My ICU Experience Chapter 6:

The Chapters form is back, well at least for now. I’ve been stuck on it for so long. Hopefully you’ll see chapter 7 next week.

Of course, there is one thing I learned during this very chaotic time in my life: never make plans. If I make plans something will inevitably make this plans impossible to actualize. If I don’t make plans, I’ll have a good day in which I could do something.

At least that’s the way it seems to be going lately.


If don’t know about my Chapters, I am writing my ICU experience in chapters, like a novel, because I have novel writing exprience. You can read chapters 1 to 5 by going to the heading “my experience in chapters at the top of this blog, and I encourage you to do so.

Everything that happens in the chapters, happened to me while I was in the ICU. Some of it was because of sedation, didn’t actually happen, but it happened to me, as real as anything else happened to me.


My Experience in Chapters – Chapter 6:

I turned from the nurses, who were talking about urine feeds, and followed a empty hospital hallway. As I walked the hallway turned to sand, and the sand turned to desert.

A crowd of people, wandered through and sat at tables in the sand, at outdoor restaurant, entirely made of sand.

A little girl came up to me took my hand and said “Come with me”.

She lead me through buildings and a street made entirely of sand, until I came across my cousin, who greeted me and introduced me to his husband Avers, and his children: a three year old and a baby.

My cousin lead me through the sand, to a mansion made entirely of sand.

“Sand?” I said “You made a real sand castle?”

“Ya isn’t it great? When we get tired of part of it, all we do is tear it down, and build a new part of it. The sand is free. We can add as many additions on to it as we want. Come in.” He lead me to the door, but the idea of being in a sand castle, unnerved me a bit.

I stopped at the door, and asked “Won’t the sand collapse in on us?” I asked.

“No, no, this is a new way of building with sand. It won’t fall until we want it to.”

Still skeptical I followed him in. It was gorgeous. The kitchen, with sand counters, a sand table, sand chairs and sand appliances, lead into a patio that overlooked the beach. As I sat and visited, I watched the water lap into the shore.

“It’s nice for swimming.” I commented.

“Oh ya, the children love to take swimming lessons.”

“I can imagine” I said, as I recounted my own experiences with swimming lessons.

My cousin, and his husband told me about their children and their lives living in this land where everything was made of sand. I started becoming less and less involved, and more and more like I was watching it on a TV, but not apart of it.

I watched cousin take his 3 year old daughter, to a fashion company to design a new nail polish, that marbled as it went on the nails.

She enthusiastically designed the entire nail polish from the colours, how it would marble, and what the end product would be like. Although she was only 3 years old, she acted like a miniature CEO, making all the decisions with the aid of woman who worked for the fashion company.

Her face was put on all the ads and she was made the new “it” girl. This was famous three year old, who everybody wanted their child to be like, lead the fashion industry, and made all the money for the family.

As my cousin was pouring all his attention into his 3 year old, this nail polish (that the fashion company was backing), a famous billionaire (who I won’t name because he really exists), stole the land my cousin and Avers bought, as well as the sand castle on it, and the baby in it.

My cousin took his 3 year old, left the fashion house, and tried to get his baby back. The famous billionaire refused to give the baby back, or to let anybody go and get him.

Just as my cousin’s baby was crawling through sand, perliously close to the ocean with the tide coming it, I was screaming “he’s going to die”, as my cousin hired a helicopter, parachuted on to the beach, grabbed the baby, and ran away.

When my cousin and his daughter returned to the fashion company, they had already moved on to the new “it” child who was even younger and cuter.

Having spent all of their money, my cousin and his husband, tried to make their baby the new “it” child, but were told there the baby was too old and there was a 10 year waiting list for “it” children. They would have to audition a baby that wasn’t born yet, time the babies birth for just the right time, and then go through the process again, if they wanted another “it” child.

Deciding they couldn’t wait 10 years they, found another way to make money and rebuild their lives.


Note: Although this particular cousin doesn’t have a husband or children, it didn’t register as odd that he did at the time.

Note #2: I shortened this storey. As you can see it’s not in novel form. I stuck trying to decided if should even include this storey, because it is so odd and unlike the rest of my ICU experience. I wonder if it was a dream. Why did I fade from my own storey, and become like I was watching it on a tv? Why did it include people who didn’t exist? Why was it so detailed? If I’d written it with dialog it could have become fantasy novella.

In the end, I need to unstuck myself and because it happened in my sedation and is apart of my ICU experience I will include it, even though it is very weird.

Note#3: As always please share this blog post with others.

Thank you for reading and thank you in advance for sharing it.

My ICU Experience in Chapters: Chapter 5

My grandparents walked by, but when I tried to follow them my Grampa turned around and said “where we are going, you can’t follow”, and left.

As I watched them walk away, I so wanted to follow. I hadn’t seen him since he died when I was a child and I hadn’t seen my grandmother in the few years since she died. She didn’t even turn around. All I saw was her distinctive red curly hair, as she walked beside Grampa.

Why couldn’t I go? Why couldn’t I follow?

I looked up and saw a nurse empty my bladder bag into a styrofoam cup and poor it into my feeding tube bag. She looked me in the eye, and continued.

I floated up into the next level and looked down on myself and the nurse. Two nurses who couldn’t see or hear me stood beside me. One said to the other “Welcome to the ICU. We allow urine feeds here. It’s a good way to slowly kill the patient without being caught. Just don’t do it when you think you’re watched by someone who won’t understand.”

I wondered down an empty hall. Where was I? Was I dead? Why couldn’t I go with my grandparents? Why did I have to stay here, were time didn’t exist, and hope died? I prayed but God didn’t answer. For the first time in my life, God wasn’t there, when I reached out to him. I looked for him, but I couldn’t find him, I couldn’t hear him, and couldn’t sense him beside me.

And it hurt. A lot. Alone and hurt, I couldn’t decide if I was in heaven, hell, or purgatory? Was there even a purgatory? I didn’t think so, but maybe this was it? Was I dead? Was I alive? I didn’t know.


Note #1: This still hurts. I believe I did die for a short time or came very close to it. My doctor said I got as close to death as one could go without dying, and my parents said I crashed on Christmas Day.

I think this is when I crashed. I still feel the pain of not being able to follow my grandparents, and I believe it was really them.

Since that time, I have mourned my grandparents again. I have cried over their deaths more than once, and felt their deaths as if they were fresh. I know they both love me, and I have been forgiven for all the little things I felt guilty about after they died.


Note #2: Where was God?

It’s a question I can’t answer. Why wasn’t he there? Why was he so silent? I don’t know. And that still hurts too. It hurts very very much.

It hasn’t weekend my faith. I don’t want this to become a religious discussion of doctrine or hatred, but I also don’t want it to become an example people point to, to say “there is no God”, or to say that God is a figment of imagination and once imagination was gone, so was God.

I mention it because it is part of the story. I want you to know the entire story. But I don’t want my story to ever be used against God.

I want you to know that sedation temporarily removed my sense of self. I didn’t know if I was male or female, I existed in a place without time or hope, I couldn’t find the God I knew from childhood, and all of a sudden, everything I believed about the equality of humans, went away, and I believed I was racist. Everything familiar, that I knew about myself was gone. And it seemed like it was gone forever. I lost the very essence of me.

And it still haunts me, and leaves me with questions I can not answer.


Note #3: To balance the discussion of God, I’ll tell you one of my experiences of God, that I can point to in my life and say “yes God is real”. I don’t want people to think I’m putting God down, and I don’t want my ICU experience to be used against God.

The following has nothing to do with my ICU experience. It happened when I was 7 years old. You can read it if you want to.

I stood in the dark, beside the train station with my mother and brother. The parking lot was empty, and my mother was trying to get into our locked car because my father left on the train, with the keys in his pocket. There were spare keys in her purse, but that was in the car.

Two men stopped to help us, and they and my mother tried everything they could to get the doors open. After one of them said they did everything they could, and were out of ideas, my 7 year old self said “let’s pray”. One of the men scoffed. I was determined that it would work. After more insistence from me, my mother said “ok let’s pray”. She took my brother and I aside, and held our hands, and I asked God to unlock the car doors.

While we were all watching, the car door locks raised on their own, without any human intervention. We opened the car doors. One of the men said something about rethinking God.

Mom, my brother and I drove away.

And because I have seen things like that, I know God is real.

Chapter 4: A permanent Coma?

It wasn’t the next morning. It was this morning. The morning before Dr. B and his induced coma suggestion was made.

The black nurse was my nurse, but…

She also knew it was this morning. She knew we jumped back in time, and she was telling another nurse what was going to happen. “She’s going to send a racist email, that will say as a daughter of Cane, I am less than her, a daughter of Able, and then she will have diareah and we will change her, and she will ejaculate all over you, and then we will call…”

“How do you know all this?”, the other nurse interrupted.

“Because it all happened yesterday, no I mean today, but we all went back in time, because she prayed to do the day over again.”

“What are you talking about?” The other nurse asked.

“I’m telling you, we all stepped back in time. You don’t remember because yesterday, I mean today didn’t happen yet, but it will. You’ll see.” She replied.

Her friend shook her head and walked away.

I was gleeful. ‘See they don’t even believe you. They don’t know about Dr. B in a box, or his idea of an induced coma. They don’t know I’m a horrible person, or a man, or a racist.’ I was very gleeful and not feeling very kind about it either.

I couldn’t say it out loud because I had multiple tubes in my mouth and nose, but I could gloat inside, and I did.


The time for the email came and went, but no email did.

The nurses stood around in a group teasing my nurse. “I told you, yesterday wasn’t today.” One said.

“How could we all go back in time?” Another asked.

“And if we did, why would you be the only one who knew about it.” Asked another.

My nurse looked dejected. Gone was the nurse who hoped for justice. She was replaced by a nurse who knew she wasn’t getting justice.

The time for the diareah came, but I didn’t have diareah. Nobody had to clean me up, and I didn’t ejaculate on anybody.

The time for Dr. B came, but Dr. B didn’t come, in his little box.

My nurse was surrounded. “Little doctors in boxes.” taunted one.

“None of it happened. We didn’t go back today.”, mocked another.

“Time travel isn’t real.” Teased a third.

And I began losing my gloat and started feeling compassion for her. Here was nurse who had been sent racist emails that didn’t exist anymore, but to her, they existed, and she still felt the pain.

She told everybody about the racist emails, the diareah, the ejaculation, and Dr. B, and she wasn’t believed, even worse she was taunted.

She still felt the pain of what I had done to her, but she didn’t have anybody to comfort her, commiserate with her, or even believe her. Instead she was the joke of the ICU, and it was all my fault.

Only she and I knew what happened, but I couldn’t talk because of all the tubes and wires in my nose and mouth.

She got a mop and yellow bucked and dejectedly washed the floor in silence. I felt so bad for her. She’d been hurt, but she didn’t get justice. She just got hurt more.

I considered doing something horrible to her, maybe just one song or email, but I didn’t want to be put into an indefinite medical coma. I didn’t want to stay here forever, at the mercy of Frank and the nurses. I wanted to get better and go home, but I couldn’t do that if I was in a coma. Could I?

How could I help this nurse, and not hurt myself?

When the nurse was finished mopping, she took my bed over to the cafeteria. All the nurses, sat around a table, but I lay beside my nurse. She explained I was too sick to be left alone, so she was taking me with her. The other nurses explained that their patients could be left alone for lunch time, and besides, they were just over there where they could see them anyway.

After lunch, she pushed my bed up against the counter that food could be ordered from. The kitchen was empty now, and all the dishes cleaned up. There was only a water station with styrofoam cups hanging beside it. The other nurses had all gone back to their patients, but my nurse, was alone at the water station.

She was treating me well, even though she wanted justice.

While my nurse was looking the other way, a man standing behind me, handed me a piece of paper, and told me to give it to the nurse. I neither saw the man nor read the paper. I just lifted my hand over my head, grabbed the paper from the counter and handed it to the nurse when she turned to look at me.

She looked at it, and got very very angry. “See a racist email.”, and then she took a styrofoam cup filled it with water, and dropped it into the garbage can below the watering station. It made a huge noice, and many people looked up. She took another cup, filled it with water, and dropped it into the garbage can. It too made a loud noise. I knew this was a signal that she was in trouble, and I dreaded her taking the third cup.

She took a third cup, filled it with water, and dropped it into the garbage can, making a third loud noise.

The room filled with people asking what was wrong, and she passed them the racist note. “See. See. She is racist. It’s starting all over again.” she turned to me and continued “I knew you couldn’t keep your racist ideas to yourself.”

Why? Why did I hand her that note? How could I tell her I just handed it to her. I didn’t even read it. I can’t control what that other guy is going to do? I don’t even know who handed me the note. Was it Frank? Did I have split personalities? Was it that other personality, the one who is racist? How could I change things?

Dr. B appeared before us and said “We have to put her in a medically induced coma, indefinitely”, a syringe appeared, and I was plunged into a nightmare.

I didn’t know if I was male or female, time didn’t exist, and there was noway out.


Chapter 3: Who am I?

Finally, a time to write.

I don’t often get these times to write, because as I said before my household is a very busy household with people coming and going.

But that’s not the only reason I haven’t written. This next part of the storey is hard for me to think about and even harder to write. It didn’t actually happen, but to me, it’s as real as the chair I am sitting on, the table my computer is on, and the post you are reading right now.

Because it wasn’t real to anybody else, I’ve been put in the situation, that something traumatic to me, didn’t happen, and therefore nobody else cares about.

If I had been admitted to the ICU after a traumatic incident that actually happened, and everybody acknowledged it did happen, I would have been provided somebody to talk to about it. Everybody would have been concerned about my emotional well being. Instead I was left to cry on my hospital bed by myself. When I asked to see someone I got a social worker. She tried to get me a physiatrist but the doctors on the ward told her I didn’t need one.

Please, if you prescribe sedation, also prescribe a way to deal with the emotional trauma that sedation causes? Even if it didn’t happen in your world, it still happened in your patients sedated world.

Note: In this post I will call the ICU ‘the ward’, because I didn’t know I was in the ICU. At times I didn’t even know I was in a hospital.


A man stood at the head of the bed, but just behind me. He sang racist songs, that I didn’t like. My nurse was very black, and I didn’t know why he was directing such hate towards people who looked like her. I wanted him to be quite, but I couldn’t make him. He just wouldn’t shut up.

With each statement, about the mark of Cane, and things I don’t want to repeat, I just wanted to fall inside myself, and disappear, but I couldn’t. I was tied to the bed. I couldn’t even move my head to look at him, because multiple tubes and wires kept me in place.

I saw how the nurse took each statement, how she wanted to ignore it, but couldn’t just quite remove the expression of anger and hurt from her face.

I wanted to tell her, I didn’t believe in all that stuff, it was just some guy, who I didn’t know who was singing. Why did the hospital even let people like that into the hospital? Why was the racist singer, and Frank allowed to wander around and bother people? Neither of them worked there, had people to visit or were a patient there? It didn’t make sense.


When I went for x-rays, the singing racist did not follow, but when I got back, and the nurse pushed my bed back into place, she said to another nurse “watch this”.

As soon as my bed was back in place the man began to sing again. The nurses smiled to each other. The first said “See I told you she would begin singing again. Her beds in that place and she sings.”

Huh? I didn’t understand. I wasn’t doing the sining. It was some man, I never saw, at the head of the bed that sang. Wasn’t it? How could I be singing? I didn’t have a man’s voice? I wasn’t racist? Was I?


I had diareah. The singing racist, who stood behind me, saw it all, and panicked. He stopped singing, and screamed “she has diareah”. My nurse called another nurse, and both them, rolled me over towards them, and away from the singing racist. He had a full view, and I wasn’t done.

“Let it all out.” The nurses said, and with each explosion that man groaned.

“That’s disgusting. She’s disgusting. I can’t stand this.”

“This is all for you”, my nurse told him “This is what she thinks of you. This is what we all think of you.”

When I was done, the singing racist left, and never physically came back, but he wasn’t content to let his message me silenced.


A woman walked into the ward, and handed the nurse a medium square envelope, and said “You got an email.”

My nurse opened it, and read out loud “You children of Cane, nurses, shouldn’t be allowed to work in the hospital on white patients”. He went on to explain that obscure bible verses proved his racist ideas.

The first woman asked “What are you going to do?” My nurse said “make a report”. She filled out some forms, gave it back to the first woman, and went back to work, as the first woman left the ward.

I knew the email was from the man who sang racist songs. He didn’t want to be in the room anymore, but he still wanted to direct his racism to my nurse. I wondered why the hospital would even deliver such racist emails.

The pattern continued. My nurse would be sitting quietly at the end of my bed, writing in a big blue binder, and looking up at me periodically. The same woman would deliver the emails, my nurse would read them out loud, fill out a form, give it back to the woman and go back to writing in the big blue binder.

I was extremely offended by the emails, and wished he wouldn’t send them. The racist things were horrible, and always read out loud. They were also biblically wrong. I’ve read the bible, and I know that the son’s and daughter’s of Cane are thought to be black by some people, and the son’s and daughter’s of Able are thought to be white, but the bible doesn’t actually say that. It’s just a racist interpretation of the bible. How then are all the other races explained? And why would a loving God punish somebody by creating racism? Ya people are different, but that’s just because God had fun creating people who are different.

But I couldn’t tell my nurse, the target of this racism that, because I couldn’t say anything with all the tubes in my mouth and nose.

But then again, if I couldn’t talk, how could I sing?


I had diareah again.

Two nurses were changing me and I sprayed one with something.

She jumped back and screamed “She ejaculated on me.”

The other one “Yes she did that on me too. She does it on purpose.”

The first one replied “We have to talk to somebody about this.”

When they were done the nurses went away, but I was left to wonder…

I’m not a man. Am I? I’m a woman. How could I ejaculate on anybody? I didn’t do it on purpose? Can ejaculation even be aimed at people? In any direction? I don’t know. I don’t have a penis. Do I?

I was so confused.

Am I intersex? Maybe when I was little and had all those surgeries, they did an intersex surgery and didn’t tell me? Maybe I am part man?

And then with horror, I realized the singing racist, who left only to continue sending racist emails was me. I was the racist. The nurse was right. I was the one who sang all those horrible things. I was the one who sent emails telling my nurse that she shouldn’t work on white people, that she was the daughter of Cane, and was lower than white people, who were the children of Able.

That was me.

But how did I send emails? I was tied, both arms, in two places to the hospital bed. I never left this spot, unless I was taken somewhere by a nurse, and even then it was in my bed.

How could I send racist emails? How could I leave my bedside? How could I stand behind myself?

I could if I had split personalities. One could stay in the bed and one could leave. One could be female and one could be male? One could write emails, and one could be disgusted by them? One could sing, and one could… listen? Can it really work that way?

It not only could but it did. I was was evil, and racist, and needed to be stopped. But how? How could I stop another personality? I didn’t control him? I wanted him to stop too? I didn’t even know he was me? I didn’t know I was evil.


A man came into the ward, caring a tiny wooden box. It looked kinda like a jewelry box, with carved designs and jewels set on the top.

The nurses and doctor’s gathered around a table with the man. He carefully set the box on the table and announced “I got your request. I woke Dr. B up and asked him about it. He said he’d like to come here and talk to you. This is a one time thing. Dr. B is very sick, and spends most of his time in suspended animation in this box. He doesn’t like to be disturbed, and works on only the most interesting cases.”

The man opened the box, reached in, and cradled a tiny little man in his hands. He set him down, before Dr. B quickly grew into regular size.

Dr. B, was thin, bent over, old and had a grey beard.

He spoke with both wisdom and oldness. He said “She has multiple personality disorder. One of these personalities is a racist man who ejaculates on woman whenever he can. He’s obvious come out because she is stressed. He’s the one singing racist songs, and sending racist emails. He can not be stopped without stopping her. She will have to be put into a medically induced coma, forever to protect the nurses.”

“We can’t do that?” Someone said.

“We have to.”, said Dr B. “We have to protect the nurses.”

“Well what about the patients? We can’t keep everybody we don’t like in medically induced comas, just to protect others?”

“It’s what they are thinking of doing in prisons, with the worst offenders. It’s safer. Rapists, and murderers can’t hurt anybody if they are in medically induced comas. And it’s cheeper. You don’t have to feed them, provide exercise rooms, or anything. You just give them a bed, and tube feeding. That’s all.”, replied Dr. B.


As the discussion went on, I was terrified. I’d be stuck with Frank tormenting me forever.

I’d be in the place where time didn’t exist, I couldn’t breath, and people could do whatever they wanted to me. I’d never see my family, my dog, or my home again. I’d be in prison, tied to this hospital bed, at the mercy of the doctor’s and nurses forever.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t just. How could it even be ethical?

But.. that other personality, was evil, and if I needed to be kept in a coma forever to protect everybody else, maybe I could do it? Maybe?

How would I survive?

Calm down. I told my self. Breath. I took a deep breath, counted to 10, and then released the breath.

I prayed, for God to reverse time. “Please make this earlier when they didn’t know I was this horrible person? I’ll be good. I won’t do anything racist. They won’t want to put me in a coma then.”


Dr. B, was a little man again and he was being put back into the box. The resident was taking him out the door, and then…

It was the next morning. Or was it? No. It was this morning.


Please note: Although I am a Christian, I do not believe the bible proves racism, and I do not agree with racism. I’ve just been exposed to those vile ideas, and for some reason they popped up in the sedated world, just like all sort of other bad things did. Please don’t think I believe any of that?

Thanks for reading. This will be continued later, in Chapter 4.

I’ve separated the chapters in a separate category in this blog called “my experience”, an I’ve renamed the previously posted posts with “Chapter ___: _______” in front of them.

You can go back and read those chapters if you want.

If you want to be notified about each new post, your can follow this blog by pushing the “follow” button to the right.

I don’t know exactly how it works, so if you don’t notified of new posts, please tell me so?

I can also mention you in the tweets that announce each post. Just let me know.

I’ve already started the draft of chapter 4, but I don’t know when it will be posted. I was waiting for my new iPad to come. It came last week, and now that my new blog is up and running, and all the posts from the old one are transferred I should be posting more posts soon. I’m sorry you had to wait so long. I have just a few more things to do, to get ready to work on new posts.

I am not going to try to prove I am not racist, you’ll just have to take my word for it.

Sedation is a world of it’s own, where gender, time, and age don’t exist. I’m trying to explain it as best I can, because I want you to know about it. I thought long and hard about including the racist parts, and even consulted someone. Even though it puts me in a very negative light, and makes me look like a horrible person, I wanted to share because I really want ICU staff to know what their patients are experiencing.

Note #2:

Ever since I’ve been in the ICU, my hands have been week, sore, numb and tingly. Today they are particularly bad, and I can’t feel how hard I am pushing on the keys or the mouse. I know at times I’m pushing too hard, because the computer is doing some funny things on the screen. If I have any spelling, grammatical, or other mistakes because of that, please just ignore them?

Thank you for reading. If you liked it please like, share, and retweet?

Chapter 2: Missing Marbles

This is the my second blog post that’s in novel style. I started this immediately after I finished the last one, but I didn’t get to finish it until today. Although I have written on most days of my life since I was 11 (almost 12), this is very emotional, and must be done when nobody else is home, which doesn’t happen often.

Our house is very busy, both with the people who live here, and family members who drop by unexpectedly almost daily. Although I love having family around so often, it’s hard to get alone time, to just think and write about emotional things. I will write it, because this is an important story to tell. I don’t think the people who prescribe sedation, know what sedation is like. Because I want them to know, I’m telling my story.

I will notify people through twitter when new blog posts are posted. If you want me to mention you in my twitter posts, announcing blog posts, please tell me in twitter? You can also follow me on this blog, by using the “follow” button to the right.

Thank you for reading, and as always, thank you so much for your support in tweets, retweets, likes and comments.


Chapter 2:

H left, and Frank stayed. He controlled my breathing, the medicine I had, and the nurse I once felt save with. With him, everything was wrong, because he wanted me to suffer. I had caused him to be fired, after he tried to kill me, and he wanted revenge. Each time he came near me I couldn’t breath, because of buttons he pushed on the machines around me.

The female head of the ICU, who was a pharmacist, confronted him and asked him why he was staying, and asked him to leave.

“I need to find my marbles. I need them for the pianos. They won’t work without them. But I lost them here.”, He replied.

“Find your marbles, and then leave”, she told him, before sternly walking away.

He spent days looking for his marbles. Every day, he stood at the garage door of the ICU, and played with two marbles in his hand, claiming he had to find the rest of them. Staff and visitors, just walked around him.

One day my brother, K, was rushed into the ICU with the same problems I had. I couldn’t talk to him, but we both knew some sign language from childhood, because there was a child in one of our schools that only spoke sign language, and all the students in the school took 15 minutes of sign language a day. Although my brother knew more sign language than me, I still knew how to finger spell.

I asked if I could be taken to K to talk to him. My nurse didn’t know, but she asked someone else. Several opinions were given, including Frank’s. Surprisingly he agreed, I should talk to K. My bed was rolled over to K’s. I signed “K, I’m so glad you’re alive. I thought you were dead”.

K replied “I wondered about you.”

Frank got up from where he was sitting, and yelled “Don’t let them talk, she’s trying to talk him into suicide, that’s why she wanted to talk to him”, before leaning down into my ear and whispering “I hope you succeed you little bitch”, and then he went off looking for his marbles.

My bed was pulled back into it’s own curtained off spot, and Frank went to each bed pretending to look for his marbles. At each bed, he asked the nurse to make the bed stand straight up and down, so he could look under the bed. After he looked under the bed, he asked each patient their name. I knew he wasn’t just looking for marbles. There was something in the names he wanted to know. I told K, not to tell him his name.

He went to K’s bed before mine. His bed tilted back so it stood straight up and down. When it returned to a horizontal position, Frank asked K “what’s your name?”

Our mother was there, but she was mad at me and wouldn’t talk to me. She had our dog, Marshmellow, but she’d only talk to K, and show K our dog. She told K to tell Frank his name, but K would only shake his head…

Finally our mother said “His name is K.”

Frank came to my bed, and asked for it to be titled vertically, which it was. My head titled down and my feet titled up until I was hanging upside down, so that Frank could look at the spot my bed had been. When it was moved horizontally again, Frank asked me my name. I shook my head.

My mother said “I don’t know why I have such mean children. Her name is ____. I’ll help you find your marbles”, and she left with marshmellow, to help the man who tried to suffocate me, and said he wished I’d succeed in killing myself, to find marbles that I knew didn’t exist. I was sure they didn’t exist and he was only there to make my life miserable and he was succeeding.

I felt so lonely, and hurt. Even my mother didn’t like me. She not only didn’t like me, she was helping my attempted murderer find his marbles.


Note: This was edited after I posted it the first time. I know I should have edited it before posting it and I’m sorry for any inconvenience that might have caused.

Note #2: The sign language part is true. My brother and I did learn sign language in one of the schools we attended.

Note #3: I know that proper grammar includes a double space between a period and the capitol letter of the next sentence, but for some reason I can’t get this blog post to work that way. I know it looks odd and is harder to read. I apologize, but I have tried to correct it twice, and each time I look at the updated version, there is only one space between each period and the capitol letter than follows it. I don’t know why, and I don’t know how to change it.

This will be continued.

Chapter 1 – The Morning I went into the ICU.

I don’t remember much, and what I know now has been told to me, But the following is an attempt at a first person account of going to the ICU.

As I said before, I write novels, and that is the style I will write it in.

Note: it will be true, even if it’s not written in a non-fiction style:


That night I looked at the beef jerky in the fridge. Mom and I worked so hard on it, but it was all wrong. Translated from imperial to metric, the old recipe was hard to read and translate. In the end 50 lbs of meat was wasted. It would have been good if it wasn’t so salty, but it just wasn’t edible.

I looked in the fridge and saw all this home made beef jerky, that I had been looking forward to eating and wondered what to do with it. Maybe, I could just eat a bit?

Maybe it didn’t all have to go to waste? I’d already eaten a mountain of candy, while we were making it. What would a little bit of a salty snack do? Would it even hurt anymore than the christmas candy?

Mom and I had tested a christmas candy eating game to see if it would be any fun for christmas day. It was fun, and tasty, because every time a person landed on a square not landed on by somebody else, they got a candy. The person with the most candies at the end of the game won, except, who could resist eating it all before the end?

Of course sneaking candy, while judging the candy pile of the other player, made us giggle, and was half the fun. Well maybe all the fun. That and eating candy.

And that is how we spent our evening: making beef jerky and eating candy during the stages the beef jerky had to sit or cook.

After Mom went to bed, I opened the fridge door and looked at the mountain of beef jerky.


Just maybe….

I could eat it and get over the saltiness….

Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad.

I hadn’t had that much before. Only a nibble to decide it was horrible.

I took a piece and ate it, to see if it would grow on me. It didn’t. I thought “I’m going to be sick”, but I ate 3 more pieces, each piece getting worse than the last.

Finally I had a headache, and I went to bed.

Unfortunately, the beef jerky was waste of 50 lbs of meat, and there was nothing I could do about it.

Little did I know, that the beaf jerky would be forgotten by morning, and thrown out in the days to come without any fanfare. The waste of 50 lbs of meat, would be the least of anybody problems.


The next morning I woke up with a swollen tongue. It was so big it wouldn’t fit in my mouth. I couldn’t talk. I tried telling my mom what was wrong, but she kept saying “quit mumbling”. Finally I tapped her on the shoulder and pointed to the problem when she looked at me. She wanted to call the ambulance, I thought it was minor and she should call my family doctor.

I was briefly aware that the ambulance attendants wanted me to walk to the stretcher outside, and thought “I’m not that sick, or they would would have carried me on a stretcher’.

Later I remember them putting an IV in my arm, and then trying to put a tube in my throat. I asked for a pen, and they gave me one.

I wrote “Don’t worry the __(name of ENT doctor)___ couldn’t do it without anesthetic either.”

They asked why I had an ENT doctor. I don’t remember my response.

The next thing I remember is being asked how to take my shirt off. I couldn’t explain the knots that were tied in the back, and it had to be lifted over my head because they were permanently tied. I was told “never mind I’ll cut it off”, and I was relieved, but later, I wondered why were they cutting my clothes off? Who were these people? Where was I? What were they going to do to me?


I woke up tied to a bed, that was on a platform.

All around were people I didn’t know, and they seemed to be trying to figure out what to do with me.

A man (who I later named Frank), was with H, the most popular and cutest kid from my grade 2 class. She was all grown up, and and still a bully. They were on the platform the bed was on, examining something while they discussed a mistake they made.

“How will we fix it?” H asked.

“I don’t know.” Frank responded, “I guess we’ll have to kill her”.

He climbed up on me, and tried to suffocate me with a medal plate. I tried to get away but I couldn’t because I was tied to the bed. Finally the man looked me in the eyes and said “I can’t do it.”, but H wanted him too. She was like that in grade 2 too, always getting other people to do her dirty work.


Later my mother came, and saw that H and Frank were the ones in charge and told them she was transferring me to a different hospital. I was in a hospital, 1000 km away from home, and she said “We’re going home.”

Why was I so far away?

The ambulance ride was bumpy and noisy, with lots of banging. Finally we arrived in the city closest to my home.

There was a nice nurse there. I felt safe and protected in her care. She moved buttons and wires and did things that made me feel better.

One night the nurses were all sitting around a table discussing what they could do for the night. One nurse said “I always wanted to take piano lessons, there’s an ad in the paper, for a man who gives piano lessons. He brings the pianos to you, teaches you and leaves.”

All the nurses thought this was a great idea, and the nurse with the idea called the piano man. When she got off the phone she said “Great. He doesn’t have anybody booked now. He’s coming now.”

All the nurses were excited, and cleared spots for the pianos. The talked about how exiting it would be learn how to play the piano.

“We have nothing to do at night anyway, this will make the evening fun”, one said.

Another said “I’ve always wanted to learn to play the piano”, and stories about siblings and friends who took piano lessons as children abounded.

The nurse by my bed, didn’t participate. She sat by my bed, and made me feel safe.

There was a knock at the door, and one of the nurses, opened this huge garage door, and let all the cold air in. The piano man walked in. It was Frank, and H was with him.

He explained how he used to work in an ICU, but he got fired for trying to kill a patient. I knew that patient was me, and tried so hard to make him not notice me.

He brought in inflatable grand pianos with one leg in the front and two legs in the back. He set them up for each nurse who wanted lessons, and H went around tattling when they weren’t set up right.

The door was closed and it was warm again.

The nurse beside me watched, as they played the worst piano music I have ever heard. It was so grating on my ears and nerves, that it made everything worse.

When the lesson was over he offered to play some of his own music. All the participating nurses, said “ya”, and encouraged him to do so.

He played even worse than his students. His piano was not only out of tune, he couldn’t play piano at all, but all the nurses clapped, said thank you and good buy.

One of the nurses opened the huge garage door again, Frank and H, loaded their truck of all the inflatable pianos, and then came back in to say good bye.

Frank made a grand gesture, of bowing and waving his arms, while he said “good bye ladies, it was nice, but I have too go”.

And I said “Thank goodness”.

The nurse beside me said my name in a reprimanding way, Frank looked at me and said “you”, walked over to the end of my wall and pushed a big red button on it.

“Just for that, you will suffer.”

I couldn’t breath. I felt like I was suffocating again.

My nurse said “Frank”, and went to push the button again, but Frank stood in her way, and she couldn’t do anything. She asked “Why are you being so mean”, and Frank said he wasn’t going anywhere. H could go on and continue teaching piano lessons, but he was staying here to deal with me. I was terrified.

The garage door was closed, and H drove away without Frank.


There is more to this story, and although I will write it soon, I won’t post it soon.

I think this is enough for one post.

Even as I write my heart is pounding so hard I can feel it outside my chest, and I feel the terror I felt at the time Frank announced he would stay.

I can see him, and I’m there.

But I will keep writing because I want ICU staff to know what sedation is like.