’t get a taxi,” the nurse warns. “Filthy things. You’ll be back here in no time with a staph infection. Find someone with a clean car who can drive you. Someone reliable.”

Jack is twenty-seven hundred miles away from every reliable person he knows.

The nurse goes again, and Jack can’t get a deep enough breath to be relieved that she’s gone.

On the bedside table is the cookbook. He gropes for it, and manages not to knock it to the floor. That phone number stares up at him from the card.

if you need anything at all.

Maybe it’s time to ask for help.

---

Is this Eric Bittle’s phone?

yes it is! who’s this?

This is Jack. You helped me out after I was in a car accident.

oh jack!! i’m so glad you texted! how are you doing?

Not terrible. Been better. Ha ha

i bet :(

I hate to impose but I was wondering if I could ask a favor. You’ve already done so much.

anything

gosh that sounded hasty!! i mean, i’ll help you however i can

I don’t have a way to get back to my apartment from the hospital, and none of my family lives nearby. You wouldn’t happen to be able to give me a lift, would you? I’ll pay for gas.

oh my goodness, of course i wouldn’t mind! i can be there in a jiffy, i don’t live far. two shakes

I appreciate it. I owe you.

My life haha

That was meant to be a joke.

you must be feeling better ;)

---

Jack meets Eric for the second time when he gets into his car. An orderly wheels him out to the curb in a chair, and she helps Eric get Jack into the front seat. They load his crutches into the back, and off they go.  

The silence as they drive is awkward. Jack only speaks to direct Eric to his apartment downtown, nerves buzzing under his skin. All he can think about is how empty it is there, and how many takeout containers will pile up until he can ask a neighbor to help him take out his trash, and how likely it is he’ll fall in the shower and never be found. He’s so preoccupied with his catastrophizing that he almost forgets to point out the turn for the parking lot. Looking out the window, Eric peers up at the highrise.

“You live on the ground floor, right?” he says. There’s the tiniest bit of hope in his voice.

“The fourteenth,” Jack says, dryly.

Eric helps him up to his apartment. They brave the elevator together, and the hall down to Jack’s two-bedroom. By the look on his face, it’s nicer than Eric expected. Inside, Jack collapses into a chair and chuckles, his voice full of exhaustion. “This isn’t how I planned to spend this season. Could you grab those scissors from the counter so I can cut this bracelet off?”

Eric brings them to him, but leans down to do it himself.  “This season of what?” he asks.

He reads the name Jack Zimmermann just as Jack says, “I play hockey.”

Eric straightens up and stares at him, and underneath the pallor and dark growth of stubble, there is a familiar set to his mouth and eyes that he somehow hadn’t seen up until this point.

“You’re Jack Zimmermann,” he says.

“Yes.”

“You play for the Las V-”

“I play for the Providence Falconers,” Jack says, too quickly.

For just a moment, silence stretches between them, worse than when they were in the car.

“I’m sorry,” Jack adds. “I interrupted you. It’s a sore subject. I was happy with the Aces, and then I got traded.”

“No, don’t be sorry,” Eric says, and his smile is so genuine that Jack is immediately reassured. “I saw you on television. I should’ve remembered.”

That smile. Jack has never seen one quite like it, so soft and real. It tells him that Eric is legitimately pleased to be talking to Jack, to help him out. He knows who Jack is, has seen him on TV, and is asking nothing of him.

Jack asks, “Would you like to sit down?”

Eric sits down. They talk for a few minutes, about hockey (Eric played in high school, then college, but wasn’t professional material). Then a few minutes more, about baking (Eric owns a small shop about a mile from Jack’s apartment). Then a few minutes more, about family (Eric’s parents live in Georgia, he’s an only child, they’re proud of him). They talk for a few minutes, and then a few hours, and by the time Eric finally looks at his watch, the windows are dark.

“Oh lord, I didn’t realize the time,” Eric says, concern creasing his forehead between his eyebrows. “You’ve been in the hospital and here I am, keepin’ you up. I can go.”

“You’ve been keeping me company,” Jack says. Talking came so natural, he hadn’t wanted to speak up when he noticed the late hour. “And I appreciate it. It’s sort of lonely around here.”

“Well,” Eric says, considering, “in that case, why don’t I come back tomorrow?”

The connection is simple. Eric is easy to talk to, and Jack likes him. He likes the way Eric looks at him. He likes his smile.

“Yeah,” he says, “come back tomorrow.”

---

Eric comes back tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after. And all the next week.

Eleven days in, he asks Jack, “Am I botherin’ you? I hope I’m not intruding, I’m suddenly here all the time, and we hardly know each other.”

Jack, who is watching Eric use his oven to bake a maple sugar crusted apple pie, is thrown. He’s been eating three solid meals a day, is never in want of company, and hasn't been bored since his last day in the hospital. He feels like he’s heard Eric’s whole life story, and knows him better than he knows most of the Falconers. Jack is feeling better since he's been injured than he has since coming to Providence. He reassures Eric that he is not bothering him.

The pie is delicious. The maple sugar adds a depth of flavor Jack has never had in an apple pie before, though he admittedly hasn’t had many. The crust is flaky and the apples are tender and the lattice on the top is so perfect Jack would think it was machine-cut if he hadn’t watched Eric do it himself. With the fork in his mouth, it occurs to him that Eric (Bittle is what Jack calls him in his head, it's such an unusual name) is a professional baker.

“Don't you have a job?” he asks, and when that sounds like an accusation, he forces himself to finish chewing, swallow, and make another attempt in the time it takes for Eric's surprise to wear off. “I mean, you're here most of the day. You said you had a bakery-”

“I did,” Eric admits, sheepishly. “I mean, I do. I own the space, but I can't afford to keep the shop open. The day you had your accident, I was actually looking into selling the shop and movin’ back to Georgia. I just don't have the money to stay here if I'm not working.”

A hole opens up inside of Jack. It's so sudden and yawning that he nearly falls into it. It's been eleven days and this tiny baker who came to his aid is his only thing keeping him going. How did he not realize?

“So you need a job,” he says. His own voice sounds very far away.

Eric twirls his fork on the end of one tine, frowning. “Well, I mean, yes. Ideally, something in a kitchen. But the cost of living in Rhode Island is so high, my apartment doesn't even have heat and I-”

“So stay here.”

The words are out of his mouth before he thinks about the implications of what he's offering.

Eric's laugh is incredulous. “What?”

“I have two bedrooms.” Jack is speaking on autopilot. “Central heating and air. We get along perfectly. You spoke to my mother on the phone and I think she loves you. You like my kitchen - you've named my oven.”

Eric's sidelong glance towards the gleaming Franklin in the kitchen says everything.

“I know it's sudden,” Jack continues, “and I may not be thinking straight. But if you move in and help me out a little while I recover, that will free up your expenses. It solves your problem. Doesn't it?”

“Yes, it does,” Eric concedes. He sounds flabbergasted, one hand delicately resting on his collarbone in shock. “But why? Why would you offer me all that?”

Jack wants to say, Because I like you. Because you brighten every room you're in. Because this place suddenly feels like home. Because you’re an angel.

Jack says, “Because you saved me.”

---

In February, Bob and Alicia Zimmermann fly down to Providence, Rhode Island to see their only son.

They've been married for thirty-one years, and it shows. When they pick up their rental car at the airport, they squabble over the keys, a quiet but furious struggle. In the car, Bob rests his hand on Alicia's knee, expressing his love and silently willing her not to drive so fast.

“Do you think we're intruding?” he asks. “It's Valentine's Day. We could have waited until tomorrow, he might have plans with someone.”

“He asked us to come today,” Alicia says, with a shrug. She passes a weaving SUV loaded with bicycles and pretends not to notice Bob's hand tighten on her knee until they've left the other vehicle behind. “I think he has something planned. You can't intrude on an invitation.”

The door of Jack’s apartment has a paper heart taped to it, “Come In” printed in Jack’s careful hand. Alicia says it looks like the valentines Jack used to bring home for her from school, only those usually had mama written on them. Bob kisses her, and then he opens the door.

The apartment is decorated, not just with paper hearts but with curtains on the windows and throw blankets on the sofa, with new pictures on the walls and a whole shelf full of framed photos on the entertainment center. It was nice, before, the first time they came to visit, but impersonal. Now there are little glimpses of life everywhere.

The biggest of these is Jack himself, sitting up in his armchair with his foot up. He welcomes them jovially, and when Bob hugs his son, he’s solid and warm and up close his smile is real.

“It’s good to see you,” Alicia says, when Bob gives her enough room to kiss Jack and comb her fingers through his hair. “You look good, even with the casts. What’s all this about?”

“Well,” Jack says, and looks past them. Bob and Alicia turn, and there’s a wide-eyed blonde man standing in the entry to the kitchen. His apron says “Kiss the Cook”.

“Hi,” he says, “we talked on the phone a coupla times. I’m Eric.”

Jack smiles, broad and genuine, and Eric smiles back.

Jack says, “I wanted to tell you in person. My boyfriend made us dinner.”

---

That night, Jack lays in bed and listens to the low sound of his parents talking in the second bedroom. Eric is curled up against his back, his soft cheek pressed against Jack’s shoulder blade. His breathing is even and deep, and Jack hates to disturb him, but his ankle is protesting. He shifts away so he can roll onto his back, and Eric mumbles, before snuggling up close again.

“You okay, honey?” Eric whispers, sleepily.  Jack tucks a kiss into his sleep-fluffed hair.

“Yeah, bud,” Jack whispers back.

“I’m here if you need anythin,” Eric yawns.

“I know.” In the dark, Jack can barely see Eric’s face.  “My guardian angel.”

[toomanywordsnotenoughink]

Solo un besito mas...

“Hey, you know I love you very much?” I nudge my niece. We are sitting on my bed playing some game or other like we always do when she is over.

“Yea I know” She’s always reluctant for words. Then she grabs my hands softly and asks “Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“That you’re really, really sick this time?”

I sigh. Here she is short of 11 years old and having to face a reality I wished to shelter her from. “Yes darling. Unfortunately it seems I’ve run out of lives. But hey! No worries! When I go you can have all my nail polish and jewelry okay?” And I smile hoping to remove the sadness out of the reality.

“Okay Mimi” she says and stays quiet for a while. “And Mimi?”

“Yes”

“I love you too” and she kisses my cheek. The most gentle and purest gesture that she could give. And in that kiss grants me all the love that she possesses.

I try not to look directly at her, because if I did I’d break right in front of her. But from the corner of my eyes I see her eyes water and she discretely wipes a tear. So I look up at the ceiling trying my best not to cry. And I remember that quote from the “Fault in our Stars” that says:

“Much of my life had been devoted to trying not to cry in front of people who loved me, so I knew what Augustus was doing. You clench your teeth. You look up. You tell yourself that if they see you cry, it will hurt them, and you will be nothing but a Sadness in their lives, and you must not become a mere sadness, so you will not cry, and you say all of this to yourself while looking up at the ceiling, and then you swallow even though your throat does not want to close and you look at the person who loves you and smile.”  ― John Green, The Fault in Our Stars

I didn’t want to be a mere sadness.

Since about October of 2015 things began to take a downward spiral health wise for me. I was constantly hospitalized weeks at a time with symptoms so vague it was hard to diagnose. 2016 was spent for the most part on tests and more tests, and diagnosis after diagnosis. The doctors sure that a lot of it had to do with my anatomy because of a previous surgery didn’t really have many answers. Few people had lived past all I had. A lot of it is still uncharted territory.

So when we learned during fall that I had a rare condition we met it with mixed feelings. We could finally make sense of what had been happening. But at the same time we were diving head first into such a rare syndrome with very little medical expectations that I’d even be able to survive. It turns out my large intestine and pancreas had made the hole in my diaphragm big and climbed up to my chest. This collapsed my left lung and made it very difficult to breathe. I was extremely tired, and even a walk to the kitchen would leave me breathless. I spent the next months strapped mostly to bed. I couldn’t really handle going anywhere or even walking. With not enough oxygen even holding a conversation too long became unbearable.

I saw 3 surgeons before one decided that surgery was my only way of surviving. But this would be a majorly invasive surgery with a lot of complications in the horizon. Because of my previous surgery in 2009 I’d developed a staph infection in my blood that causes me to fight long term use of antibiotics. My body begins to fight them as viruses. This makes me very prone to infections.

Additionally, because of the previous surgery being so invasive, my body in its healing created a lot of adhesions. This would become a problem because the adhesions would hide vital veins and even position of organs. I was also highly anemic. So going in surgically was a feat. One that not just any surgeon would take on.

A Friday after a doctor’s appointment I began to be so out of breath my sister rushed me to the hospital, by Sunday my body went into total shock when my small intestine began to strangulate and my stomach began cutting blood supply to my organs. I was dying. The surgeon was rushed and within an hour I was downstairs being prepped for surgery.

Nothing prepares you to say a final goodbye to the people you love. With only a 25% chance of making it out alive off of the surgery, we were, for lack of a better word, a mess. My stats went downhill so fast we had very little time to prepare. My brother barely made it before they wheeled me away.

So on a Sunday morning we said our goodbyes, there were promises made, kisses, hugs, and a downpour of tears none of us could stop from coming. All of our hearts were aching. I made sure that my parents wouldn’t be alone during the surgery. And I shot out a goodbye text to my best friend. I made the anesthesiologist wait till my brother arrived and I was able to say goodbye to him and my niece. I realized how truly hard it was, really, to see someone you love slowly slip away right before your eyes. And worst to realize there was nothing that you could do to stop it.

There wouldn’t have been enough time in the world that morning, even if things hadn’t happened so fast. There never is when we are saying goodbye. In my last conscious moments I couldn’t help but cry uncontrollably. I feared that I was leaving a million things unaccomplished, a dozen projects unfinished, and so many words unsaid. Being deathly sick feels like getting to the end of the book and realizing 20 pages have been ripped out and you will never know how the story ends.

But that is death. It doesn’t matter if it’s sudden or it’s been a long time coming, it will always cut off life in the middle of a sentence. And no matter how prepared for it you think you are the rest of your untold life will always be the part that is the greatest loss.

My last thoughts were a memory I held close to my heart. Me at 4 or 5 at kindergarten drop off, and how every morning held the same routine. Instead of saying a short and sweet goodbye to my mom I would always drag it on never wanting to leave her side. I’d keep running back to her time and time again and burrowing my face as far into her stomach as I could. She’d stroke my hair, kneel beside me and in between the whimpering I’d whim “Solo un besito mas”.  (Just one more kiss).

Many hours later, thanks to Jehovah I was out of surgery. Everything had gone great and with no major complications the surgeons had successfully repaired the diaphragm and put almost everything back in its place. I awoke in a haze to my family hovering over me. I was incredibly happy to see them.

I spent the next weeks slowly recuperating till they finally let me go home to finish healing. Now I wish I could say this is my happy ending. That this is the ending to this heart wrenching turmoil, never having to face it again. But unfortunately that is not the case. In 5 years the syndrome will reoccur again. Once you are prone to this type of thing it will continue to occur each time getting harder and harder to fix the diaphragm.

I could look at this as a glass half empty type situation, but I refuse to. Worry doesn’t empty tomorrow of its sorrow. Its 5 whole years that I didn’t have before. And maybe that isn’t all the time in the world. Maybe in the end I will still leave a million things left undone and a thousand words left unsaid.

But it also means 5 years of being with my loved ones. 5 more years of memories, of hugs and kisses that I would have not been granted before. And maybe that’s not a lot and it may never be enough in the eyes of many. But too me it means everything. Because if being granted the chance I’d run back every time even if just for… solo un besito más.

[tevridd]

My normal Is The New Normal. I was in an accident. December 2016 I was struck by a commercial vehicle. Walking across the street. Because of the legal allegations I can't go in a whole lot of detail about it. But my life since then. Change dramatically. I was 58 years old. Living a good life not making a ton of money. 42 thousand a year But I was happy. Paid my bills. Purchase what I want. Ball games vacations I had a good life. December 12th 2016 approximately 6:30 a.m. Across the street a thousand times to catch a bus to start my day to go to work. Nothing seemed out of place this morning. Got up. Took a shower. Fed the dog had coffee played with the dog letter outside just like any other work day. . I left the house about 25 after. 6 you got to work in the morning. I walk to the intersection. Press the button to cross. Got the green light. And straight across the street. Well, that's the last thing I remember. They told me I was hit by a commercial vehicle. Making a right-hand turn. I was knocked unconscious. Brain bleed and swelling and 19 stitches. I spent four days in the Intensive Care Unit. None of which I remember. I beg you remember being tested? MRI CAT scan x-rays doctors in Dr. Out blood work. What happened I was transferred to another floor where I was evaluated input on a physical therapy occupational therapy Speech therapy. Evaluation for 3 weeks learning to walk again. Coordination memory All Star to come back slowly I was set to go home for Christmas. I got a staph infection. Which led to a blood disorder? I didn't leave the hospital. Till January 5th. But all that time I had spinal doctors in. Surgeons telling me that my spinal cord. Add compressed. Due to the injury. And if I didn't have surgery. It could be life threatening. I promise to see a neurosurgeon. After I went home I saw a surgeon in February. He kept telling me I really need to surgery. He asked when you get a second opinion. I want to another surgeon. He concurred. The next 3 months my back tightened up. I struggle to walk. And I fell three times. Finally May 12th 2017 I had the surgery. I was told. 4 days in the hospital go home. Start rehab. This is where my life changes. When the surgeon started the surgery and which I was on the table for 8 hours. He stopped a surgery. To tell my family. It was a lot worse than you thought. And I'm lucky to be walking. I could have broke my neck. . So after the surgery I was limited. It what I could do. Mobility wise. They did x-rays. MRI CT scan and determined they had to go back in again on Sunday. To complete the surgery. This time I was on the table for 3 hours. . Unable to really move any extremities. I spent the next 48 hours. Laying flat on my back on a table. . After that, I was transferred to the spinal cord injury floor at the hospital. I started rehab the next day. The only thing I can move. What's my right index finger? My neck Couldn't shrug my shoulders. Move my arms. Grasp anything or move my legs. I was there until the end of June. And I was transferred to another Rehab Hospital. A long-term care hospital. All this time I'm unable to move my bowels. I had to retrain my system. Suppository every night This is getting to be a routine. Will ever walk again? Will able be able to grab anything again? Can I move my arms? Am I a paraplegic? These are all thoughts. That went through my head. I took therapy. At the facility took my first step. The end of October 2017 inside a standing frame pulling me up. I progressed. Just stationary walker But eventually to a walker. Along the way I contacted. Pneumonia staph infection blood disorder bowel blockage It was hell. February 26th 20/20 I'll be able to leave. And live on my own with 24-hour care at my house I'm able to walk. With a walker I'm able to feed myself. Somewhat intense strength testing They really pushed me. I have to keep this up. Keep progressing I'm 62 years old. My normal Is The New Normal?