“Wrap the longer end of the suture around the needle driver twice,” said the ER doctor, looming over his pupil. The prick had been micromanaging this poor son of a bitch stitching me up from square one. I stared at the bulge of skin under the senior physician’s tired eyes that formed drooping, heavy bags, weighed down further by the role of playing babysitter. My finger twirled aimlessly on the fabric of my jeans as I imagined hooking into the loose skin beneath his lower eyelid and dragging it around like the ripples of a blanket. It was the best distraction I had from the nauseating poking and probing as the medical student awkwardly tied the knot.
He brought the needle holder up into the air again, preparing to dive deep for a second stitch. When the curved edge of the needle burrowed into my skin, dragging across the deep gash behind my ear, I felt no pain, which I attributed more to the local anesthetic than the technique. The student extracted the needle from its exit point with a pair of tweezers, pulling the suture through scar tissue. As he tugged on the line, he suddenly froze, realizing his mistake — there wasn’t enough thread left to tie the knot.
“What are you doing?” The teacher whispered harshly under his breath. The poor kid stood in place, shaking in his orthopedic clogs. He anxiously glanced back at his mentor, only to be stonewalled by tense shoulders, a look of disapproval, and growing impatience. The instructor’s arm suddenly twitched, ever so slightly, betraying his intention to snatch the tool away. I grabbed his wrist, my fingers coiling and compressing with increasing pressure, intercepting his course.
crushbone
“Hey man.” I squeezed the carpal bones in his wrist, rubbing them against one another. Snap. Crackle. Pop.
“He’s gotta learn somehow.” It was a tense split-second of eye contact as I held the dead stare in his eyes — an ego showdown, talking back to teacher. The look in the doc’s eyes abruptly flashed into something else, as if a switch was flipped, synchronized with the staccato flick of his wrist, shaking my grip off.
“I’ll let you finish up.” A wave of false nonchalance washed over as he closed his eyes and smiled, walking away while rubbing his wrist. It was a parting gift of a final fuck you, I assumed, in what he thought was a deserved punishment by leaving me behind with the amateur.
I hated people like that. Forgetting where they came from.
“Keep going.” I encouraged the kid to continue practicing. He smiled with hesitation, readying to skewer me again, this time, a little more at ease. Just because I had to get beaten over the head to learn my craft, didn’t mean he — or anyone — should have to. It’s okay kid, I could be your test dummy.
My eyes remained half-closed in an attempt to dull some of my senses and help with the discomfort of having a foreign body digging deep inside me. Yet everything was amplified. I grimaced at the glare directly above me. The blinding fluorescent lights were reminiscent of intake, which I was no stranger to during my prison days.
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“You doing okay, sir?”
A splitting headache seeped in—it sensed helplessness—a wounded lamb for the taking. This weakness was a poison.
“I’m fine.” I said, not wishing to prolong this interaction. I was done socializing for the day.
Taking my mind off the pain, I looked around the cramped room, my eyes settling on the view through the dusty window. To my surprise, it didn’t face another concrete wall. Rather, it nicely framed a large ash tree. At its base, a plaque displayed “Mercy Hospital Healing Garden” in big, bold letters. I fuzzily deciphered the words just below it, reading “Proudly Sponsored by Archetype University” through my squinting eyes. They followed the vertical line of the ash tree upwards, my gaze trailing outwards along the branches. Through the leaves, I could make out the outline of the glass skybridge connecting the hospital to the Caregiver.
From what I remembered, it was a research center funded by Archetype University that specialized in cutting-edge neurological advancements. Their latest and greatest invention was a dorky-looking helmet with a microgenerator “tail” that laid over the spinal cord. This tail produced deep electrical pulses in response to pain through the spinal column, effectively canceling out the “bad” signal with a “good” one. It was the newest generation of chronic pain management and on the verge of collapsing the prescription opioid market. Even now, I saw someone donning it, roaming through the grassy paths in my view, looking funky as fuck wearing it.
The healing garden split into twelve distinct arboretums, an homage to Swiss psychiatrist Carl Jung’s archetypes, the namesake of the university. It was a sight to see — the garden was well financed, impressive in its scale and harboring a diverse collection of nearly extinct specimens. At its center, nature blended. Saplings, once apart for millenniums, sat at the same table—some destructive or parasitic, others peacefully coexisting. At the garden’s edge, each dominant species cut a groove in the direction of their respective archetype. I had passed by hundreds—no thousands—of times on my daily jogs, but I never got to appreciate its beauty until now.
“All done.” The student’s voice pierced through my thoughts. He smiled and admired his handiwork, swabbing the outer edges of the wound site clean with an alcohol pad as his final step. I grazed the stitched surface with my fingertips, cautiously feeling the edges of the sutures poking and brushing against my skin. I laughed, teasing him, “Show off!” and slapped the goon’s elbow. God bless.
I glanced at the clock, grabbing my worn jacket and standing up to leave. “Thanks buddy, you stitched me up just in time for my shift.”
“You can’t do that!” Like a nervous Bambi, the young man scampered forward, putting his frame between the hospital curtains and me, body blocking my way out.
“Was I asking?”
“We’re still waiting for your scans to be read.”
I shrugged off his concerns. “If it’s important enough, then I’ll get a call.”
“I’m sorry, but you really should stay. At the very least, if you have to leave, you need to sign a waiver that you're leaving against medical advice. I can get you those forms and call my senior over to update you on the scans.”
I looked him straight in the eyes. This kid was easy. “Alright, I’ll compromise with you. I’ll stay 'til you get the paperwork.”
“Yes! Thank you for listening.” The student turned around hurriedly, hoping I wouldn’t change my mind and bail. No luck though — I was out the hospital doors before he even turned the corner down the hallway.