#me at the neurologist like can we hurry this up like i know a brain is important to have but i'm actively missing gifs

[mylittleredgirl]

genuine thank you to creatives who reblog their own stuff five times because otherwise i miss cool shit and i need to maintain my reputation of being on here 24/7. which i am. but sometimes my app crashes 20 posts down the dash so i still miss cool shit despite my diligent commitment to not having a life. anyway thank you from the heart.

[suitofvibraniumarmor]

Headstrong

Part Six

Summary: After a health scare in Los Angeles, Haven tries to make amends.  Pairing: Bucky Barnes x OFC Word Count: 1865 Warnings: Post-brain injury symptoms, language. A/N: Taglist is open, you can be added to the one for this fic or Buckvember simply by sending an ask. I don’t know a whole lot about how boxing standings work, so just know that any errors are unintentional and everything is for the sake of the story. Happy Reading!

Series Masterlist

GIF found via Google Image Search. 

Another concussion, the doctors in Los Angeles had concluded. Haven had indeed taken a risk, going into that fight still suffering symptoms from her head injury after the car accident. The neurologist in the ER gave her a very stern lecture on taking these sort of risks with her life, and ordered off fighting for another month, to allow her head time to heal. Running was fine, as was light weight training, as long as she didn’t push herself, but sparring or another fight was out of the question. 

 A few days later, Haven woke up in her own bed, feeling awful. It had nothing to do with her physical state, despite the headache still plaguing her. The awful feeling stemmed from a lot of guilt she felt over not telling Bucky sooner. The relief in his expression and carriage had been undeniable when the doctor had told them the diagnosis wasn’t life threatening. After that, he hadn’t spoken to her. Hell, he would hardly even look at her. 

Since they returned home the day after the fight, Haven had called Bucky three times, but he hadn’t returned her calls. She couldn’t blame him for that. If her condition had turned out to be worse, a lot of people would have placed blame on him … the fault was all her own. 

Meandering down to the kitchen, she drank down a glass of water before pouring herself a cup of coffee. Wes was at the kitchen table on his laptop and bid her a quiet good morning. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Wes continued, “that jump off the cliff — was that really a stress-reliever, or was that an impulse-control issue because of brain damage?”

Haven shrugged and sunk to one of the chairs. “Maybe some of both. The doctors said I’ll be fine, though, so no need to worry. I just need to keep an eye on things. Not put so much pressure on myself when fights come up. Take this month to take really heal, all of that.”

Wes went back to his work on the computer for a couple of minutes before interrupting the silence again. “He was really worried about you, you know.”

“Who was?”

“Bucky,” Wes answered, rolling his eyes. “Who else could I mean?”

“The doctor?”

Wes shook his head. “You’re so dumb sometimes. I should have them check your head again. Yes, Bucky was really worried about you. He was angry, but I think it’s only because he was so worried. You know?”

Haven chewed on her bottom lip and chipped away at the fading glaze on her coffee cup. “He won’t return my calls. We’re supposed to start training again tomorrow — the things I can do — and I don’t even know if I have a coach or not. Damn it, I should have told him. I was being so … so …”

“Stubborn,” Wes supplied. “Stubborn would be the word you were looking for. And, by the way, you dragged me into it, thanks. I’m not going to lie for you again. The thing is — never mind that. It’s not my point. My point is, Haven, Bucky was really worried about you. More than I would expect him to be.”

Haven frowned. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know there was a limit to which people could worry about other people.” 

“I’m being serious so quit being a brat. What’s going on with you and Barnes?”

“Nothing is going on with me and Barnes. I crossed that line with Rum, I’m damn sure not going to cross it again. That was a catastrophe of epic proportions, and, quite frankly, almost cost me my life — and, let’s not even bring my career into it.”

Wes closed his laptop and rubbed his hands into his eyes. “Rum’s an irresponsible, selfish, manipulative asshole. If you ask me, he saw you coming and took advantage of it. Bucky isn’t like that. He wants what’s best for you, he understands you, you guys work well together. He doesn’t train you, he trains with you. Brock was using you to make a name for himself and to take all the credit. Bucky doesn’t do that — he’s here for you.” He leaned back in the chair. “I’ve watched the two of you since he started coming around. There's a tension you both have that goes away when you're together.”

Haven sipped at her coffee but didn’t say anything for a few minutes. Knowing her brother the way she did, she knew he wasn’t telling her to hurry out and date Bucky or ask him out — he simply wanted her to consider Bucky as an option. She reached her fingers up to her lips, remembering their kiss in the ocean. 

“Right now, I just need to know if I still have a coach,” she finally commented, getting up to put her coffee cup in the sink, “and if he won’t answer my calls, I’ll just go to him.”

Bucky was running late for Steve and Charlotte’s get-together. He may have already know what they were going to announce, but it was important to him that he be there, especially after the conversation with Steve the previous week. He was trying to be a better friend than he had been after the cancer diagnosis. 

“Wallet, phone, keys,” he muttered to himself as he made sure he had each item before opening his apartment door. He didn’t expect Haven to be standing there, hand poised to knock. He took a step back from the surprise. “Haven.”

“Hey,” she greeted, blushing and hesitant, “I’m sorry to barge in on you uninvited and unannounced, but you weren’t answering my phone calls. I know you’re mad, Buck, but I —”

“Listen, I don’t mean to interrupt you, but I’m on my way to an important thing. Kind of a family thing, actually.”

Haven shoved her hands in her pockets. “Oh, right. I’m sorry. I’ll just … well, call me later then. Please.”

She turned to go but Bucky called her name. He closed the apartment door behind him and locked it before motioning in the opposite direction she had been walking. 

“You wanna go with me?”

Haven shrugged. “Haven’t I intruded enough for one day?”

“No,” Bucky chuckled, “you haven’t. C’mon. It’ll be okay.”

He held his hand out to her and, after another few seconds of hesitation, Haven took it, following him out of the apartment building and down to his car. She buckled herself into the passenger seat and waited patiently while he got the car started and navigated into traffic. 

“So, uh, where are we going, exactly? You said a family thing?”

Bucky checked traffic at a stop sign before crossing the intersection. “More or less. My best friend Steven and his wife Charlotte are making a big announcement today to our close friend group.”

Haven gnawed on her bottom lip, wincing when she hit a sore spot. “Maybe this isn’t the kind of thing you bring … company for.”

“It’ll be fine,” Bucky assured. “How’s your head?”

“Fine,” she nodded. “No problems since we got home. I’m sorry, Coach, that I didn’t tell you about the head stuff to begin with. That wasn’t fair. I was just so ready mentally to get back in the ring, I didn’t care about the risks.”

Bucky drew in a breath. “First of all, how about we drop the coach title unless we’re training or something like that. I know you don’t want to cross personal lines, but we’ve kissed once —”

“And you’ve seen me naked,” Haven couldn’t help but giggle, her own attempt to lighten the situation a little. 

Bucky laughed with her, taking his eyes off the road long enough to see her smile. “And I’ve seen you naked, yes. So can we drop the title when we’re not doing boxing things?”

“I’ll try.”

“Fair enough,” he ceded. “Second, yes, you should have told me. I don’t care about it for my sake though, I care about it for yours. I don’t want to see you get hurt. Besides watching you dive off a cliff, not finding out about a potential head injury after you took headshots — that was one of the scariest moments in my life, Haven.” He took an exit off the highway, into a nice neighborhood. “I’m not Rumlow, I won’t use things against you. You don’t have to hide things from me.”

Haven looked out the passenger side window as rows of houses passed them by. “It isn’t easy to trust people after something like that.”

Bucky pulled up to a modest, cozy home. Several cars were already parked in the drive and in front of the house. Haven cleared her throat and unbuckled her seatbelt. 

“You’re sure they’re gonna be okay with me being here?” she asked him. 

Bucky caressed her cheek with his thumb. “You can trust me, Haven. They’re going to love you.”

From the panic in her expression, Bucky would have expected her hand reaching up to push his away from her, but instead, she held tight to his hand. 

“Promise?”

“Which part?”

She swallowed hard. “All of it.”

Maybe it was another risk, but Bucky took it: he pressed a soft kiss to her lips before answering her in a low, husky voice. 

“I promise.”

All of Bucky’s friends were welcoming and happy to meet Haven. Though they did ask some questions about the fight and her boxing career, most of the conversation centered around everyday chitchat, which, surprisingly, Haven was grateful for. 

When Steve and Charlotte announced they had a baby on the way, the whole friend group was excited, and Haven found herself excited for them, too. Bucky’s smile was quiet, so she nudged him lightly with her elbow. 

“Did you know about this?”

Bucky grinned mischievously. “They told me last week. I’m the best friend! Wanna know a secret?” Haven nodded, so Bucky leaned over to whisper in her ear. “If it’s a boy, they're gonna name it James.”

She ignored the shiver down her spine. “Is that a family name?”

Bucky saluted her. “James Buchanan Barnes at your service, Ms. Cleveland.”

“Oh!” Haven giggled, realizing it had never occurred to her that Bucky was a nickname. “Well, that’s an honor.”

“It is,” Bucky returned. 

The group returned to chitchat, though this time it was mostly baby-related. Haven felt good, being part of a friend group again where she wasn’t pressured to be a boxing star. Wasn't pressured to be Brock Rumlow’s perfect trophy girlfriend. Wasn’t pressured to be anyone other than herself. 

She was standing on Bucky’s left side and, mostly without thinking, she laced her fingers through his. However the prosthetic worked, Bucky’s vibranium fingers curled around hers before his eyes snapped toward her. Haven let go of his hand and apologized. 

“I just … I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

Bucky took her hand again. “First time anyone’s willingly touched it besides me and the doctors.”

Haven nodded her understanding and pushed her fingers through his again. She re-joined the conversation as though she and Bucky held hands all the time, ignorant of the warm way he stared at her for several more seconds before Steve called for his attention again. 

Buckvember: @peace-love-hobbitness​​​ @disastersoldierbucky​​​ @connie326​​​ @rebekahdawkins​​​ @wonder-cole​​​ @shynara51​​​

Headstrong: @disastersoldierbucky​​​ @captain-s-rogers​​​ @amanda-teaches​​​ @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan​​​ @tanelle83​​​ @tellmewhatyouwill​​​ @capandbuckylvr​​​ @pinknerdpanda​​​  @ntlmundy​​​ @siggy85​​​ @itsallyscorner​​​ @m-blasterrr​​​ @just-the-hiddles​​​

[sp4c3-0ddity]

"A Love Supreme Seems Far Removed" for the Hozier prompt!

ack sorry this took so long but i hope you like it Ivy!! inspired (if indirectly) by @rueitae and @cgf-kat, though they may not thank me for the credit

Pidgedidn’tresist when Lance took her hand and tugged her into his arms, but she didhalfheartedly complain, “I haven’t even taken my shoes off!”

He laughed as his other hand pressedagainst the small of her back, pulling her flush against him. “Ifit makes you feel any better, I’ll vacuum in the morning.”

She rolled her eyes but rested her foreheadagainst his chest so he wouldn’t see the smile curving her lips. “Deal.”

They danced in the soft candlelight oftheir apartment while Lance’s phone, set on the kitchen counter,played a soft, corny tune and her own propped up on a bookshelf recorded avideo of them. Pidge had no doubt he’d planned this - down to the song - sincethey decided on their spontaneous courthouse wedding, so she went along withit, her chest warm and fluttering, her hand on his shoulder as they swayed in acircle in their tiny living room.

“Whenmarimba rhythms start to play, dance with me, make we sway…”

Lance pulled her a little closer, his nosein her braided hair and his steady heartbeat under her cheek. His fingerstightened around hers, his thumb sliding her new gold wedding band up and down.

Pidge sighed as she reveled in his warmth,in that strength and sweetness she loved him for. She lifted her head andcupped the back of his neck, and when his dark blue eyes met hers a gentlesmile tugged at his lips.

“What’reyou thinking about in that brilliant brain of yours, my love?” he wondered in alow voice.

“Otherdancers may be on the floor, dear, but my eyes will see only you…”

She could make a joke or tease him or sharea fact that would boggle his mind; instead she confessed, “I’mjust thinking how I can’t remember ever being this happy.” Heat rushed to herface - it was always tricky for her to discuss her feelings, even with him -but she held his gaze and watched his grin creep a little wider.

(She did not think on why they married in such a hurry with only theirfamilies and Hunk present to witness, about his first impending mission intospace - away from her.)

When Lance’s palm rested on her cheek, she cradled itcloser, her eyes slipping shut as he leaned down to kiss her. She hummedagainst his lips, her stomach flipping pleasantly, and murmured, “And what are you thinking about, my darling goofball?”

“Likea lazy ocean hugs the shore, hold me close, sway me more…”

“Howdang lucky I am I met you,” Lance said. “How lucky I am to love you.”

She shivered when his nose brushed hers,his breath warm on her cheek, but teased, “You’re lucky I gave you the chance.”

(She almost didn’t,she thought regretfully. He was her nuisance of a teammate - a pilot who triedso hard to show off he made his crew fail - while they were cadets, so whatirony she fell so hard for him once she saw he could buckle down when he neededto?)

“It’sjust because I’m cute, right?” Lance teased, his thumb skirting under her eye.

“Makeme thrill as only you know how, sway me smooth, sway me now…”

Pidge slid her hand up and down his chest,over the smooth fabric of  his gray suitjacket before she plucks at his slender blue tie. “Somethinglike that.”

She’d tried to convince him to wear hisGarrison uniform jacket, to show off the new stripes in the pictures her motherand his sister took, but now she found herself grateful for the tie.

She tugged him down and kissed him, alittle longer than last time - long enough it left them breathless when theyparted.

Lance recaptured her hand and they resumedtheir dance, sweeping around in a wider circle while she followed his lead. Hisforehead fell onto hers, and he said, “I never told you earlier but…you lookbeautiful.”

“Likea flower bending in the breeze, bend with me, sway with ease…”

Pidge smiled, face warm. She swished herlong white hem around and sighed when Lance’s warm hand wandered up to where the dressleft her back bare. “It’s not exactly a wedding gown,” she told him, “but itdid the job.”

“Itmore than did the job,” Lance agreed. He kissed her, and when his lips partedover hers heat pooled in her stomach.

She gripped his tie again and tangled herfingers through his hair that was almost more carefully styled than her plaits.He cupped her face between his hands, kissing her like a man starved, like henever would again.

(She loved him so much - wanted him closeand with her - she couldn’tbreath when she thought of them parting.)

The air she needed to live was almost notworth it, but the smirk Lance flashed her once he caught his breath made hervery grateful she stood within the fold of his arms.

“Onlyyou have that magic technique, when we sway I go weak…”

His hands fell to her waist. “Youmust be glad Hunk talked me into wearing an actual tie.” He lowered his voiceand whispered in a tone of mocking horror, “I wanted to wear a bow tie.”

Pidge snorted but she couldn’tfight the laughter bubbling through her chest. “Why?” she demanded. She wrapped her arms aroundhis neck so they returned to their lazier slow dance. “Oh my God, that would’vebeen worse than committing murder.”

“Whatdo you have against bow ties, Pidge?” Lance asked. He raised an eyebrow, buthis attempt at being serious fell flat the instant he dissolved into giggles. “Youjust like tugging me down for one more, huh?”

“Whenmarimba rhythms start to play, hold me close, make me sway…”

Her face warmed impossibly more, but sherolled her eyes, fingers tightening around his tie, and grumbled, “Yes,so shut up and kiss me, Mr. Lieutenant Holt.”

“Withpleasure, Mrs. Lieutenant H—”

Kissing Lance was an easy - and pleasant -way to quiet him. Frank Sinatra’s smooth voice faded into the background,the candles burned low before their own wax quenched the flames, and Pidge lostherself in Lance’s arms as he unraveled her kiss by kiss and touch by touch.

“Whenwe dance you have a way with me, stay with me, sway with me…”

What little Pidge can see of the dark videoblurs behind a curtain of tears she frantically wipes away. She can do withoutthem, without the awful tightness in her chest and the heaviness weighing downher very soul.

They’re useless to her, but not even her workdistracts her from the pain anymore.

A harsh wave of anger washes over her, herjaw clenching and her fingers tightening around her blasted phone. It takes allher self-control not to chuck it, still playing the video with its soft musicand softer, incomprehensible voices, across the lab at the far wall. At theleast she wants to insert it into the UTM and let the pistons crush it intoshards of fiberglass and silicon.

The empty shell - the non-cog - sitting onthe stool beside her is far from a comforting presence. The entire time thevideo played, she dared to glance at his - its- face, dared to hope for a sign of recognition or just a change in itsexpression.

But nothing - just a blank, flat affectwith not even a hint of the smile that, even in quiet moments, would playaround his lips.

“Youhave to be in there,”Pidge hisses, furious. She squeezes her phone, cradling it close to her chest,and wags an angry finger in the shell’s expressionless face.

It doesn’t even blink.

“H-how’reyou—you can’t be—but you haveto be—”Pidge cuts off with a strangled gasp. She stumbles to her feet, dropping thephone on the lab bench before rounding towards the shell with her headspinning. She feels as unbalanced as she did the last time she drank too much,as unsteady on her feet as she is in her soul, but without Hunk or Keith orMatt there to catch her.

“We’rebringing you back,” Pidge swears, not for the first time. Her fingers find theugly device protruding from its hair - once so carefully groomed, now unwashedand shaggy - and says, “I’m going to find a way to take this damn hoktril outwithout killing you even if I have to question every Altean neurologist in theuniverse myself.”

But the body that used to be Lance’sstares dispassionately past the woman he loved, as indifferent to her anger andgrief and touch as it was to the video of their first dance.

[tinkadreamchaser]

Try Again: Chapter 1 - Voicing Concern

Nobody had expected them to ever wake up again.

After Willard and Clifford Taylor had been in the intensive care unit of Piedmonts hospital for a total of five years, most of the doctors and even their parents had been ready to give up hope, when all of a sudden, on a warm summer day, the machines registered increased brain activity in one of the boys. Immediately the doctors were calling their parents to the hospital, even though they warned that he may not be waking up fully.

“Hurry up!”

“I’m on my way, dear” Sam Taylor yelled back from their doorstep. His wife drummed her fingers on the console of the car.

“I thought you might appreciate it if I locked up before we left.” he said when he slipped into the already running car.

“Will is waking up, we have to hurry!”

However, it would take much longer until anything noteworthy would happen again. Sam and Annie sat by their sons’ bedsides for forty-two hours before they were convinced to leave for longer periods of time again. They did however tend to come more often after knowing one of their twins was getting better. It filled them with hope to know that Will was waking up, even though he was the one who got the worst of the crash.

His entire right side had been slammed into by the truck that had crashed into their school bus during that fateful Christmas trip and he had to undergo surgery so that his broken ribs and his head wound wouldn’t kill him. It already was a miracle that the then seven-year-old had survived the crash itself, much less the next weeks after the surgery. But when he joined Clifford in his comatose state, it became clear that he was still far from good health.

And even now that he appeared to become more active, it was only his body starting to heal itself again.

Two years after the first ‘wake-up’ scare, their parents called off their Halloween date after another phone call from the hospital reporting that the Clifford was now also showing more brain activity than before. He had had a concussion and severe whiplash, but apart from a broken leg, and bruised back, not many worse injuries. However, the neurologists of the hospital had found that Cliff's brain had suffered great damage in the area of his cerebral cortex and that it would most likely alter and maybe totally erase his memory, should he ever wake up. Now, however, that damage seemed to repair itself.

“This is literally impossible! The connections were severed, the only way they could be rebuilt was if he was actually learning something!” ranted Cliff's neurologist, Dr. Henry Mort.

“And if you tell me it’s magic, sir, we just want to know if he’s waking up!” Sam insisted while holding his wife close. Dr. Mort sighed.

“Technically speaking, they are on the way to recovery. They are physically in the best condition they can be. Now we just wait.”

From then on, they did. The boys both took a long time waking up, and every other year they would show signs of waking up, only to fall back into their comatose state.

---B-----L-----E-----T-----E-----I----

"I just don't know anymore, dear. Will they even be the same as before?" Annie sighed and stood from the uncomfortable plastic hospital chair to cross the room. She laid a hand on Will's cheek.

"The accident alone must have been enough to traumatize them, but if they ever wake up they will be in a body that is ten years older than their minds."

Her husband walked up to her and took her in his arms.

"It will be okay, An. Clifford will certainly have it easier, he always was very mature, and I'm sure Willard will also be able to handle it. He is very headstrong; he won't give up. Neither of them will."

It was obvious to his wife that he was no longer talking about the twins’ ability to adapt to their situation, but about the likelihood of either even waking up again. A wave of hopelessness swept over her, brought on by a decade of waiting for her children to awake from their accident-induced coma.

The accident itself had been tragic. It happened during a pre-Christmas class trip that their school had organised. The bus their class had taken had been rammed by a truck driver who had lost control over the truck during a blizzard. Most of the second graders were only hurt superficially and a few got lucky and didn't get harmed at all. However, the twins that had been unfortunate enough to sit in the back row, where the truck hit the bus. The children in that part of the bus were hurt the worst and many were hospitalized for weeks, some of them took a week to wake up, so for a while, everyone had believed that little Will and Cliff would wake up soon as well.

They did not.

Annie turned towards her husband and buried her face in his shoulder before the sobs started to claw their way out of her.

Sams grip tightened around her.

They rarely visited nowadays, at least compared to the first month when they made sure one of them was at the hospital all the time. Their visits had lessened over the years and now they checked up on the boys every month and whenever the hospital called them because of increased activity. Only a few days ago, they had been visiting two motionless seventeen-year-olds and just this morning they got a call that their heart rates were picking up.

"Hng..."

The adults snapped around at the sound, eyes darting between Cliff and Will, trying to figure out who had made the sound. Neither of them had heard a single sound from their boys in years and now both of the twins’ heart rates were getting faster than before and Willards face twisted into a pained frown.

Sam hastily let go of his wife and pressed the button to call a nurse, while Annie rushed back and forth between Will and Clifford, the latter now also beginning to stir.

---I-----&-----A-----A-----A-----V----

Hurts.

Too bright.

Why is it so bright?

Isn't it supposed to be much darker?

Ouch.

He was barely able to peel his eyes open before he had to clench them shut again. Immediately after, sound seemed to explode around him.

"-ights off, he ca-"

"-ard is waking up t-

"-ease, you should lea-"

"-aven't been with them for years, how ca-"

"-some calm and quiet, come on."

It got much quieter.

"Are you doing alright?" A calm, female voice asked.

He tried to get his voice to work, but could only manage a small groan.

"Who?"

A deep voice came from his left, seeming groggy and slurred.

"That is your brother, I believe he might be awake too. Are you? Clifford?"

He tried opening his eyes again, since his voice seemed to fail him for the moment. This time, he was not met with the harsh brightness from before.

"There you go. We dimmed the lights and closed the curtains. It should be better now, right?"

He turned his head. Even this small movement made him feel like lead. He could slowly make out the fuzzy shapes of a room. There were white walls, a soft blue floor, a table with chairs and another bed. Suddenly, there was movement at the foot if his bed.

He didn't even realize he was in a bed.

The movement had come from a person in soft blue scrubs.

'Nurse' his brain supplied.

He has no idea how he knows this.

"What...?"

He wanted to ask what happened, what is going on, where am I. So many questions and he was pretty sure he already mangled that 'what?' beyond recognition.

Nevertheless, the nurse answered.

"Now, you both are awake right now? Try to make any movement that is easiest for you."

He tried to move his fingers, his head, anything at all, but didn't feel like he was having any success, so he croaked out a hoarse "Yeah".

"Oh dear, try not to speak too much, alright? Those vocal cords haven't been in use for a long time."

He heard rustling and then the female voice, slightly panicked: "Don't! You cannot sit up on your own yet! Let me help you!"

He hadn't even realized that his eyes had slipped closed again, so he reopened them and concentrated more on keeping them open.

The nurse was standing near the other bed, helping a young man sit up and adjusting the bed so it supported him.

"There. Please don't do that again."

“Why?” He whispered as loudly as he could without using his vocal cords. Kind of like speaking with a bad cough.

"Oh, both of you. You," she turned towards him " are going to break your vocal chords if you continue, and you," She turned back towards the other " are going to overwork yourself. You will get your answers soon, I'm just here to let you get adjusted to the light and to make sure you are conscious before the doctor arrives."

She walked over to the window to the left of his bed.

"I am going to open the curtains step-by-step, alright? Try not to look directly into the light, please."

She opened the curtains to his left side and a small bit and bright sunlight spilled inside. He immediately clenched shut his eyes, before turning the other way and looking at the person in the bed next to him. The man, or maybe still a boy, had his eye mostly open. He blinked a few times to confirm. Yes, eye. His right one was covered with gauze.

“Is this alright?” asked the nurse.

After receiving the barest of nods from him, as well as a spoken confirmation from the other boy, which she immediately scolded, she sighed. “I’ll go get some water, do not” she fixated the other “move.”

After she opened the curtains a tad more, she left through one of the two doors in the room. As soon as it closed behind her, the other grinned weakly and looked at him.

“Hey” the Other whispered hoarsely.

What the nurse had said before kept him silent. His voice was important to him. He didn't know why, but it was scary to think of losing it. He shook his head slightly, with what he assumed was a scandalized look on his face.

The Other made a weird sounding noise that might have been a chuckle.

“Who?” he asked the Other

‘What is he asking? Who? …. Who am I?’

He paused, his eyes widening.

‘Who am I?’

He frowned. The Other was still staring, so he shrugged. He stared back intensely.

“Me?” the Others face twitched in an odd way. He looked scared for a second.

“Same…”

There were only a few seconds of silence before the door opened again. He could catch a glimpse of soft orange tiles. He kind of liked that colour. The nurse was pressed a few buttons on his bed and he felt himself sitting up.

“Alright, I have some water for you.��� The nurse raised a cup to his mouth to help him drink. The water rushing down his throat was an incredible feeling.

“There, try to say something now.”

“Who a-” his voice got stuck. He coughed for a short while, before the other glass of water the nurse had was offered.

“We might need some syrup.” the nurse said, as if to herself, before reaching for her phone and typing something in. Then she opened the curtains a bit further and returned to the bathroom again.

He caught the look the Other was giving him. ‘Ask’, it said. He nodded, and the Other grinned, a bit less pained now.

When she came back however, she gave the two glasses to the Other, who voiced his concerns the second she set the second glass down.

“Who are we?” the Other croaked. He didn’t seem to have trouble with speaking as much as he himself did.

The nurse gave the Other a look. “Shush.” Then she sighed and looked from the Other to him. “Do neither of you know your names?”

They shook their heads. She went to the table and scribbled something on a notepad before going to the curtains again and opening them the rest of the way.

“You’ll have to speak to the doctor I’m afraid.”

Just then, the door opened and said doctor entered the room. He was relatively short and skinny, with glasses and a giant smile on his face.

“Hello, boys. It is great to see you awake. I’m Dr. Daniels.”

“Anything else you need?” the nurse asked, but the doctor shook his head.

“Go and take care of Mr. and Mrs. Taylor, they must be worried. Just tell them everything will be fine and explain why you had to kick them out.”

“Yes, sir.” She leaned closer to tell the doctor something he couldn’t make out. Dr. Daniels just nodded once and wrote something on his notepad.

Once the nurse left the room, Dr. Daniels turned to them.

“Alright, boys, first things first: Mrs. Frosts tells me you have mentioned not knowing your names, is that correct?”

He nodded and saw that the Other did as well.

“Alright then, I hope you know that speaking in your condition might not be beneficial to your vocal cords, I hope you were told this?”

Again they nodded. However, he did sense a lot of annoyance coming from the Other.

“Good. So, about your names…I assume it is not just those, am I right? Do you remember anything from before?”

He shook his head. The Other thought for a moment, then did the same.

“Alright, alright…” the doctor wrote down some more on his clipboard.

“Names.” the Other insisted with a gruff voice. It seemed to stem more from frustration than the condition of his throat.

“Oho, alright, didn’t mean to make you wait. You are Willard Taylor” he gestured at the Other “and Clifford Tylor.” Now Dr. Daniels was looking at him.

‘Clifford? Seems like a fancy name.’

“You are twins.”

He looked across the room to the Oth- to Willard.

“Will.” the boy insisted.

“That’s what your parents called you, do you remember that?”

Will shook his head. “Willard’s just stupid”

Dr. Daniels laughed loudly. “Alright, I can’t argue with that!”

He took out two pens and gave one of them to Clifford.

“Here, how do you use this?”

Clifford looked down at the pen. It was a simple ballpoint pen, he just had to push on the button at the end.

“Good. Now here” he handed him his clipboard. A worksheet was tacked in.

“Could you please fill this out?”

Dr. Daniels then went over to Will and repeated the process.

“I’m stepping outside for a bit, I will be back with your parents in fifteen minutes, alright? Also, don’t copy! There is a camera in here, alright?” he grinned and left the room.

Clifford looked down at the sheet.

 Name:

 Age:

 Gender:

 He stared.

‘Dr. Daniels has told us our names, but not how they’re spelled… Is he trying to see how we would spell them? And he didn’t tell us our age either...’

He looked down at himself, then at his supposed twin. He smiled and brought the pen to the paper.

 Name: Clifford Tailor

 Age: around 17?

 Gender: Male

  Math

 5+3=____

 11+12= _____

 10-5= _____

 17-8=_____

 2x4=_____

 4x4=_____

 9x7=_____

 6/3=______

 21/3=______

7/2=_____

(1028/4) + 3= ____________

Clifford frowned. Except for that last one, these questions were easy.

‘What is this test even for?’

  Math

   5+3= 8

   11+12= 23

   10-5= 5

   17-8= 9

   2x4= 8

   5x3= 15

    9x7= 63

   6/3= 2

   21/3= 7

7/2= 3,5

 He thought for a minute.

(1028/4)+3= 257+3= 260

                   /2 = 514

                   /4 = 257

There. That should be right.

   Spelling - Correct the following text

 i see a snoman

 _________________________

 he is waering a black hat

__________________________

 the scarf is red

__________________________

 my neybour build it

__________________________

 he also build a egloo

__________________________

He chuckled. Will looked over for a second, then skimmed his sheet and grinned as well.

   Spelling - Correct the following text

 i see a snoman

 I see a snowman.

 he is waering a black hat

 He is wearing a black hat.

 the scarf is red

 The scarf is red.

 my neybour build it

 My neighbour built it.

 he also build a egloo

 He also built an igloo.

Cliff frowned. There was nothing else on this page.

“That’s it?” Will flipped his sheet over to look at the back of it, then threw a sceptical glance at his supposed twin.

Cliff just shrugged. After taking a look at the clock and seeing that the doctor had only left the room 3 minutes ago, he started doodling on the back of his sheet.

Will, however, got bored after doodling a little Christmas tree in the corner of his sheet, so he put it on his nightstand and then braced himself with his elbows against the bedding.

The other teen saw him move.

“Hey!” he whispered with a scolding tone.

Will just threw him a smirk and pushed himself further up into a sitting position, legs dangling off the side of the bed. He looked down and grimaced at the sight of his IV.

“Just gonna…” he trailed off in a cough, which turned into a whole coughing fit.

Apparently, the doctor had heard this, and shortly after the first few coughs, the door opened again.

“Oh, Will, what are you doing, boy? You shouldn’t be sitting up.”

The coughing boy let himself flop back down into the bed and wheezed a few times.

“Here, have some more water.”

Dr. Daniels offered him his glass of water, which he drank greedily to soothe his dry throat.

“Done.” He rasped.

“And you shouldn’t be talking either, alright?” Dr. Daniels shoulders slumped and he had an exasperated look on his face. “You were less of a troublemaker when you were still asleep.”

Will rolled his eyes and pointed to the worksheet on his table, and then at Cliff.

The doctor fixed his glasses and reached for the paper. After looking it over, he frowned.

“Alright?” he gestured to Cliff “I guess you are done as well?”

The boy nodded and gave his worksheet to him. He looked this over as well, then he nodded.

“I’ll be back in a while. I’m going to get you more water and some cough syrup, alright?” he asked with a concerned look.

The twins nodded, then the doctor left again.

---L-----B-----S-----R-----L-----E----

Annie and Sam sat outside their sons’ door, waiting for the doctor to come back out and let them see their children again.

A while ago, they had been sent outside to wait, since they would have scared the boys in their frazzled state. By now, even Annie had calmed down enough to see the reasoning behind this.

"Oh god, I must have acted so childishly. Do you think that I was irresponsible? What if they don't let us take them home?! That happens sometimes after giving birth, they don't let the mothers take their babies home because they think they are too irresponsible or-"

"Calm down, An." Sam laid his hands on her face and leaned in to lay his forehead against hers. "You and me both are worried parents who have waited ten years for their sons to wake up from their comatose state after a terrible accident. I believe they won’t judge us for being a little childish and thoughtless. We didn't expect the boys to wake up again and now that they have, we don't know what to do or expect. And that is alright. And you know Henrick, he’ll understand."

"You're right. Of course you are. I'm just......worried? Like you said, we didn't expect that they would wake up and now.... we still have their old bunk bed. They won't even fit in there, and I don't even know if they still want to share a room now. And we don't even have another room left, unless we clear out the attic."

"Let's worry about that later, alright? We know we have a lot to do, but for now, let's wait for Henrick and see how our sons are, alright?"

Just then, Dr. Henrick Daniels came back out of the room. He had been with the family for the entire experience, and they had become well acquainted over the years. The Taylors knew he felt a sense of responsibility for the boys and they were glad to have someone they could trust. Right now, however, they were a little concerned, since the doctor no longer wore the large grin he had since first hearing the boys had officially woken up.

“What’s wrong?”

He sighed.

"I would like to ask you not to expect too much, alright? There is little to no chance that they will be the same as all those years ago. Waking from a coma is more than just the actual waking up. Usually, patients will have to relearn many things, from basic motor skills to speech. Most likely, they are going to be very different in personality and temper. Their head injuries may influence their mood, make them prone to sudden aggressiveness, so I suggest to prepare yourselves for that, alright? And these are just general effects the brain damage could have. After the MRT, we will be able to tell you more. We just need you to understand that before getting up your hopes too much." He paused and looked down at the two sheets of paper. “Alright. Now, I need you to try and remember: When they were in second grade, what had they already learned, and how good were they at those things?”

“Huh, why?” Annie stood from her seat.

“Due to the… rather unusual new connections that were made in their brains during the past couple years, our neurologists allowed themselves the gag of putting in a few harder tasks into their tests. They believed the boys might be able to solve them with the new layout their minds seemed to have. But those were not problems they should have been able to solve as second graders.”

He handed over the tests.

“They solved all of them in less than five minutes.”

[blueyesandleatherjacket]

Our last winter, 28/31

► Our last winter - Human!Ninth Doctor/Rose Tyler. ► Written for @doctorroseprompts 31 days of ficmas. Day 28: Cold. ► AU Verse, Teen. ► 1,455 words. ► A/N: This is a prequelle to Ghost of you.

“Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is time for home.” - Edith Sitwell.

Cold. That’s all he could think of when they all stepped outside for a small walk after the huge Christmas dinner they had shared. As soon as they had stepped outside the building, the icy wind had whipped their faces and sneaked into the layers of clothes they were wearing. Despite the brand new warm scarf, Rose was keeping herself tight against her husband as an attempt to get some warmth instead of freezing. This walk maybe wasn’t a good idea after all. They would all get sick before New Year if they survived this weather. Liv and Clara were doing the same as Maxence and Rose and hugging each other tight to face the wind but Tegan was refusing Jack’s offer to do the same. It was another attempt at flirting with him and no matter how nice Jack could be, he just wasn’t Tegan’s type. If he even had one.

They walked to the closest park they could find. The idea was to find a peaceful place to observe the stars and be thankful for what they had. It had seemed like a good idea to honour this tradition Maxence and Rose had had since forever. It was before they realised how cold it was outside and that they may not come back home with all their fingers and toes. Who said that moving would help getting warmer? They obviously hadn’t faced such a cold? How were they surviving in the North or South Pole? This was no way to live. If they weren’t scientists, if they weren’t very aware that the global warming was a real problem, they would have thought that this was all a joke from the governments with how cold it was out there? How much time had they before they start losing a limb? But they said nothing, they walked and observed the night sky, laughing at Jack and Tegan gently fighting.

There was no one in the streets. It wasn’t surprising. People were surely home with their families, celebrating Christmas and the idea of going out would ever have come to their minds. It made this walk so much better though. No meeting anyone but themselves. The night was peaceful. Maybe too much, but who was gonna complain about it?

  “Silent night, holy night,” sang Jack.

  This walk was giving him the will to sing and Maxence groaned. Jack was a good singer, he had quite a voice but Christmas carols? He couldn’t have found anything better? Something they hadn’t overheard in the last couple of weeks?

  “Jack, you’re gonna make my husband moody.”

“What? The boss doesn’t like a good song.”

“The boss doesn’t like people carolling. He threw a bucket of water to a band of singers when they dared singing down the building.”

“Are you serious?”

  Clara and Liv were already laughing hard at this. It was something only Maxence would do. He could be very sullen when you didn’t know him but once you were breaking the shell he was protecting himself with, you found out that he was a nice man who had seen too much and was enjoying the simple things of life to the fullest.

  “Find a better song then.”

“No. I don’t sing.”

“You don’t?”

“Never.”

  Rose chuckled. Maxence did sing but only for her. She was the only one to have that benefit of hearing a song coming from his mouth. He was a terrible singer to be honest but she never told him because he would be so offended. Mister could so susceptible sometimes and Rose was avoiding the conflicts. Most of the time.

  “You’re no fun at all.”

“I know.”

“Don’t insult my hubby, Jack.”

“It’s too cold outside for angels to fly.”

  Everyone turned to Tegan. No one had ever heard him saying anything about singing talent – or anything too personal actually – but he was surprising them all. Tegan hated arguments and he had thought this would make them stop. He blushed shyly when he realised they were all looking at him and he cleared his throat.

  “Sorry. It just slipped out of my mouth.”

“Are you the real Ed Sheeran?” asked Liv.

“Oh… No. Just Tegan, me.”

  He was feeling very uncomfortable to be the centre of attention suddenly and he wished something could draw their attention so they would forget about him and the stupid idea he had had to sing this song. It had seemed like the perfect song for the night though. Jack wrapped an arm around his shoulders but Tegan pushed him away once again.

  “You can’t keep doing this.”

“You know I can.”

“And I want you to stop.”

  They were walking again now and they were so busy laughing about Jack trying to convince Tegan that they would go so well together, that they were meant to meet for a reason. When Tegan was asking what was this reason, Jack was replying that he would find one. They didn’t realise yet that they were getting to a much darker part of the town. The lights were off and the feeling that something was lurking in the shadows began filling Maxence and giving him the creeps. He hurried up and Rose looked at him, intrigued.

  “What’s going on, Max?”

  He was looking around them but all he could see was the dark. Rose had learnt to not underestimate his sixth sense. He could sense when danger was prowling around. That’s how he had ended up in the flat she was sharing with Jimmy Stone many years ago. He pulled her closer to him in a protective way. She grabbed Liv by the sleeve of her coat and silently told her to slow down. The message was passed to the two men still arguing. Maxence said nothing but he was being tense. Something was observing them in the shadows. Jack turned the torch of his phone on and lighted their surroundings. They jumped when someone appeared just beside them. This sudden appearance made their hair stand on end as the man – if he could still be considered as a man – was presenting all the symptoms of the mysterious disease.

However, there was something more in this man that hadn’t been reported in the official list of symptoms: this man looked like a zombie. His black eyes didn’t have anything alive left in them and one side of his face was burnt. He was mouthing words but wasn’t making any sound. It was a terrifying spectacle to the eye and the band of friends was totally petrified. Their scientist sides were interested in the mystery that was standing there.

  “Sir?”

  The ghost of a man reacted to Maxence calling him out and looked up at him. He held a hand out as to touch the scientist but his fingers only touched the void between them. Maxence hadn’t moved. Clearly the man wasn’t seeing very well. He was still trying to speak and Rose understood that he wanted help. She murmured a couple words in Maxence’s ear.

  “There’s a shelter very close. We can take you there. They will help you.”

  He seemed to think about the situation but both Rose and Tegan knew that it was useless. This man had reached the second stage of the disease and his brain was only being a big puddle of grey matter. The neurologist tried to warn Maxence but he wasn’t quick enough. Thankfully, Rose sensed the danger and pulled her husband away from the danger. As the zombie was about to chase them, they ran away to the closest spot of bright light they could find.

  “Who said we were cold already?” joked Jack.

  No one replied to him though. Tegan and Rose were all too aware that this disease was going to be a real problem. Hospitals were all thinking that this was just a consequence of the long eclipse but something had happened this day, something had been unleashed this day, and these symptoms were a first warning. They had to be careful. Clara and Liv were shocked and Maxence kept looking back wondering what the hell was this new mystery.

  “You were right,” he admitted to Rose and she raised an eyebrow because it was unusual of him to say that he had been wrong. “Something is growing in the shadows and it’s gonna blow up in our faces.”

“What are we gonna do?”

“Report it and see what they decide.”

  They couldn’t stay outside after seeing something like this. It was to hope that the sanitary authorities would take this seriously and build a plan to put all the sick people in quarantine and ask the skilled scientists to work on a cure before things got out of hand…

Our last winter © | 2018 | Tous droits réservés.

×××

Buy me a coffee?

[ponticle]

Writing prompt: Cullen/Alistair, established relationship or best friends, memory loss through accident

Thank you so much for the prompt. I took a couple liberties, but I gave you three options, so hopefully that will suffice. (Angst incoming).

You can read this and my other short prompted works here on Ao3.

Dementia

It starts in small ways: forgotten appointments and missing keys. It isn't until he calls me one day from the grocery store and says his car has been stolen that I know something is wrong. I race to meet him—three miles and six streetlights at breakneck speeds only to find him standing on the sidewalk, staring at the ground.

“Cullen?” I ask. “What’s going on?”

“Damn it, Al.” His tone is sharp, but he isn’t looking at me; he’s still staring at the curb.

“Sweetie, what’s happening?” I tilt enough to catch his eyes—they’re glassy, unfocused…

“They took my fucking car,” he says.

“Who did?”

“Them! The fucking… shit… you know…” He rolls his eyes at me and huffs.

I haven’t the slightest idea what he’s talking about, but I scan the parking lot, trying to understand. That’s when I catch the outline of a royal blue jeep in my periphery—Cullen’s jeep.

“Sweetie… your car’s right there,” I offer.

He glares at me, but follows my outstretched fingers to where his car is clearly parked.

In the days that follow, he insists that jeep isn’t his car… his car is a dark green sedan.

No, Sweetie… you got rid of that two years ago, I remind him.

He mumbles assent among myriad excuses: he meant he’d lost the keys… he just got mixed up about the color... there was something off with that new pair of glasses…

...but I know right then: I’m losing him piece by piece.         

Drug Addiction

It starts in small ways: fights forgotten, nights unremembered. I should know what it means, but I don’t. In fact, the moment I get the call, I’m surprised, despite all the evidence—despite every ignored thing.

“Mr. Theirin,” says a grave voice, “I’m calling on behalf of a Cullen Rutherford?”

I blink into the darkness of our bedroom and squint at the clock. It’s just after two in the morning. I don’t wait for Cullen to come home anymore. Back when we were together—really together—I used to wait up. Now, I can’t stand the way he smells and swears and forgets so I go to bed alone.

“Mr. Theirin, are you there?”

“Yes,” I manage. “I’m here. Where is he?”

“We’re holding him,” says the woman. “The precinct at 132nd and Lexington.”

“He’s been arrested?” I ask, already stumbling out of bed and toward a haphazard pile of clothing—clashing patterns and mismatched socks.

“No…” she says, but she doesn’t sound sure.

“Then what is he doing there?” I ask.

“He’s—he’s confused, Ser…” She clears her throat nervously. “You’d better come down here…”

When I arrive, I hear him before I see him. He’s raving like a lunatic—every word he says makes less sense and is less intelligible than the last. I explain who I am and they bring me to him. He’s alone in the holding cell, which begs the question: who was he talking to? When I come near him, he blinks at me helplessly.

“Al,” he slurs, “Thank the maker you’re here—I told them to get you… that you’d know what to do…”

“What happened, Cullen?” I ask.

He reaches for me through the bars and grabs hold of my collar to haul me forward. It’s then that I realize my shirt is inside out. I left in such a hurry, I didn’t notice.

“I don’t know,” he says. He’s starting to cry. “I don’t… I don’t know…”

That’s when I notice the blood—smeared across his knuckles and crusted into the bed of each nail.

“Cullen,” I whisper, afraid of the sound of my own voice, “whose blood is that?”

“Al…” he squeezes his eyes shut, swallows a sob. “I don’t remember… I was… I was so high… I don’t remember.”

...and that’s when I know… there’s no saving him anymore.

Traumatic Brain Injury

It starts in small ways: a surprised blink, a squint, a wordless gurgle. They were signs I didn’t know how to interpret. They were signals I shouldn’t have ignored. Even when the doctors tried to explain it to me, I didn’t understand.

“Mr. Theirin, you have to be prepared for the possibility that he may not be able to communicate with you in the way you expect…” says the neurologist.

I squint. What does that mean? “In what ways might he be impeded?” I ask.

“He may have trouble with coordination, cognition, memory—”

“Memory?” I interrupt.

The doctor looks down at her hands—wrings them—before looking back at me. “It’s possible that he won’t know who certain people are… you, even.”

I struggle to suppress a gasp.

“We won’t know anything for a couple days, but he’s been through something most people wouldn’t have even survived,” continues the doctor. “The human brain can only withstand so much…”

I nod and shrug, looking through the double-thick glass pane. He looks so small—helpless.

His words are a struggle now; he stutters and his voice shakes around every syllable.

“He-he-lllooo,” he says each morning, but he doesn’t know me any better today than he did the day before.

“Hello, Cullen,” I say, sitting next to his bed. When I reach for his hand, he lets me hold it, but there’s no recognition in his eyes.

We smile and watch the birds outside his window. I tell him how well his petunias are doing at home.

...and tomorrow, we’ll do it all again.

[stevedonnellyfaith-blog]

Penance at Discharge (Post 111) 10-14-15

                        Last Wednesday evening I traveled from work in Youngstown to Cleveland to pick up Stephen and take him home after the completion of his week of testing for epilepsy.  I decided to work the full day and arrive at around 5 PM because I believe I had previously tried every conceivable pick-up time at John Muir Medical Center and a dozen other hospitals and have always still found the hospital staff woefully unprepared to discharge either Pam, Nick, Abby, Stephen or Natalie on almost every single occasion.  Because I spend my professional life using Lean Manufacturing tools to carve minutes and seconds out of processes to achieve savings, unnecessary hospital discharge delays always grate on my nerves. Luckily, in a former life, decades ago, I wore the uniform of our country and am hardwired to tolerate circumstances where a “hurry up and wait “outcome is assured.

Upon arrival in Stephen’s room, I was greeted by mysteriously mixed signals.  Stephen was already garbed in sweatshirt, sweatpants and sneakers like he was ready to head home, but he still had an IV visible on his hand.  Usually when a person is being discharged after a serious illness, removing the IV is nearly the last precautionary order of business.  Stephen, though, had checked in for testing in a relatively healthy state and had not had any unexpected issues during the tests.  His nurse soon arrived to dispel my confusion; he let me know that Stephen would be ready for discharge immediately after completing an MRI, for which he had waited all day.  Evidently, University Hospital’s policy is to assign the highest daytime priority for MRI, CT, Ultrasound and probably every other possible test service to outpatients, because, theoretically, inpatients can stay all night.  We left the hospital about three hours later at 8 PM. Not the most customer pleasing denouement to our visit, but otherwise Stephen was treated very well.

If I were a cradle Catholic, I probably would have remembered to offer up the entire experience, but, in actuality, Stephen’s hospital room was equipped with a passable selection of cable television channels so I think I passed the time treating my senses to an electronic barrage following the entertainment fasting conditions we have been living under since we moved out of my parent’s house.  I can’t remember what I watched.  Maybe I didn’t watch television at all and instead scrolled through Facebook, but I don’t think I could have whiled away three solid hours weaving through all the pages of what my friends have posted.  Usually I can only take so much Facebook as the recycled memes are often very repetitive.  Also I have a number of Libertarian, atheist and Pro-Choice friends that rake my scrolling sensibilities with morally questionable material or untruths that I generally try to identify and pass by like the doggie deposits that Natalie’s pets have peppered across my lawn – mowing my lawn is somewhat like hopscotch. For instance, I am friends with one of my high school football coaches, with whom I seem to agree and am able to “like” for less than ten percent of his posts. Luckily he has children and grandchildren, but I digress.

By Thursday morning I had largely forgotten the ordeal of disembarking from UH the previous evening. Natalie and I shared a last breakfast together as I planned to return to my regular morning schedule of 3 AM reveilles and 4 AM departures on Friday morning.  The work day proceeded and ended without significant event as I prepared notes and outlines for a leadership course that I intend to teach for supervisors this week upcoming.  At the end of my shift I felt quite relieved to be headed on only an hour commute home to Streetsboro instead of orbiting onward for an extra forty five minutes north eastward through Cleveland and only back to our cozy two-story after visiting Stephen. Normality seemed an alluring flavor after a week of passing time in extra driving and all too familiar clinical surroundings.

My phone buzzed as I was pulling into a gas station to top off my tank near the on-ramp of I-76, my tollless thoroughfare of choice from the Eastern border towards north central Ohio. I thought it would be a receptionist calling to provide information for Stephen’s follow-up appointment, but instead I recognized the heavy accent of my son’s neurologist who was calling to provide the results from the forgotten MRI.  I made her give me the date and time for the follow-up appointment first as we were both surprised that no scheduling information had been provided at discharge.  She then let me know that they had found something abnormal on Stephen’s MRI.  It was a sunny afternoon, but my soul seemed to darken with her words.

There was an unusual but small spot on his scan, that hadn’t activated with contrast so she thought it was unlikely to be cancer.  I asked clarifying questions with the concerned detachment of a person used to the responsibility of interpreting medical information for others including the patient.  The spot was not in the vicinity of the locus of Stephen’s epileptic activity as determined by a PET scan during his hospital stay.  The spot was being termed an “incidental finding” to be monitored by a follow-up MRI before Stephen’s next neurology visit in November.  The spot was consistent with the lesions often found in the brains of people who suffer from migraine headaches.  Stephen doesn’t get migraines.  The phone call ended and I resumed my drive.

As I drove, I slipped back into long practiced habits.  I finished my Divine Mercy Chaplet for the afternoon and offered a few extra prayers accepting whatever the overall outcome might be but also with hope that Stephen’s continued bad health not lead us down the cancer trail into a terminal cul-de-sac.  Then I picked up the phone and gave Pam’s mother the first call as I drove.  It is not the type of phone call that I relish making, but I prefer to give correct and realistic information directly to Barb rather than have her hear half-information from second-hand sources. I called my brother Sean next because I’ve found that giving several key people complete information is much better than giving lots of people partial information.  I called Abby as well and repeated almost verbatim what I had told Sean and Barbara.

I knew that none of them would splash the news onto Facebook, but all would be able to provide clarification once the news did hit social media.  Everything eventually ends up on Facebook.  Nicholas, unfortunately, found out that his mother had died via social media while he was on break at Straw Hat.  I hadn’t considered that possibility when I informed several family members of Pam’s death, but chose not to tell Nicholas for safety reasons. I didn’t want him driving home in a condition where he couldn’t pay attention.  I have since remembered to consider the possibility of a Facebook spill with sensitive information.

By that time I had arrived my parent’s house to pick up Natalie.  (The bus drops her off there in case I am held up at work.)  I let my parents know about the spot on Stephen’s MRI face-to-face.  That is my preference for difficult news, but personal conversations are not always possible once the pebble has dropped into the pool in our information age.  With both sets of grandparents dutifully briefed, I drove the couple of miles remaining through Streetsboro boulevards and avenues so that I could pass the bad news to Stephen.  I expected that he would have questions.  My son is in a much better place now with regard to paranoia, but I remember some very bad times with him after Pam’s death.

Instead Stephen smiled at the news and asked me why I didn’t remember watching Nicola Tesla.  At first I thought he was talking gibberish, but after several minutes of further conversation, I realized that Stephen had remembered a forgotten incident from a decade previous back when we lived in Fort Wayne, Indiana.  

A bi-polar child misdiagnosed as hyper-active, Stephen’s made a long promenade through various unsuccessful treatment plans until eventually a doctor decided that Stephen needed a brain MRI.  In preparation for the scan Stephen had to stay up all night the day previous to his test. I stayed up with him.  At about 4 AM we ended up watching a long documentary about the imminently brilliant and simultaneously wacked-out physicist Nicola Tesla.  I had totally forgotten about the entire experience.  Nothing to help Stephen’s condition was found by the MRI, but Stephen did remember being petrified by the discovery of an “incidental finding” of a spot on his brain that was not immediately dangerous but should be monitored in the future.  I guess I forgot to do so.

I spent the next half an hour reeling back in the thread of incomplete information that I had earlier cast out.  It made me chuckle to have finally found the missing bookend of experience to complete the short-lived horror from all those years ago.  An incident that had appeared to be random and pointlessly scary until its import made its comet-like return to my solar system at a time so remote that only my most distracted son remembered the original occurrence. Because there is a God, I know that everything in my life has a purpose and a reason even when the mosaic of occurrences appears too close to be deciphered from my vantage point.

Unhappily, I was reminded that life can be hard to understand in a different way on Sunday. A 16 year-old daughter of a good friend from my youth died unexpectedly from a brain hemorrhage at Saturday field hockey practice at a high school in New England. I could see no purpose to the death of a young girl within a close proximity to her teammates.  I have seen the impact of that type of situation on servicemen and can’t fathom how a bunch of young women will suffer the impact of witnessing the loss of a friend in those circumstances.  Unfortunately, my imagination is probably sufficient to paint the details of the scene in my head if I try to do so:  a teary-eyed teammate sprinting for help, an adult coach working to revive or fix something in a little girl’s body that cannot be repaired, a collapsed collection of sobbing teenagers left at the scene after the ambulance has departed.  I can make no sense of what has become of the poor girl’s short and seemingly glorious years – she tutored underprivileged kids.

While there is a Mass card for her waiting for pickup in my mailbox, I have no adequate words to send to her teammates or family.  Yet I do know that flowers of love will sprout from the death of Casey Dunne in Braintree, Massachusetts just as good things have come from Pam’s death years removed and a continent away.  That does not mean that I am happy to have lost my wife, Barb’s daughter and the mother of my children.  I accept the experience and understand that good was achieved through God’s plan. While I am very happy that it does not look like Stephen will need a craniotomy, I am no longer naive enough to believe that Pam’s death was the last tragedy that I will experience. I do know that I will accept what comes and trust in God’s goodness even when my human understanding is insufficient to grasp the providence of a horrifying situation.