Disclaimer: I do not own Scrubs, nor do a make any profit from this fictitious story.
I'M NO SUPERMAN: SUPERMAN
A/N: It's done. Finished. Complete. I appreciate so much all of the reviews you guys had for me; it really helped me get this story done. If you would be kind enough to leave your last ones, I'd be eternally grateful. Finally, I'd like to ask y'all to write some Scrubs fics. We only have 18 and I think there should be more. Thanks once more—your humble author.
The Janitor. That was the first thing he saw when he woke up. Ventilation tube down his throat, high as a kite, dizzy, confused, and there was the janitor looking right down at him. It was his worst nightmare, except that some compassionate IV tube was feeding him gobs of morphine.
"I kinda like you like this—strapped down to the bed. Keeps you out of trouble. Keeps you from stealing any of my tools. And I know you do that." JD wanted to reply that he had never stolen any of the man's tools and weren't there laws against lunatics in the ICU? But he did have a large tube down his throat, making it difficult to talk. "I guess I should go get a doctor, huh? Now don't you go anywhere. I'm sure there's a doctor around her some place." He stopped as he headed out the door. He turned around. "I'm glad you're awake. I was pretty worried. But don't tell anybody or I'll have to kill you."
JD blinked. He was awake, right? This wasn't some drug-induced hallucination? He tensed suddenly, afraid that clowns might start popping out of the walls. Clowns. He hated clowns. Scary, evil clowns that liked to kill the bad children after spinning them into cocoons of cotton candy. Fortunately, the only thing that popped into his room was Dr. Singer, the man who had repaired his heart, and a nurse to assist. His janitor was nowhere to be seen.
"Well, good morning, Dr. Dorian. How do you feel this morning? I suppose you'd like that vent tube out."
How am I? Do I want the tube out? You're an idiot, aren't you? Mother do a lot of drinking while she was pregnant? Well, at least you don't have to find a nursing home for Jordan and Dr. Cox one day.
They removed the tube at some cost to JD; he had to cough it up and it left his throat raw and sore. "Now, Dr. Dorian, we both know your throat will heal faster if you don't talk, but we have some business to get out of the way. How do you feel?"
"Like crap," JD replied hoarsely.
The doctor smiled. "Glad to hear it. Now, I want you to bear with me. I need to assess any brain damage you may have incurred, so if you wouldn't mind answering a few questions, we'd all be happier for it. Y'ready?" JD just nodded. "Okay, what is your full name?"
"Where are you?"
"Sacred Heart Hospital."
"And what are you doing here?"
JD paused. That was a very good question. He suddenly felt like he was doing rounds with Kelso and coming up with a blank. There hadn't been any notes on this in his textbooks and he felt like panicking. "I—I don't know."
"It's all right; calm down. That isn't too unusual with a head wound. Let's try something a little easier. What year is it?"
"What is the last thing you remember?"
He really had to give that question some thought. He remembered being late for something. "I was walking to work but I was late and…my pager kept going off…there were some kids in the street and then a car came around the corner…one kid didn't move…I think I ran to get him. What happened?"
"You ran to get the boy but you got hit by the car instead."
"Am…am I okay?"
Dr. Singer shrugged. "I don't know. We removed your spleen and you suffered from a couple of broken ribs. You had an epidural hematoma that was operated on and later you went into pulmonary arrest but I drained you and repaired the knick on your heart. Physically speaking, you should pull through just fine, although the next time you run in front of a speeding car I'm just going to throw you into a body bag; you're too much work."
"So what's the matter? Why don't you know if I'm okay?"
"Why don't you tell me?"
Another question. This doctor was just full of questions. "Well, there is the possibility of a post-op infection because you took out my spleen. I could also have a brain injury from the hematoma; a possible neuro-physiological defect or resulting brain damage. Plus, if you operated on an epidural hematoma, that means you shaved my head and I'm bald."
There was a wide smile on the doctor's face. "Yes, you're definitely bald, and from what I can surmise, you're not too bad as far as brain damage is concerned. I'll test you some more later and see how your reflexes are, but it's good to know you haven't forgotten your first year of med school. Now go back to sleep; you look like you could use it."
JD stopped the man as he was headed out the door. "How long have I been unconscious?"
"About five days."
He settled back in his bed, weak and in pain, but surprisingly optimistic. Five days. That was the longest vacation he'd had in years. And although he couldn't think past the morphine fog in his brain, it felt good to be there, awake and alive. He drifted off to sleep, unaware of the four people standing outside his room, unseen.
"Looks like he's gonna be okay."
"I never doubted it; JD can be pretty tough when he wants to be."
"Oh, yeah. He's a regular Rambo in scrubs."
"Hey, at least he's awake and coherent. You can't deny you were worried about him."
"I know I was; I had a three hour session with my therapist yesterday."
"I haven't even been able to think straight for the past week."
"Yeah, it'll be good to have Annie back at work, singing her songs and cheering up all the little orphans."
"Would that make you Daddy Warbucks?"
"Don't go there."
"I love Annie! Did you guys see the one on Broadway? Oh, and how much do you love The Sun'll Come Up Tomorrow? That is the best song ever!"
"If you start singing it, I'll sedate you."
"C'mon, who wants a coffee? I'm buying."
"I'll come as long as Barbie doesn't try to sing."
"I'm not gonna sing."
"Five bucks says she starts singing it."
I started back to work two weeks later. Everybody seemed a little nervous and walked on eggshells, but not Dr. Cox. He was his usual self, and it felt surprisingly good.
"Get your ass in gear, Amanda, I'm not gonna wait around all day while you put in a simple catheter."
Yeah, that was Dr. Cox. But the weird thing is, as much as he was his usual self, I noticed that he patted me on the back a few times and came to my defense when Kelso started on a rant. I couldn't deny that he was looking out for me, even if he was going about it like a mutant mother hen.
Turk was different, too. We did more stuff together; we went to an actual golf course instead of hitting balls off the roof and he actually let me drag him to the art museum with Carla and me. I was hearing a lot more, "Hey, dude, you wanna go see the new X-men movie? I hear the blue chick is supposed to be da bomb!"
Carla had started consulting me about her wedding and what to do with Turk. She gave me a list, telling me what he was supposed to want. If he said he wanted the practice dinner at Burger King, I was supposed to tell him that he really wanted it at Red Lobster. She had become a little mutant mother henish, too, but better than Dr. Cox, not that it would be hard to improve on him.
Eliot wasn't different, but she came to me more often to get things off her chest. In more ways than one. Apparently, when you have a near death experience, it calls for sex. Not that I was going to complain, mind you, but I still didn't know where that left us. I love her, she loves me, we have great sex together, but we aren't dating, but we're not exactly just friends, and I think the relationship is as complicated as Eliot.
I wouldn't say the accident was a life-altering experience for me. It gave me a much-deserved vacation, but there was no "life flashing before my eyes" type of thing. Actually, my friends changed more than I did. Not too noticeably, and I'm sure they didn't see it, but I did. It makes all the difference to have people who care about you. People who worry about you. People whose lives stop because you're lying in a coma. That's the sort of thing you can drag yourself out of bed for (or out of a coma. Whatever). As crazy as they are, they're mine. And they care. I can live with that.
Although, to be honest, it would have been nice if a cute nurse had thrown herself, weeping, onto my unconscious body, maybe performing a little CPR for good measure.