The Things He Shattered

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Chapter 12 (v.1)

Submitted: April 12, 2013

Reads: 614

Comments: 20

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Submitted: April 12, 2013




The next day rolls around in the same fashion, and I can tell right away that the nurses looking after me do no support the Doctor’s decision to keep me on so much morphine. It only helps the pain a little. I feel more numb than anything, but I’ll take it. I know if I didn’t have it, the pain would be unbearable and I would be screaming. In the evening the nurse brings me my morphine and tells me that on this floor they have run out of it, she had to get it from a different floor. She suggests that I cut this out since the pills are becoming so hard to come by. Looks like there will not be any left for tomorrow. What the hell is this? She acts as if she’s had enough of supporting my drug habit. How the hell are they running out? She makes it sound like I’ve spent my entire day eating away at their supply to satisfy my drug habit. I now feel that the hospital is disorganized because my nurse had to basically go snoop around for medication that I needed.

I’m able to continue to go on like this for 2 more days. I believe that after some time the nurses realize that I am in no way getting better. I’m just relying on morphine now. One nurse decides to bring it to my Doctor’s attention. Dr. Pretty-boy comes into my room to analyze the problem. I tell him that my insides feel like they are on fire. It is becoming less and less bearable even with all of the morphine medication.

"It could be hemorrhoids." He says with a very educated look.

"I don’t have hemorrhoids. I never have."

"Well you could have developed them. It’s important that I check."

"I am telling you right now, I do not have hemorrhoids ."

"It’s better for us to make sure."

I’m in a tremendous amount of pain, so I feel relatively desperate. I tell him to just do whatever he thinks will help. He tells me to roll over on my side and puts gloves on. He examines.

"You don’t have any hemorrhoids there."

"I know... I told you that" Imbecile.

"Okay. I’m going to have to check inside now. I’m going to insert my fingers into you."

"What! What are you going to do that for?!"

"You can very well have hemorrhoids inside of your body. So I will insert my fingers and check."

"I have pain right behind my tail bone. Your fingers are physically not long enough to reach that far."

"I will still have a good idea of what is going on if you let me check. Will you?"

"Do you actually need my permission? Because I have a feeling you’re very intent on doing this no matter what I want."

"Well yes. I will do it anyways because it is for your own good. It is for your benefit."

I feel very uncomfortable. He then proceeds to ask me to bend my knees. I can bend my left leg only considering the other is kept straight with a bunch of metal screws and rods. Dr. Hasten asks me again to bend both legs. I am sure he is joking. He seems to have a dark, slightly sick sense of humor. I don’t move my right leg because it is very obvious that I can’t. I’m sure he knows this by now, considering he has seen the condition my right leg is in, on more than one occasion. Being the good sport that he is he repeats,

"Can you please bend the right leg now?"

"Do you not realize metal is attached to that leg to keep it straight? I physically cannot do this."

"Oh I’m sorry."

Now I’m in pain, and I’m annoyed, and I get Doctor fingers up my butt. I am not in a good mood.

He finishes poking around and says,

"You don’t have hemorrhoids. We’ll send you to have an MRI as soon as we can to see what’s going on."

I want to spit in his face. I told him I didn’t have them, does he now not understand English? He leaves. I’m in a lot of pain and I feel a little sodomized. I can’t believe I survived at 7 story fall for this. God must really not like me.

A couple of nurses come in to take me to the MRI, to scan my insides and see what’s the matter with me now. They both transport me on to a mobile bed with some difficulty, but we get there, and I am rolled down the hallway. I have to wait to use the machine, but in the meantime I am given a questionnaire to fill out. It asks me if I am pregnant. This is not the first time I have dealt with one of these. I circle a bunch of ‘yes’s and ‘no’s. I am finally rolled into the MRI room. There is a young woman and aman who work there. They both transport me onto the MRI machine. I lie there and the woman quickly notices the large metal device on my right leg.

"You have metal on your leg."


"You didn’t mention this in the questionnaire."

"I guess I didn’t know I was supposed to. The Doctor who is assigned to me, Dr. Hasten, was the one who sent me here. He knows I have metal inserted into my leg."

"I don’t know why he would send you to get an MRI if he knows you have metal. We cannot perform an MRI on you."

I cannot believe I was dragged out of bed for this. The pain is horrible and I cringe from it every 30 seconds. I’ve been timing. I guess Dr. Pretty-boy spent all of his thinking skills fixing his hair, to have any left over to make a logical decision not to send me to the MRI, considering I would not be able to use it. I’m incredibly angry and in pain.

Now I am rolled right back to my room. I’m placed in bed. Shortly after 2 other nurses come by and transport me onto another mobile bed, and roll me to a room to have a regular scan done. A scan that will not be compromised by all of the metal in my body.

Since my stay in Green Meadows, this will be the third time I am scanned by this machine. There are a few people who operate it. There is always the same young man who asks me questions first. He always asks me if I have a boyfriend. By the third time I’m a little annoyed,

"No I still haven’t managed to start dating. Why are you asking me? Are you interested or something?"

He begins to quietly laugh. He understood my joke.

"Oh... no no, just wondering if you’re pregnant. We can’t let you use the machine if you’re pregnant."

I realize he was trying to be polite about the situation, but he has to know that a boyfriend and pregnancy do not have to be connected. Sometimes one has nothing to do with the other. I don’t get annoyed at him though, because he actually understood my sense of humor and is smiling. He’s still smiling as he walks out the door.

I’m then put through the scanner. Then finally removed, and put back into my bed. The pain has in no way subsided. I ask for my dose of morphine considering 4 hours have passed since my last one. I take it and I wait and I watch TV.

Dr. Hasten comes in with what looks to be my test results. He makes himself comfortable in a chair beside my bed, and I ask him to tell me what’s wrong.

"Well we’ve found that some parts of your lower intestine are very swollen. It looks like you may be constipated."

He looks at me and nods.

"I really don’t think I’m constipated. What could my intestine be swollen from?"

"Well, your diet."

"What else? I just eat what the hospital brings me to eat. Nothing else."

"Well it was most likely the morphine you were given for pain. It is a strong narcotic and narcotics can cause this sometimes."

"I see... so you were giving me morphine to help me with pain. Pain that was caused by the morphine?"

I absolutely fail to see the logic behind his thinking.

"Well, yes. We had to be on the safe side."

What the fuck does that even mean? Go put on some lipstick and leave me the fuck alone.

I hate his face. I start to hate everything about him. He now tells me that they will have to clean my system out by giving me a laxative. See if that helps.

"Are you planning to shove that pill up my butt?"

"Well yes, that is the standard procedure."

"No. Figure something else out."

I tell him that I would much rather die then go through that kind of pain again. He nods and tells me he will try to find another way, followed by him getting up and leaving the room.





My new roommate doesn’t speak to me. I miss Sheena. I am in pain and I watch TV. The nurse assigned to me that day brings me a large see through bottle of a clear liquid. She tells me that it is a laxative, and that I have 24 hours to finish the whole bottle. I do not know how much liquid is in it but if I was to venture a guess, I’d say 6-8 liters. And I have a whole day to finish it. It seems daunting, but I’ll take it over having a pill jammed up my butt any day. I begin to drink, and am grateful that I no longer have the ability to taste much, like I used to.

My parents come by to visit me. I explain to them that my system needs to be ‘cleaned out’ because I am in pain from a narcotic that was given to me to help treat the pain.

My father is disappointed. Naturally.

"Are there so few Doctors in the world that a mentally impaired individual had to be hired? He looks like he spends all of his time looking into a mirror over doing anything that could actually be productive and beneficial for his patients." I agree.

My mother says,

"Yes, a nurse mentioned to me that I should have a talk with you, because for a few days now you haven’t been eating your vegetables, and she feels that this may have caused your stomach problems."

"You have to be kidding. I couldn’t eat anything because I was in so much pain. So my intestine swelling up was caused by me refusing to eat their vegetables? It had absolutely nothing to do with all of those narcotic pills I was prescribed?"


My parents go home, and I force myself to drink the several liters of laxative. I cannot believe that in this day and age, this is the best thing they have to clean out my system. This or having a pill shoved up my ass. I polish off about two liters of the laxative, but there seems to be no room for more. I continue to drink, and this is quickly followed by me puking it up. I didn’t eat anything that day because all of the pain killed my appetite, so at least there are no food chunks in my vomit, on my bed.

I ask the nurse to please change my sheets when she comes in. She tells me she is busy and puts a towel over the vomit. Out of sight... I cannot physically drink anymore. But I think the laxative is beginning to work.

As only my luck would have it, a representative from one of the Rehabilitation facilities comes into my room to speak to me. Apparently I now have to have a background check done before I can even begin physical rehabilitation to get back to the way I was. She makes herself comfortable and begins the questions.

"Are you suffering from depression?"

"Well I’m not exactly giddy with happiness after everything that has happened to me, but I wouldn’t say I’m depressed."

"Do you find you have a drinking problem?"

"I drink sometimes. It is in no way a problem."

It feels like my insides are shifting. Something is happening and I do not want an audience from this woman.


Later my father tells me that when I was in a coma, some medical professional told him that I had a high level of alcohol in my system. My father tells me about the woman who spoke to him concerning this,

"She just looked so content, like she had just solved a great mystery. So I asked her what that meant exactly. Did the high level of blood alcohol mean you drank a bottle of beer, two bottles of beer, a bottle of vodka?. She said she didn’t know. I would have to speak to a professional. I asked her why she felt this was so important. She said that this probably played a roll in your fall. So I said; ‘so what you are saying basically, is if a very drunk pedestrian was crossing the street, and a very sober driver ran a red light and hit the pedestrian and killed him, you would blame what happened on the pedestrian because he was drunk?’ She told me she hadn’t thought of it that way."

I’m guessing the woman thought my parents would respond with, "Oh well... that explains everything! All of the alcohol must have made her acrobatically gifted, allowing her to climb over the shoulder length railing, then position herself to face the apartment, then propel herself to fall almost 10 feet away from the apartment, still facing the apartment. Yes... it must have been the alcohol." She told my father then that an expert would speak to him about the alcohol intake. To this day this ‘alcohol expert’ hasn’t managed to materialize.


The rehabilitation representative who is now in my room asks me how much I drank the night this happened. I tell her I think it was about 2 glasses of wine in the afternoon, and maybe two bottles of beer in the evening.

Her response, "Ah... so you were binge drinking." In all honesty I had no idea that 2 glasses of wine, and 2, maybe 3 beers in a course of a day was considered ‘binge drinking,’ but it has been made clear to me that if I’m drinking and it results in me being tipsy, this is considered binge drinking. Now I know. In that case about 90% of the people I have become friends with, especially in university are binge drinkers. I don’t think they know this though.

The representative continues to take notes and then asks,

"Was this your first suicide attempt?"

Are we really doing this after they make me consume laxatives? When I’m in pain and I really need to use the washroom?

"It was not a suicide attempt. A man tried to murder me."

She looks very surprised. She looks at me as if I’m mentally unstable.

"Do you see this man anymore? Does he come by?"

"No! What would he come by for?"

"Have you had other suicide attempts?"

She is still implying that this was a suicide attempt.

"I didn’t really try to commit suicide before. I had overdosed, and that was seen as a suicide attempt."

"Ah. Ah huh," she responds and continues to take notes.

I now start to feel incredibly annoyed. I feel uncomfortable both emotionally and physically. I watch her make notes. It is very obvious that she does not believe me. The cop has won this one. I’ve been labeled a suicide attempt. She quickly wraps up our interview and leaves.

The evening progresses, and the pain begins to finally subside. I just take over-the-counter pain medication. The other was doing nothing good for me apparently. I go through the usual routine of taking my sleeping pills and doze off, avoiding plunking my face into my vomit.




Morning rolls around and Billy comes to see me. She tells me that it looks like I would have to wait several months to get into a rehab. I have been on a waiting list for three, but one rehab has now denied me. I’m guessing it is the one that sent that lady to me yesterday. Billy tells me that I’m lucky I got injured in the summer, because so many people get injured in the winter and the waiting list would have been a lot longer.

My life is still on hold. I am now moved to a different room. I am rolled past my neighbor. She looks to be about 90. She looks up at the ceiling as if there is not much thought going through her head.

I am rolled across the hall. I am placed into a private room. My bed is now the only bed in the room. I have no neighbors. I find out later that the private room costs just under $400 a day. OHIP does not cover this luxury. I however will not have to pay anything because I did not request this. Later Billy will tell me she had to pull some strings to get me a private room. I am very grateful to her.

I make myself as comfortable as I can in my own room, considering I may be here for a long time until I finally get into rehab. Until then, all I can do is watch TV. I try to read, but have a very hard time getting through even one page. Must be the severe brain damage. The words in the book start spinning. I put it down and watch TV.


Today a former co-worker of mine, Bella,decides to drop by. She has found out what happened to me through some of my friends. When I tell her that a police officer was responsible, she does not hesitate to believe me.

"In my experience, I would say about 2 out of 10 cops are actually good people. The rest of them abuse their power. It’s incredibly shitty that it went this far with you. How are you feeling otherwise?"

"Just a lot of pain, always. They keep scanning me trying to see what’s wrong. I’ve been asked several times if I’m pregnant. I’m really in no position to be fucking around in this hospital bed."

"Well... it could be immaculate conception."

I look at Bella for an explanation. She looks serious as she nods her head, then continues,

"It has happened before."

I burst out laughing, and she smiles at me.


Later on Loupe stops by with her son. She picks me up and places me in the wheelchair and lets her son push, as she occupies herself texting someone on her cell phone. She tells me she’s met a boy, and things between them are taking off. It’s getting chilly outside so Loupe grabs two blankets and wraps them around me. Her son wheels me outside and for a while Loupe holds me in her arms, as if she is trying to make sure I’m still real. I still exist. I become a bit more animated when my friends come by. I like being outside, but it is cold, and I do not stay long. Loupe takes me back to my room. The rest of the evening goes by and nothing interesting happens that is worth mentioning.






It is the next day, and I have been scheduled for an appointment with an optometrist. It is scheduled in Toronto for reasons I do not understand. Unfortunately no optometrists could be found in the city I am located in. My father is still unable to face work. My parents come with me as I am loaded into an ambulance to take me to Toronto. As we travel I fight the urge to vomit. But we make it there without incident. We arrive and there is a half an hour wait. After some waiting an optometrist’s assistant is ready to see me. He gives me some eye drops to dilate something for some reason. I am then rolled into another room and we wait.

The optometrist finally comes in. I can tell right away the man is slightly agitated. He goes to one side of the room and looks through papers on his desk, and straightens them out. He then walks to the other side of the room and grabs what appears to be a piece of equipment. My eyes follow him and he quickly notices this. He turns and looks at me then asks,

"Can you... see me?" I try hard not to roll my eyes at him considering he’s looking right at them. I find his question incredibly stupid.

"Yes I can see you." I nod at him and he looks at my parents. They both give him a look suggesting he should continue. He quickly grabs my file and begins flipping through the pages. He looks back at my face,

"Really? You can actually see me?"

"Yes I can actually see you," I cannot believe I was dragged all the way to Toronto for this.

"But you should be completely blind!" he looks from my file back at me. This is all news to me, and I shrug. I’m annoyed I was dragged to another city for this and now I will have to attempt to not throw up on the way back. He seems to have become speechless. He begins to do some basic eye tests, all the while he keeps mumbling that he cannot believe I am not blind. It’s a miracle. I don’t think much of it, my main concern is my trip back to the hospital I live in. The Doctor tells me he has some students in today. He asks if it is okay with me if they come by to see me. I tell him that’s fine. I really don’t care.


I do not think much of this moment until months later when Gwen explains to me why I was expected to be blind;

"Both of your eyes were so badly damaged, thatthey began to hemorrhage blood. A lot of blood. Because of this you had a 100% chance of becoming blind. But that is not all... you see, the part of your brain that sends signals to your eyes to convert light into images was severally damaged. So much so that you had a 100% chance of being blind from that. So basically if just one of those things happened to you, you would have an 100% chance of being blind... but you had both things happen simultaneously. And you can still see. I cannot find any medical explanation that could explain this. Do you notice a change in your eyesight?"

"If anything I notice that I wear my glasses a lot less. Its definitely not worse."

Gwen would sit back and shake her head.

"There is just no medical explanation for this. You were supposed to be blind. At one point they had some trouble with your left eye, because your left cheekbone broke in such a way that it began to impale your eye. There was danger of you losing it. Of course it was expected to be blind anyway, but they tried to save it so you wouldn’t worry about drawing attention to yourself."

This would probably be the most shocking news I would receive about my injuries. Now that it would actually be explained to me. It’s a miracle that I am not blind? Now... THAT was supposed to happen?

But I do not know any of this as the optometrist in Toronto looks at me with wonder. I just want to be returned to my room in the hospital. Technically I’m not benefitting from this visit. I cannot imagine what life would be like if I was blind. My imagination cannot stretch itself that far. The thought of it is beyond terrifying. I know there are blind people who live happy normal lives. I could never be one of them. The worst thing I can imagine is waking up with no arms and legs. That would be the worst thing I can imagine happening to me. Now losing my eyesight would be worse than that, to a point where I cannot even imagine it, since I am so dependant on it. God must have been in a good mood that day to sympathize and cut me a break.


My parents find a lawyer for me to speak to. He lives in the ‘Russian speaking community’ in Toronto so my parents have no trouble communicating with him. He comes to see me right after I am returned from the optometrist. We meet in my hospital room.

He is a young man. He begins by questioning me about that night. My parents tell him how the young police officer told everyone that this was a suicide attempt. The lawyer asks me if I have a history of suicide attempts. I tell him that I had overdosed before. I was on the phone with my friend and told her I wasn’t feeling well and she called for help. But the hospital simply labeled it a suicide attempt. The lawyer looks at me and says,

"Basically you don’t have a case. Since this was labeled as a ‘suicide attempt’ back then, they will say that you were attempting suicide now. That history is repeating itself. There is also the fact that the person you are going against is a police officer. What I have seen from experience, is that these people are above the law. Society’s rules rarely apply to them. If at all. I’m telling you right now, you don’t have much of a chance at all. If you want me to, I will take on your case. I do charge, but we can discuss this later. But I’m telling you now, the likelihood of winning this case, even with the best lawyers out there, is extremely slim. You would have a better chance of winning the case if a police officer was accusing you of something. In this case you are accusing him, and this is a huge accusation. There were no eye witnesses, so it is your word against his. I know from experience, that your word against a police officers will mean very little in court."

I decide it wasn’t meant to be. That maybe a different lawyer will go to court with me. One that does not charge as much as this one, and one who will win my case. You see... I still have hope. Plus the investigators are working on my case. Hopefully they take into consideration what Loupe has said. Hope is all I have left, and I still have it.


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