Concussion

What you feel when coming back from being knocked out is hard to describe. Having played amateur club rugby almost my entire life, I’m not particularly proud to say I have some experience. First of all, there are several degrees to getting knocked in the head. In a good old head-on collision, you hear the loud “BANG” inside your skull accompanied by the slightest taste of blood on the back of your mouth. An accidental knee to the head while going for a tackle might net you some ringing in your years and a few seconds' worth of dizziness. But getting truly, black-out knocked is quite different. Nobody can really describe the moment when it happens because no one who experiences it really remembers. It’s as if those two seconds got clipped out of your brain, then packaged and shipped off to another dimension. A nether realm where they screen endless feeds of people losing consciousness. What’s funny is that it usually happens in the most awkward situations, when you least expect it. The “REC” button inside your brain gets accidentally pushed and it is lights out. What you do remember is how you feel when you come to, and man is that a trip.

On this particular occasion, I happened to go through this last kind. My team and I were playing away at some club in the middle of nowhere. I can’t really tell you how the game was going because the whole experience was erased from my hard drive. From what I’ve been told since, it was pretty shit. The point is sometime during the first half, one of my teammates and I went to tackle the same guy, coming at him from opposite sides unbeknownst to each other. We both hit him at the same time, and as we wrapped around him, our heads met and we both fell to the ground, our bodies limp.

My brain switched back on and I opened my eyes. I was on the ground face down. Another one of my teammates was crouching over my knocked buddy’s convulsing body screaming for a medic like a soldier on a battlefield. I got up and I felt it. A dreadful, sinking feeling of absolute confusion. Of being lost. I didn’t know where I was or what I was doing. I couldn’t even tell you what day it was even though it was obviously Saturday (game day). My mind couldn’t process anything. As if following some sort of rebooting protocol, I started going through the basics. My name, my date of birth, my mother’s name, my father’s, my brother’s, my sis… wait, did I have a sister? Doubt started to creep in and panic followed. A player from the other team approached me and asked if I was ok. All I could muster was “I can’t understand any of this”.

The next thing I knew, I was sitting by the side of the pitch with my revived teammate waiting for our ambulances. I can vaguely remember us talking non-stop, although it’s impossible to tell what about. It must have been the most hilarious amnesiac-riddled conversation. Just two concussed dudes repeating the same three questions to each other over and over.

By the time my ambulance arrived, the sinking feeling was gone and I was starting to feel like myself again. I climbed in and got strapped onto the stretcher. Knowing where I was and where I was going somehow lifted my spirits. I was taken to a nearby hospital to run some tests to rule out any danger related to brain damage. My father was already there when I arrived, and he waited for the results with me. I had been moved from the ambulance stretcher to a hospital bed, but since there were no available rooms we were forced to wait in one of the hallways. I was perfectly fine and ready to go home and take a shower and eat something, but the nurses insisted I wait on the bed while wearing a hospital gown. They hooked me up to a bag of fluids for my troubles. Before long, a doctor appeared saying I was perfectly fine, but that in cases of concussions that involved memory loss it was recommended I stay in hospital under medical supervision for at least 48 hours. I was to be moved into a room shortly. There goes the weekend, I thought.

An hour went by and I was still waiting in the corridor. Then two. A nurse came to change my empty bag of fluids. After three hours my father started making a scene. Despite being slightly embarrassed, I was starting to feel anxious about wanting to leave. I just wanted to be anywhere but there. Overhearing the discussion between my father and a hospital administrator, there were no available rooms left, and they were trying to locate one in a nearby hospital. Hour number four and another bag of fluids came and went. I was bored out of my mind. Smartphones still weren’t around at the time. All I could see was the long corridor before me, doctors, nurses and hospital staff, each in their color-coded uniforms walking up and down and into the adjacent rooms with varying degrees of alarm on their faces. There were no windows in sight, and the white neon tubes that flooded the hall with that distinctive artificial, aseptic white light made it hard to tell if it was day or night, let alone what time it was. My empty stomach was well aware of the passing of time, however. It groaned in protest, having had no nourishment since breakfast that morning. The three and a half bags of fluid that I had consumed intravenously had taken care of the thirst, but I desperately needed to eat something. To make matters worse, I had been wanting to pee since they switched out the first empty bag, and now my bladder was set to burst.

Fuck this. I got out of the bed, took the bag hanging from a metal hook attached to it, and started strolling around the hospital in search of a bathroom donning nothing but my rugby socks and the light green hospital gown. I had no idea where my clothes were. As I toured the labyrinth of corridors, patients and doctors alike looked at me from within rooms, probably wondering what the hell was I doing walking around with a fluid bag in my hand attached to a now blood-filled tube connected to my arm (I didn’t know it had to remain elevated), but they were all too busy to be bothered by it. Eventually, I found a small staff bathroom hidden behind a reception desk. I asked them politely if I could use it, knowing full well I was ready to pee on the floor if they refused. Luckily, they noticed my urgency and had mercy on me. I never peed so much in my life. Feeling my bladder finally relaxing was uplifting, almost enough to brighten my sour and anxious mood.

After being lost for a few minutes, I eventually found my way back to the bed in the corridor. My father was already waiting for me there, with the hospital administrator by his side, a short woman in a neat gray suit that contrasted with her frayed and unkempt hair and exhausted demeanor. She looked like she had been working for days.

“The lady here tells me the only available room right now is at St. James’ Hospital. It’s about 15 minutes away. It’s either that, or you’ll have to spend the night here in the corridor. They’ll bring you some food from the cafeteria.” My father announced as I approached, a slight sense of frustration in his tone. The administrator looked at me as if asking for leniency.

“That’s great!. What’s there to discuss? Let’s get out of here, please!”.

My father, in all his wisdom, had ridden his bike to the hospital, so I had to get back on the bed and into another ambulance to be transferred to St. James’. On the way there, I chatted with the EMT riding in the ambulance with me. He asked why was I being transferred and I explained the whole situation, although the tone with which he inquired almost threw me off. It was overly compassionate, almost consoling.

St. James’ Hospital was a huge old English Jacobean-style building surrounded by expansive gardens enclosed within dark iron gates. Its ominous dark grey stone face was far from welcoming as they wheeled me out of the ambulance, but I found it strangely alluring. What was this place? The hospital within was unsurprisingly well lit and modern, in stark contrast with the ancient baroque exterior. My father, who was riding behind the ambulance, was checking me in at the front desk as I was pushed into the reception area.

“-we’ll put you in room 213,” I overheard the nurse at the reception say. “We’ll send some food up for both of you shortly”. Satisfied, my father thanked her and joined me and the EMT as he carted me towards one of the elevators. Right before going in, I caught a glance at a sign with the floor distribution. Upon reading “2nd Floor: Terminal Ward”, I immediately understood the EMT’s tone, and suddenly wanted to be back in the corridor at the first hospital. But it was too late to go back now. After all, how bad could it be?

Turns out pretty bad. The room itself was ok. Hospital beds are usually quite comfortable, and they had set up a bed for my father to stay overnight on a large couch. Within 20 minutes, a nurse appeared with two large trays carrying vegetable soup, chicken with squash, two loaves of bread and a bowl of jello. We devoured everything in seconds. Satisfied and realizing how tired we both were, we set the trays on a small table by the door and went to bed. That’s when I heard them. It started with a faint groan coming from the wall behind the bed. Then an ascending wail from further down the corridor. Within minutes, a choir of the suffering cries of the dying had filled the dead-silent air. My father’s snores added to the cacophony, and the echoing steps of someone walking slowly up and down the corridor at irregular intervals kept throwing me off as I tried to focus on sleeping. My dreams that night were invaded with harrowing images of terminal patients agonizing in their beds. I wasn’t going to grow fond of this place any time soon.

My mother visited the following day after my father left for work. She brought with her a bag stuffed with my clothes, toiletries, and books from school. Finals started that week and I was behind on my studies. I had truly chosen the worst weekend to have a concussion.

I was quite dismayed when I realized the moans from the other patients occupying the second floor did not abate during the daytime. They were only slightly drowned out by the sound of the hospital’s regular activity. I turned on the TV at a high volume and tried to focus on studying, but it was futile. It was as if the cries vibrated in a different frequency. I could hear them regardless of any attempt to block them. Frustration and panic didn’t take long to start creeping in. I paced frantically around my room. The enclosed space made me feel more and more claustrophobic, so I eventually exited into the corridor outside and walked to the end. Two chairs and a small coffee table with depressing brochures for the terminally ill sat by a window overlooking the grounds surrounding the hospital. Lush and carefully landscaped vegetation encircled a massive evergreen tree with spreading buttresses towering over a small pond. It was an Elysian scene, peaceful and beautiful. A final respite for the agony endured by the inhabitants of St. James’ second floor. I sat there for the remainder of the day, only going back to my room to eat or to see the doctors and nurses that came by for routine check-ups.

Night eventually came and with it the torture of trying to sleep surrounded by dying patients. My father wasn’t there to make things harder with his snoring this time. But the echo of the slow, steady steps pacing up and down the hall still dotted the misery-filled melody of the patients. After a few failed attempts, I gave up on sleeping and decided to venture out into the hallway. Aiming to satisfy my curiosity, I waited until de steps approached my door before opening it and peering outside. Nothing but a dark, empty corridor. The pale light of the moon shone through the window at the end of the hall. The source of the steps was nowhere to be seen. Unfazed, I stepped out of my room, strolled down to the small sitting area overlooking the garden, and sat down at one of the chairs. The view at night was just as beautiful as during the day.

I didn’t notice the man until he was already sitting in the chair beside me. I found it odd that I wasn’t startled by the surprise of his presence. On the contrary, I welcomed his company. He was tall and almost unnaturally thin. The cold light of the moon highlighted the edges of his pale, bony complexion to the point his skin seemed all but translucent. His jet black hair was neatly combed back, and he wore a cheap black suit and tie which hung loosely on his wiry frame. His expression was serious, but not grave. His deep-set eyes looked beyond tired as he admired the view.

I’m not the type of person that engages in spontaneous conversation with strangers. It’s not because I’m scared or shy. I’m simply not interested in socializing that much. However, there was an air of openness to this spectral-like man that piqued my curiosity, and I had no intention of returning to my room to try and fall asleep. So I decided to spark up a conversation.

“Can’t sleep?” was all I could come up with. Why would he be sleeping if he’s wearing a suit? Stupid.

“Can’t, I’m on the clock,” his voice was cold but at the same time comforting. Silent, yet perfectly audible, like a loud whisper.

“What do you do?”

“I’m in Human Resources,” the man replied. “Collections,” he added after a brief pause.

I had no idea what that meant or why it would require him to be in the Terminal Ward of a hospital at this time of night. But I played along.

“Are the hours long?”

“Clock never stops,” the man sighed, managing to look even more tired as he said it.

“What’s it like working in a place like this? It gives me the creeps.” I nodded back at the corridor.

“It’s not bad at all, actually. People don’t complain as much or give me any grief. Some are even happy to see me and enjoy my company, as brief as it may be,” the tall man reflected as he stared emptily at the evergreen. Still confused about what the man did, I could not help but ask:

“What exactly do you collect?”

“Memories, feelings, thoughts. Souls, if that’s your inclination.”

My initial reaction was more of confusion than fear. Why was this alleged Grim Reaper sitting down talking to me? Surely he wasn’t there for me. I knew I was ok. Doctors and nurses had come to check up on me several times that day and everything was fine. We were in a terminal ward after all. It must be a pretty busy place of business for him. Playing along, I continued:

“Where do you take them?”

“Never knew, never will. I just collect,” the man stated. Sensing he was not eager to elaborate on the subject, I didn’t inquire any further. We sat silently admiring the evergreen.

“I think I’m going back to bed,” I said after a few minutes. Sleep was finally winning me over.

“Yeah, I should get back to work,” the man stood from his chair and I was taken aback by his height. He towered at almost seven feet tall, the top of his head almost coming in contact with the ceiling. I stood as well and we both started down the hall, the familiar rhythmic echo of his shoes bouncing off the walls. It took me a few steps to realize the light from the moon shining on our backs cast no shadow in front of him. We walked side by side to the door of my room.

“It was nice meeting you…uh,” I wasn’t sure what to call him.

“Reaper. But you can call me Jerry,” he added in what would be the friendly version of his cold whisper of a tone.

“Jerry? Jerry the Reaper? Really’?” I chuckled in disbelief.

“What’s wrong with Jerry?” the man protested.

“Nothing, I guess. I just find it unexpected.” I shrugged.

“It was nice meeting you too, Phil.” I hadn’t mentioned my name, but it didn’t surprise me that he already knew it. He extended his bony hand towards me, and I instinctively reached for it to greet him. Realizing what I was doing, I stopped halfway and pulled my hand back, laughing nervously.

“Oldest joke in the book,” the Reaper smiled. “See you around,” he added, somewhat ominously. He walked a few doors down and entered a room. As I entered my own, I saw Jerry walking out holding a frail old lady by the hand. She looked beyond peaceful. They walked down the hall to where the light of the moon ended and vanished into the night.

What did you think of the story? Do you have any stories about getting knocked in the head? How about scary hospital stories? Let me know about it in the comments. If you would like to receive weekly stories like this, please consider a subscription. As always, thanks for reading!!