The Nearly Unrealized Worlds of Ethen Wells
I landed in the hospital, dying again. Doctors and nurses’ grim glances told me they knew it. My wife’s and kids’ trembling faces burned into me, my gut swearing I will survive this too.
I awoke several times throughout the night. It seemed like every few minutes. By checking blood draws, IV checks, and taking vitals. After several hospital stays, I’ve grown used to what once terrified me—now it’s routine. I’d learned how to disassociate myself from their carts rolling in. Always wanting more.
Pulled my arm from under the blankets. Both are already placed with PICC lines, needles then taped in place, tubes coming out, wrapped up to keep everything from moving. A catheter was inserted in my upper right chest.
Letting my arm flop over the bed’s edge, depending on which side the cart went on. I didn’t have feelings anymore and would tune it out. Take whatever you need! I will survive this.
A knock in my dimly lit room. “Mr. Wells, I know you’ve been through a few already. We need to get another blood draw from you.” The phlebotomy tech would say. Dozed off, when she left the room, as light as she came in, the door quietly closed behind her.
A brief knock, of a couple of taps. A man in scrubs rolls in a gurney before daybreak.
