Hitting the Bottom Ch. 01

"Good! I see you got some of it down. Very well done, Mr. Moreno. Have some more tea now. I can keep the yogurt in the kitchen fridge for you if you want to try some of it a little later, all right?"

Mumbling a quiet 'thank you' I wash the tasteless cereal down with the sweet tea and let Hanna take the tray away from me. I can't believe how tired I feel just from the small effort of sitting up and eating and the throbbing in my head is back full-throttle. The nurse lowers the head of the bed a little -- not flat all the way but enough to get me comfortable.

"You should rest now Mr. Moreno. That's really the best treatment for your concussion as well as your cracked bones. Lie back and let your body heal itself."

What's the point? The thought pushes itself to the fore and I cannot ignore it. What's the point of letting my body heal when my mind is gone beyond repair? Might as well give up.

'If you kill yourself you'd kill Naomi's chance for future happiness, too.'

Jon's words from last night ring again in my ears and I feel a sob pushing itself out from somewhere deep in my bruised chest. Damned if I did and damned if I didn't. FUCK IT ALL!

Hanna is still hovering close enough to see the turmoil in my face. "I'm going to get you some medicine for the pain, as well as something to help you sleep." She is kind, if somewhat impersonal, and she turns to leave without waiting for my acknowledgement.

"Yes ma'am."

The words slip my mouth without conscious thought, and though Hanna is already gone and had probably missed my whispered response it feels to me as if they're bouncing back at me from the walls, filling up the whole room.

Maybe that's what I should do. I've failed so profoundly as a Dom. Maybe the only way forward is... this.

The thought brings another huge wave of nausea with it and the pounding in my head becomes so heavy it feels it's going to explode at any moment. I close my eyes, succumbing to the pain once more.

*

The rest of the morning is a blur of doctor visits and some more tests, broken by long stretches of quiet solitude in my bed. Unfortunately there's nothing I can do but think, and I find my mind running in circles again, now focused mostly on my talk with Jon last night.

It all comes down to this: I know he's right about Naomi. She would be swamped with misplaced guilt thinking she had anything to do with my decision to take my own life. I wish I could make her understand it's the only way I could be a man -- a worthy man -- ever again, if only for the few moments between the time I do the deed and when I actually die. I wish I could explain how it's the only way I could find some peace within my soul, knowing I did what I had to do to protect her. But even with my compromised faculties I understand I would never be able to convince her, which means I need to find another way to ensure her safety, as well as that of anyone else around me.

Dammit. I need to see a shrink.

*

It isn't a long wait. Apparently Jon and I are not alone in thinking I needed a psychiatric evaluation, and the hospital shrink shows up at my bedside mid-afternoon.

By now I'm actually feeling better. It's probably a combination of the few more hours of sleep, the fluids provided by the drip which were infused with the anti-pain and anti-nausea drugs, the yogurt I had sometime in the late morning and the chicken noodle soup for lunch. By the time the small, wiry, balding psychiatrist shows up I am feeling more alert and focused than I had been in almost a week, ever since my breakdown.

"Hello Mr. Moreno, I'm Dr. Pappas, and I was asked by your doctors to have a chat with you."

"Yes, figures. Please - call me Dan." This whole 'Mr. Moreno' thing is starting to get old.

"All right Dan. Could you tell me what happened?" He leans forward in his chair, his alert, intelligent eyes trained on me. Apparently he's not the type to small-talk. Fine by me.

I give him the bottom line: "I assaulted my ex-wife in a fit of madness, and tried to kill myself when I was out of it".

"Hmmm."

His stereotypical non-response to my blunt statement would have made me laugh under different circumstances. I wince instead and the doctor gives me a small wry smile in return.

"When did it all happen?"

I pause to think before I answer. "I assaulted her Wednesday evening, New York time. Got back here Thursday afternoon, took the pills sometime around midnight. Spent the last day and a half or so here in this bed. So I guess..." I do the math in my head "about 40 hours ago or so?"

"I see. And have you tried to kill yourself again since you've been hospitalized, or thought about doing it again?"

The lack of censure in his voice throws me off. He sounds calm and professional, seeking out the facts without getting emotionally involved. With a start I recognize he sounds very much like I do when I question someone at the scene of a crime. I shake my head ruefully.

"I've given it some serious thought, yes."

"Could you share these thoughts with me?"

I shrug non-committedly, but the good doctor just waits patiently, in no hurry to fill the silence. Oldest trick in the book but it sure works. I thin my lips stubbornly. I am extremely uncomfortable with the idea of letting a stranger into the deepest, darkest corners of my mind... but then I do acknowledge this is what 'seeing a shrink' would entail. I know I need to do this if I am to save anyone from myself again. I meet his eyes and answer.

"Killing myself is the only fool-proof way to guarantee the safety of my ex-wife, or anyone else for that matter, from my going mental on them again in the future. I really lost it, doc. I completely lost control of myself and my actions, and I wouldn't have stopped either -- it took her new boyfriend barging in and physically restraining me to snap me out of it. So yes, I was very ready to try again as soon as I could."

"Hmmm. You say you 'were' ready to try again -- has that changed now?"

"Yeah, well... I had a long chat with my best friend last night. He pointed out to me the fact that if I did I would only hurt my ex more, because she'd feel guilty about me doing it on her account. So I'm kind of screwed either way. Can't live with myself, but can't kill myself either. Stuck in limbo, that's where I am right now."

"I see. You know, that's a very perceptive observation your friend made. Knowing what I do about the workings of the human mind, I would have to agree with his assessment. It is very common for people to take responsibility for the actions of others and to feel immensely guilty or ashamed because of that, even if 'objectively' no-one could hold them accountable for those actions. So I would say it is very likely that your ex-wife would feel it was somehow her fault that you committed suicide."

He pauses and watches me shrewdly for a moment before he continues. "So, what's next for you then?"

I shrug again. "Dunno. I guess... I guess I'd need to talk to you or someone like you and see if you can fix whatever's unscrewed inside my head. Maybe take some meds to keep me subdued... I really don't know. I just know I'm willing to do anything -- anything -- to make sure I'm no longer a danger to Naomi. You got any ideas for me?"

He chuckles -- much to my surprise -- and pats my hand reassuringly.

"Well Mr. Moreno - ahm, Dan - I do have a few ideas but that is outside the scope of this visit. For now I will report back to your doctors and tell them I don't think you're an immediate danger to yourself or to others. I agree with you on the recommended next steps though; you really should get solid, on-going professional help."

I nod. I kind of like this shrink with his direct, no-nonsense approach. I decide to push -- after all, I've got nothing to lose. "Could that long-term help be provided by you?"

He gives me a brief smile. "It is possible, yes. I do work at my own clinic outside the hospital as well. However the cost could vary depending on the type of insurance you have, so you may want to check your options before scheduling an appointment. Take my card so that you have my number -- here you go -- and I'd be happy to see you again if the logistics and costs work out for you."

I take the card and place it on the nightstand next to my head. "Thanks doc. I appreciate it."

"My pleasure, Dan. I do have one request from you though: If you change your mind about killing yourself -- if you find yourself reconsidering suicide as a valid option -- please give me a call on my mobile, regardless of whether or not we meet again. All right? Would you promise to do that for me?"

I nod again, and then add - "You know Dr. Pappas, you're the second person to make me promise not to kill myself without speaking to them first. Funnily enough I can see how that little technique works... I gave my word to Jon -- as I'll give it to you, too -- and I know I'd respect it, even though it doesn't really make any sense for me to do so."

I shake my head slowly as I say it, bewildered, and then look him straight in the eye and answer the unspoken question in his raised eyebrow. "Yes sir, I promise I'll call you if I find myself reconsidering the suicide route."

"Good. Take care, and I hope to be seeing your name on my schedule soon. Bye for now."

I follow him with my eyes as he gets up and walks out of the room.

*

I need to pee. The nagging sensation had started a while back but I ignored it, mistaking it for yet another little ache that had to be endured. But it's been growing steadily until it made itself known in my consciousness and now there's little else I can think of except I need to take a piss.

The bathroom is only a few steps away and I've been feeling much stronger this afternoon; maybe I could make it. But when I push myself up to a sitting position I quickly realize it's beyond my current abilities. I can either buzz for the nurse to come and help me to the bathroom, or wet myself right here in this very bed.

What a pathetic loser.

I fumble around for the call button and press it and then slump back, breathing through my nose again until the pain and dizziness caused by my sharp movements subside. A distorted voice comes through the intercom behind my head: "Yes Mr. Moreno?" Pushing down my embarrassment I gulp and answer: "Ahm, I need to use the bathroom please". There's a tiny pause before the voice replies: "I'll be right there to help you. Please don't try to get up by yourself."

The intercom falls quiet and in a few moments I hear the quick footsteps of a nurse coming towards my room. I look up when she appears in the door. It's Sandra, the nurse from the evening before, and she's holding something in her already-gloved hands. As she approaches I can see it is some kind of a bag, similar to the bag that hung from the drip used earlier to provide me with fluids, but empty and attached to a two-feet-long narrow plastic hose. There's a smaller item in her other hand that I can't get a good enough look of to recognize.

As she gets to my bed she draws the privacy curtains behind her. "All right Mr. Moreno, let me help you take care of business." She puts the items she was holding down on the bed next to my legs. "I'll collect your urine first; do you also need to have a bowel movement?"

Fuck. She is going to have me relieve myself IN BED.

I am beyond embarrassed. Mortified is more like it. I swallow hard and manage to answer curtly: "No, I just need to take a piss." A moment later I add a barely-heard "please."

Sandra doesn't bat an eyelash. I guess she's used to patients feeling extremely awkward in this situation. "Sure, it would only be a minute, Mr. Moreno, and I guarantee you'd feel relieved when we're done. Here we go."

She lifts the sheet covering me so that only my left leg and hip are exposed, and then does the same with the hem of the stupid hospital gown I'm wearing. Before I can wrap my head around the weirdness of that situation she speaks again, describing her actions a fraction of a moment before carrying them out, presumably so that I don't freak out and jerk around when she does.

"I'm going to put this rubber piece on your penis; it's going to feel very much like a condom only thicker. Then I'm going to fit it onto the plastic hose which is connected to the urine collection bag on the other side. Now I'm going to tape this hose onto your leg so that this whole contraption doesn't move around... That's it. Now I'm going to leave for a few minutes to give you some privacy. You may use the call button to let me know you're done, or I'll just come back in a little while to finish up here, all right?"

I barely nod. She puts the small roll of medical tape she used to attach the hose to my thigh back into her white shirt pocket and turns to walk away, taking off her disposable gloves in a practiced movement at the same time.

"Good. Enjoy." I think that's what I hear her say as she slips out through the privacy curtains, making sure they are closed shut behind her as she leaves. I can still hear her in the room - the sound of the disposable gloves hitting the bottom of the bin, the soap pump being pushed a couple of times as she squeezes the antiseptic onto her hands, and then the water starting to run as she scrubs and washes her hands thoroughly.

Ahhhhhhhhh....!

The sound of the running water does the trick and in the next second I feel myself release my hold on my bladder and it spasms once or twice before the piss rushes out in a stream, shooting into the weird rubber/hose/bag contraption faster and stronger than I would have thought possible. I watch the process in a kind of morbid fascination. It feels like it takes forever but at long last I'm done. There's a tremendous sense of relief in my belly, and an equally huge sense of disdain at still being attached to the bag full of pee. Argh. I consider my options, and decide on using the call button again. I find it and press.

"Yes, Mr. Moreno?" Ugh. I HATE that they keep calling me that.

"Ahm, I'm done here."

"Good. I'll be there shortly."

The intercom falls quiet and again I hear her quick steps coming into the room. She slips into the privacy curtains again and her eyes focus immediately on the bag.

"Both quantity and color look normal. Very good Mr. Moreno."

I've never been complimented on my pee before. If only I could bury my face under the blanket I would, but I do realize that would just make me seem infantile. I just barely refrain from doing so anyways. Sandra is already busy sealing the bag and putting it away and then removing the rubber and ripping off the tape in one quick pull - throwing an apologetic look my way when she hears my yelp - picks up the long plastic tube, along with the rest of it, and tugs both my gown and the sheet down to cover me properly before moving out of the circle of curtains with an "i'll be back in a min".

I hear quite a lot of fumbling in the room and it sounds like she's taking stuff out of cabinets and filling up some basins with water. I wonder what that's all about. I don't have to wait long - in another moment she shows up next to my bed again, a cart loaded with water basins, washcloths, soap, towels and linen next to her. At my horrified look her face softens a bit.

"Mr. Moreno, I'm going to give you a bath now. A bed bath, since you can't leave your bed just yet."

Nothing in this whole crazy experience feels real, but of all the trials I am faced with right now, her calling me 'Mr. Moreno' over and over again annoys the hell out of me. Unable for the moment to address the worse of it I latch on to that one nuisance and spit out:

"Would you stop with that Mr. Moreno already?! It's driving me nuts! Mr. Moreno was my father, and he died a year ago."

I can see her face twist with quick temper before she suppresses it. For some inexplicable reason I feel a stab of pleasure at having caused a reaction - any reaction - beyond her professional facade. But my small win is short-lived.

"All right sir, I'll refrain from calling you Mr. Moreno in the future. Now let's get you ready for your bed bath, shall we sir?"

I wince painfully at the title and almost growl at her: "Oh no, that's even worse! Please, don't call me 'sir'. Anything but that."

She pauses and looks at me, a quizzical look on her face. "All right, but - may I ask why? Most patients appreciate the courtesy of being called 'Sir' or Mr...Whatever-the-name-is. They find that token of respect to be comforting in what is otherwise a... humbling experience." She shrugs apologetically as she says that.

Without thinking I reply the first thing that's on my mind - which is the honest, ugly truth. "Yeah, well, I lost the right to that respect, all right? I don't deserve to be called 'Sir' ever again."

Her frown deepens and it looks as if she's going to debate that, but then thinks better of it. Instead all she says is: "All right, so what would you like me to call you then?"

I would have loved to say 'you can call me Officer Moreno' - but then again that title seems off right now, too. I've never felt more far removed from 'an officer and a gentleman'. Fuck it all.

"Just call me Dan. Please."

She searches my face with her eyes, and the compassion and touch of sadness that I see there look more than her duty calls for. I wonder why she's that interested. But that look is soon gone and she's back to her no-nonsense business-as-usual self.

"All right Dan. You need a shower, and seeing as how you can't get out of bed just yet it's going to be a bed bath. You ready for that?"

HELL NO!

Letting my panic show in my eyes I decide I am not above begging at this point.

"Please, ma'am - Sandra - can't you help me to the shower? I've been feeling much stronger this afternoon and I can sit up straight without having any dizziness. Please."

Sandra pauses and I can see her mind working as she considers my request. Finally she speaks up.

"All right Mr. - Dan, sorry, tell you what we'll do. I'm willing to take you to the shower IF, and ONLY IF, you promise me to sit in the chair in there and let me do all the work. And you need to promise me you'll tell me the moment any dizziness starts; I don't want to risk you falling over. All right?"

I'm sure they could hear my relieved sigh in the next room. "Yes. Thank you. I appreciate it."

She nods. "All right. I'll do your head and face here in the bed because I can't use the shower head on it anyways with all those sutures and bandages, then I'll help you move to the wheeled bath chair. We're going to get into the bath where you will do absolutely nothing and I'll give you your shower. Okay?"

I make a last-ditch effort to get out of this bizarre horror movie. "Is this really necessary? Couldn't we just wait another day until I can do it myself?"

Sandra gives me a quick, but genuine, smile. "Well, I've smelled worse... but yes, this is necessary."

I blush crimson and would have bitten my own tongue off if it weren't too late already.

"All right, fine. Let's get it over with then." It comes out harsher than I meant but again Sandra doesn't seem offended, though her smile is no longer apparent and I find myself missing it.

"Yes, let's." she says and draws the cart closer to the bed. She dons another pair of disposable gloves and takes a clean towel from the cart, and lifts my neck with one forearm under my nape while spreading the towel under me with the other. She then picks up a clean washcloth, soaks it in one of the basins and then wrings it before folding it neatly into quarters and turning to face me.

"All right Dan. I'm going to wash your face and head now. I'll be as gentle and mindful of your various cuts and bruises as I can be, but I need you to try and keep still even if this stings or hurts a little, all right?"