First off, I would love to thank everyone for so many reviews and for getting them so fast. It really meant a lot to me, so please keep reviewing. Also, I’m a bit unsure about this chapter, as I’m not too happy with the flow. I anyone has suggestions on how to make it less choppy, I’m all ears. Speaking of comments, someone said that maybe I should do a chapter in Dr. Cox’s point of view, and I’m going to flat out say no. Sorry everyone! This is precisely about JD, but I promise Dr. Cox and everyone else will have their moments--Dr. Cox might even have one soon.

With no further a due, the chapter. Enjoy!

Languid Symptoms

In medicine you are required to study up on countless types of illnesses and treatments, the question of whether or not you need use them in real life always is ignored. One of the most common illnesses that you will study is schizophrenia. About one percent of our population suffer from this mental illness; you see, people who are schizophrenic see or hear things that aren’t really there--in worse cases both symptoms apply.

I wonder if all schizophrenics out there hear things like this, or if its just me. Its incredibly dark, wherever I am. The chances are that I am in a hospital, because I smell the familiar odor of dying patients mixed the smell of cheap perfume. My question is: how did I get here? I remember crying like a girl in the bathroom, but the rest is a little blurry.

Deformed sounds are coming from everywhere, I can’t tell if a cough is conversation. Its annoying as it is confusing, and to make matters worse my head is completely numb, and not the kind of numb where your leg falls asleep. I can’t move, it feels like my head is being squeezed, but at the same time I feel lightheaded and airy. Its like I’m suffocating, but it’s almost pleasant.

I can just see the staff, all reacting in their own ways to my recent hospitalization. Turk will act like nothing is wrong with him, but really be freaking out inside, and of course he will demand I get the best treatment possible. Elliot will cry, and when she gets the chance perhaps visit me. Dr. Cox will worry about me but not admit it and just go on with his daily life, or depending on what’s wrong with me he might just go on with his daily life. Then there’s Carla, who will become the protective mother I never had. She won’t bother to hide her feelings, but the chances are good that she’ll let them out by pampering me till I die.

I don’t want to open my eyes. Actually, it’s more like can’t, so that’s a good thing. It hasn’t occurred to me till now that I can’t really do anything. My nose itches, I can’t scratch it. Why not? Am I too drugged up to move? No, I can’t have some kind of horrible condition that keeps me on medicine all the time, and Dr. Kelso is too cheap to spend that much drugs on a patient, whether or not he is on the staff. Maybe Turk or Elliot added a few more douses of pain killers in my system and this is a temporary reaction.

“Nah, I would be having a seizure or something if that were the case.” A thought entered my head, making all other thought process stop completely. What if this wasn’t medical? What if I was in a coma? But coma patients can’t hear you!

“Or can they?” If so, last Saturday Ms. Hamilton got one heck of a story about my night on the town…

No, stop, focus. I had to focus. I could still sense some things, smell most defiantly. The sounds of nurses in high heeled shoes running down the hall, or the sound of someone peeing in the bathroom next to me. Curse the walls for being so thin. Its amazing the hospital itself hasn’t been sued. Maybe I could be the first? Nah, its not worth it, no matter how much money I would make from Kelso. That rich, slimy --

“Because, if that was true, then the thing you said to me before wouldn’t be true, and if that wasn’t true then nothing in this conversation would be true. Therefore, if what you just said to me was, in fact, fact, then this conversion isn’t fact and is in fact fiction and so that means that you, Charlotte, will be working this Friday night.”

I could pick out that loud, egotistical voice anywhere, Dr. Cox!

Slam.

I could also recognize his familiar door slamming technique that he used quite frequently when he was mad. “Long day at the office,” I could only figure. Why would it not be? I obviously wasn’t up to work at the moment. No doubt Dr. Cox and the rest of the staff were busy taking care of my patients.

“Nurse!”

That was most certainly Dr. Cox, because who else would yell in a room with a sleeping patient? Or well, I wasn’t really asleep, I couldn’t move, but I somehow got the impression that they thought I was.

Click. Click. Click.

It was the same nurse who Dr. Cox had been yelling at before, I knew it. Her shoe pattern was the same as it had been when she had walked away from him.

“Yes?”

I didn’t recognize her voice though. That was a relief, better it be her than someone I knew, and I knew a lot of Charlottes. It pretty much sucked to have such close friends see you so weak and vulnerable. Why hadn’t this thought occurred to me before?

But now thinking about it, a lot of things weren’t clear. How did I get here? Why can’t I move? Why the hell can’t I think straight?

“His chart here says that he’s been subdued, so why the hell is he still strapped down?”

That answered the question as to why I couldn’t move, but it brought up another. Why was I strapped down? I felt a sudden pull at my sides, I almost screamed it was so sudden. I might have jumped up if I could have, the way everything had happened so fast. I felt light and fluffy, almost like whip cream. I hadn’t noticed before how numb I felt all over, but now without that heavy thing over me to keep me from moving, my body started to click back in action.

This realization wasn’t as great as I thought it would be.

I wanted to scream, the pain in my head was so surreal. My body didn’t hurt, but it felt numb enough to know something was not right. They had given me a large amount of medicine, so much that I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t focus enough to make words come out of my mouth.

“Alright, he looks fine to me.”

Charlotte was talking again. I could barely hear Dr. Cox’s teeth impenitently clicking against each other.

“Should we put him on more medicine? In case he wakes up?”

God, no.

I heard a small rustling noise from above, and I could only guess it was Dr. Cox scanning through the chart.

“No,” he said, his tone actually sounding a little worried. Was he going to cry? “His reflexes were triggered by shock that his spinal cord released to the brain during the fall.” He sneezed, the teary voice left his tone. Never mind. “The medicine isn’t doing anything now.” Pause. “If we fixed him up, why is he stilling getting drugs pumped into his system?”

I could imagine the nurse opening her mouth to say something, but Dr. Cox lifting his chart in front of her face to stop her.

“I know you just love using your patients as test subjects, but next time, try to refrain from doing it to an employee. Can you do that? Because if you can’t, and someone -say- Dr. Kelso walks in and sees that we’re using more drugs than necessary on a patient, he might just -God hope not- take it all out on me.”

I could picture it all now, Charlotte’s hurt face, Dr. Cox’s annoyed face, and him walking out of my room angrily.

Slam.

Yeah, I was right. A few moments passed, I listed to Charlotte set my chart wherever it needed to go. In no time I could hear her high heel shoes following Dr. Cox’s lead out of the room.

Silence. It was worse, the silence gave me nothing to focus on but the pain. Something was broken, that or badly sprained. I had a feeling that if I could move, I wouldn’t want to. There was nothing to do but lie there and suffer until the medicine wore off. Wasn’t it just my luck that I get a bad diagnosis? I had been having a bad enough day before. Seriously, if my life wasn’t a hellhole already , why did I have to be such a klutz?

My head didn’t feel as light, and I was starting to make out the feeling of my environment; the soft hospital sheets, the fluffy pillow against my head, the way my arm was uncomfortably twisted against my chest…

Sleep. I needed to sleep. Maybe when I woke up I would feel better. I tried to relax, I tried to clear my head of everything that had just happened to me. But it was hard. My workday had started out same as any other day, but a lot had happened in the little time I had been working. My mind was wrapped around too many thoughts, and I couldn’t think of anything but them, no matter how much I tried not to. Finally, I fell into an exhausted sleep, mentally drained.

--------

I could tell my body was starting to regain control, as I was starting to go bolder into my thought process. Take for example, the question of: How long have I been here? I honestly don’t know, half the time I sleep, as being awake is depressing when you can’t move. You would think a nurse could read you the time everyone once and a while.

I now listen to the familiar sounds of shoes as they click down the halls. Its amazing how in the dead silence you could hear almost everything. Some movement has returned, I will admit. I can even move my jaw up and down now. I haven’t tried to speak yet, I’ll wait till I can move a little more. I want to get out of this hospital bed and get back into work. Its too depressing to be in a hospital all the time.

The sudden realization that I could move again did not bring as much joy as I hoped it would. For one thing, it now meant that when people checked on me, they would think I was asleep. This was not as harmless as it sounded.

Just this morning, Elliot visited me during her break. How do I know she was in here on her break?

Although my attempts at being asleep did seem to fool her, it did not make her shut up. It was a tormenting twenty minutes, as she somehow got from her concerns about me to a pair of yellow shoes that she had yet to break into.

Carla’s visit had gone swell though. She watched over me like a mother hawk does with her young chicks. (Or birds, or whatever little birds are called.) I swear I could feel her eyes burning into my skull. Then, there was Turk. The two of us enjoyed a few lovely minutes of awkward silence until he was paged out of the room.

I’m not sure what section of the hospital I’m at, but that Charlotte girl works here a lot, as I often hear Dr. Cox yelling at her and few other nurses. I guess Dr. Cox is well known throughout the hospital, but I’m not sure how he pulled enough strings to be my doctor. Or well, I suppose it’s more comforting to think he’s trying to see me, because out of the few minutes that he bothers to come by and check my charts, he usually isn’t around my room at all.

I’m getting pretty tired of pretending to be asleep when everyone comes in. I believe I got the drugs out of my system fairly fast since I overheard a nurse with a very large lisp telling Dr. Cox that I could take a few more days to wake up clean. Although, I feel very tired, and most of the time I really am asleep. But my strength is returning, and I will have to face everyone at some point.

In some twisted, strange way, I’m happy to be in this hospital bed in agonizing pain with no medicine. I suppose if I were to “wake up” I would get some pain killers, but I can suffer a little longer. Pathetic, I know.

But the longer I lie here, the longer everyone worries about me. Or, at least it feels like they do. I hope they do, I’ve tired to convince myself that they do--although that turned out pretty bad considering where I am. I know this sounds truly cruel and horrible, and I know it isn’t right, but by making them suffer, I feel little more important. Yes, that’s right, Doctor John Dorian is in a room as a patient. For once someone worries about me. But I feel like a selfish brat every second of the day. I can’t live like this. Although, I am.

On the other hand, I can’t stand the looks of pity that I imagine everyone giving me. Apparently, because they care so much about me, it means they can’t treat me like a normal person. I can’t decide what to do. The attention is nice for once, but the pathetic looks that I will soon get from everyone is enough to make me reconsider everything.

I don’t want that anymore. I get everyday, whether its from nurse’s whispering about how I’m one of the few doctors here with no girlfriend, or whether it’s the interns carelessly blabbering about how many abnormal hours I spend working at Scared Heart, or if it’s just my friends, joking about my pitiful life. They’re just joking, but it sure doesn’t seem that way. Every joke does have a bit of truth in it, and jokes become old. The jokes aren’t really jokes when the humor part of it gets old.

Betrayal. Anguish. Hurt. Self aggregation. Foolishness. Loneliness. Take your pick, its all there. If there’s one thing I’ve realized as I lay here thinking about my friends, its how shitty they make me through jokes.

“There’s nothing funny about putting others down!” I want to scream. It sure as hell doesn’t matter if you’re a good friend or not, everything is taken seriously.

I sunk back into the warm bed. I vaguely wondered how long I had been in this room. It couldn’t have been too long, maybe two days or so? Yeah, that sounded about right. I tried to yawn, but I could only get my mouth open enough to stick my tongue out. The air in the cold room felt strange against my moist tongue. I pulled it back in and shut my mouth. I was trying to think of something other than what a mess I had gotten myself into.

--------

My back is prompted up against the bedpost with nothing but my familiar flurry pillow to serve as barrier between me and the wooden frame of the bed. As the clock across the room has told me, it is two in the morning, and so far no one has checked up on me at this time. Strange how little attention goes to a “sleeping” patient. When I get out of here, I should really give all those coma patients a visit.

But I would worry about that later. I had to think of a way to convince everyone I had just woken up. I somewhat wanted to get up and run out the door, screaming that I was better now and for everyone to stop making such a fuss over me. But, an IV was stuck in my right arm, and although I knew I could take it out, I didn’t want to try with my hands still shaky. Maybe all the drugs hadn’t left my system completely.

A bulging pain in the back of my head awoke me in the morning. My head, which besides being in pain, had never fully worn off its numbness, until now apparently. I pressed my hand against the back of my throbbing skull, hoping the pain would go away. It didn’t.

On the plus side, I felt a whole lot better, and had even been able to walk around the room a bit. I supposed my time for staying was up. I was better. But, I had refrained from telling this to the nurse who had dropped by my room around nine. I could wait till morning, couldn’t I? Besides, I had no doubt in my mind that I would have to pay for the room myself, and it was past midnight, thus indicating that I had paid for the room that day. Why waste money? I could stay for a little while longer.

I clicked my tongue against my teeth, a little habit I had picked up from Elliot. No one had come to visit me today. I sighed, deciding that the fear and worry had worn off by now. Everybody had made it to the stage where they were just feeling sorry for me.

I guess what annoys me the most about this situation is that fact that I know everyone in the hospital is going to try and compromise my “supposed feelings” with theirs. Here I am, in the hospital with such a pitiful life. Of course people will talk about me, and of course the very same people who talk about me will approach me and ask if everything is alright. Why? Because it makes them feel so good, that they get through to someone who is hurting so bad.

It’s because people can’t mind their own business. I never asked for this, for visitors, or a private room. I most certainly didn’t ask to be here. Yet, here I am, stuck in a hospital room worrying that everyone will learn about the scam I’ve pulled. Yes, it’s all so lovely. I’m sure the gossip hawks feels so special when they bake me a cake. Why, they feel so special that they brag about it with their friends.

What does that make me to them? A tool? A tool in their little game of pride? Not that I suspected anything more, I just didn’t think it would really happen to me. Although, I guess everyone uses people for their own selfish reasons.

I remember when I was in ninth grade. A physiologist came to talk to the whole high school about rumors and gossip, telling us about kids who committed suicide and brought guns to school, things like that. At first, everyone was so worried, they couldn’t stop talking about his speech for days. But then, it all died down. Not a word was spoken about it, everyone just went on with their lives.

Since then, I’ve always wondered why nobody listens. Sure, maybe they all took it to heart, but they didn’t act like they did. Was that the way things were now? People were so caught up in themselves that even when they saw someone else in pain all they could really see was the benefit for themselves in them? If so, what’s really the point of trying to get through to people like that. There is none, it’s worthless.

I feel depressed now. My own logic has me confused and hurt. Is that how my friends feel? Sure, if they talk seriously about me, it would only be among themselves, but they’re still talking, aren’t they? But, they were also trying to help me. Too bad it was only for themselves.

I pulled my fluffy pillow onto my stomach and wrapped my arms around it tightly as I leaned on it. They washed it, didn’t they? Yeah, they had to. Sure, there was a good chance I never had the same sheets, but I was lucky enough to have the same feathery cushion. I stretched myself out, my arms folding over my pillow. I turned over, now laying backwards on my bed, and stared at the little dots indented on the walls.

It was strange how hard I had been thinking a few moments ago; now I can’t stop thinking about my pillow. I should give it a name, maybe buy it off the hospital later. I’ll take it home and frame it. A mental image of me squeezing my pillow into a small frame came into place. I yelled for Turk’s help, he came, we pushed, the pillow flew out and hit Carla in the head. Angry Carla, angry Carla--

Oh, no, I’m in my hospital bed, with my familiar pillow. Thank God. The wrath of Carla is not something I have to face.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Oh, dear God. I never heard him open the door.

I turn, ever so slowly and sit up. My eyes met his for almost a second before I open my mouth. I want to say something to my clearly pissed off mentor, but words escape me. He knows good and well that I’ve been well awake with mobility for a least a day.

He drops the few plastic clipboard he’s holding, I listen to them clash together as they hit the floor. He blinks, clearly tired and unsure of how to respond. A twisted smile appears on his lips as he began to chuckle.

No doubt he’s had a long shift, and with the time there’s a good chance he was just coming to check up on me before he went home. But now this, now he finds out that I’ve been awake and I haven’t bothered to tell anyone. Me being a doctor makes this even worse, as I should have known to tell someone.

But he just laughs for a few moments, shaking his head. “This is really something,” he finally says, looking at me square in the eye. I can’t imagine what my face must look like at the moment, I don’t want to picture it. “So, JD, how long have you been awake?”

His voice is almost sarcastic, and he’s not laughing anymore, but he still has that twisted, happy look on his face. His hands fly to the back of his head as they cling to his short hair. He called me JD, he’s stressed and angry with me.

Then why isn’t he showing it?

I tried to say something, but I couldn’t, my mouth was dry. “Almost the whole day.” My words were so silent and hoarse, I couldn’t recognize them.

His hands fell back down to his sides as he shook his head. “Wow, so I guess you failed to mention that to the nurses when they checked up on you.” His smiled faded, his eyes formed into a hard glare. I was dead. “Tell me, Carol, do you enjoy tormenting the lives of others for your own selfish reasons?”

I didn’t say anything. My eyes went to my pillow.

“I know, as well as everyone else in this hospital, just how much of an unconfident being you are, but I mean this--” He stretched the word, adding more emphasis to it than needed, “this just takes the cake right here!” He clapped a few times, my stomach turned.

He approached the bed, I found I was too stiff to move. Dr. Cox wasn’t in the mood for jokes, and his eyes were now holding mine with such a glare that I couldn’t look away.

“If you want somewhere to wallow in self pity, find someplace else, because I sure as hell know that you don’t have a life half as bad as someone who really needs this room right now.” His voice was so calm it was frightening. “The worse part is, you don’t even realize it.”

“That’s--”

“WAKE UP!” He leaned forward, his arms on the edge of my bed, forcing me closer to him. I jumped, but it didn’t matter though, as he quickly pulled away and took a few steps away from me. “Is your brain so slow at the moment that I have to spell everything out for you? You’re a doctor for Christ’s sake--a doctor! You can’t even understand that while your sit here complaining about how much shit you have to deal with, there are people out there who are in bigger hellholes than you can imagine!”

I know that. I’m a doctor, dumbass, you said it yourself, I hear and see things like that all day.

“But no, you can’t think about them, can you? It isn’t that you don’t know, your not that ignorant, because I know your not, it’s because you choose to not think about anyone but yourself!”

I know there are people out there who are in a worse place in life than me, but why does that mean I can’t care about myself a little?

“Are you listening?” He was shouting, pacing around the room so vigorously that he had kicked the fallen charts across the floor a few times. “You don’t understand, even after all the years working here, you don’t understand that this isn’t a place for you to feel sorry about yourself! Wake up, and if you can’t do that then get out!”

The rant was over, but I couldn’t think of anything to say. The door slammed loudly behind him as he marched out of my room. I couldn’t think about anything but what he had said. I wanted to argue with him, to go run over to him and yell that he had no right to do that. I hadn’t done a real crime, I had only not told anyone I was awake, and I that lasted for less than a day. But my words sounded lifeless even to me, I couldn’t focus on them. I didn’t want to admit, but Dr. Cox was right.

God, I hate my life.