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The Tenth Day

Alex Patterson

This story was first published in The Legendary.

    My name is John. I am a patient at St. Fredrick’s hospital, in the psychiatric ward. I was left unconscious outside of the hospital’s front door. I was stripped of my possessions, and a blow to my head stole my memory. It was a nurse, Cherri, who found me and brought me into the arms of my doctors. It was Cherri who gave me this journal. It is part of a new study to treat my illness (some unpronounceable Latin word) which meant that I couldn’t remember much of anything. My “Internal Memory,” as they explained it, resets every time I go to sleep. It is caused by a neurological “hiccup” of some form or another; Cherri tells me that I’ve been told many times what is wrong with me, but I’ve never understood, or, at the very least, I don’t understand it this time. But back to my treatment: I am a John Doe, a somebody who forgot how to be anybody. Because of that, I don’t have any insurance, and the only way I can get treatment is by partaking in medical experiments. Cherri found this one; it is the least invasive –or so she claims, personally I can’t think of anything more invasive. All I have to do is write how I’m feeling every day after my situation is explained, and then write about what I did that day before falling asleep –before forgetting. Today is the first day with this trial, day one of my attempt to remember...
    Day 1: I was told by Cherri that I have to keep a journal, I don’t see how it will help, but at least it will give me something to do. This is the thing about being a John Doe, there really isn’t much to do. I don’t have visitors; there’s no point in reading a book that I’ll forget about when I close my eyes. All I can do is sit and watch the outside world. All I can do is dream of who I was, about what happened to me; if I was attacked, or if I somehow managed to injure myself. Cherri refused to tell me the extent of my injuries, and she refuses to say if I did it to myself, but I fear her silence confirms my nightmares. I worry that whoever I used to be wanted to forget their troubles, unknowingly committing me to the very hell that they hoped to escape. Cherri promises me that it doesn’t matter who I was before I became a John Doe, all that matters is that I am who I am.
    Day 2: I reread these words knowing that I wrote them, the “A’s” are my misshapen “A’s” and the “R’s” have my embellishment, but I did not write them. The man I am today does not remember putting the ink to the page; I do not remember writing in this before, and I certainly don’t remember being such a drama-queen. (I mean come on, unknowingly committing me to the very hell that they hoped to escape. What was I thinking?) In what sense am I the person who wrote those words? Cherri assures me that I am who I am, but if that is true, I have to wonder. Do I die each night when I close my eyes to rest? Where does the man I was end and the man that I am begin? I fear that when I fall asleep I will not wake again. The body may rise, but what will happen to me? I do not want to dream; I do not want to die.
    Day 3: I think I am a drama-queen when I write. I usually don’t speak like that when I talk, well –I don’t today at least. Today I received a visitor, a doctor. He arrived with several med students, all of whom were all too willing to get a look at my journal. I have only opened the journal for the first time, three days in a row now, but I am already beginning to feel protective of it. It is who I was, it is who I can become, and it is the one thing that I can call mine. It may sound childish, but I wanted to keep it to myself. The med students were able to read what I wrote, but I will not allow them the satisfaction of reading it again. This journal is my own tether to who I used to be, to who I could have been; with that reasoning I will defend it with my life.
    Day 4: Cherri tells me that I need to be more detailed in my writings; I am “only writing enough to be seen” she scolds me. “You can’t expect to get any better if you don’t put in the effort to get any better.” So in honor of Cherri, and because I have nothing else to do, I will add more to my daily ramblings. I have come across the realization that I have yet to describe my room, a room that will sound familiar to anyone who has ever spent an expended amount of time in a hospital before. The walls are a plain white, a blue plastic handrail wraps itself around the room at slightly below waist level. A window is next to my bed, across from the doorway. A curtain divider is pushed into the corner, ready to be draped around the unoccupied bed to my right. Cherri, my ever watching nurse, would often stand outside of the doorway, far enough to not be within the room, but close enough that she can hear the scribble of my pen as I write these very words. I should probably also describe Cherri while I am detailing my surroundings. She is an elderly woman with white frizzy hair that perpetually ignores gravity. She wears thin, horn-rimmed glasses, and she favors scrubs with a floral pattern. She is a nice enough person, but she remains distant and impersonal. She would never admit it to me, but I think that she is distant because she doesn’t think I will live long enough to find out who I am.
    Day 5: I slept in today, and after having my situation explained to me upon reading my journal, I came to the realization that I was no longer alone in my room. The curtain divider, which had previously been tucked away, was now fully drawn. “Hello?” I questioned the wall of cloth, while simultaneously trying to copy down this interaction. “Is anyone there?”
    “Yes, I am here” a female voice replied. “My name is John, John Doe.” I hoped my introduction didn’t sound like I was flirting too much, wait –what is flirting? I recognize the word, but do I even know how to flirt? I feel like I was probably an awkward person before my accident. “Okay, double O” she laughed. “But you got the line mixed up. You should have said ‘The name’s Doe, John Doe.’ Wait, John Doe? You don’t know who Bond is, do you?”
    “Not a clue.”
    “Oh well, but no more talking. I have to finish this before the nurse comes back.” I resigned myself to the fact that I wouldn’t have a new person to talk to. “Can I at least know your name?” I knew this was a mistake as soon as I said it for two reasons: 1) I would never remember it, and 2) “Felicia.” Who cares about reason two, I knew her name.
    Day 6: I think that this journal is working. I still don’t remember anything; however, I am growing more accustomed to hearing about my condition. Well, at least as far as I can tell. Today I barely flinched when I heard the news. I may have always taken the loss of my identity lightly, but Cherri looked and acted as if she had seen an improvement. Felicia, my roommate (what else could you call the person that shares your room in the psychiatric ward?) was crying when I came back from one of my many tests. When I asked her what was wrong she pulled the curtain aside and asked, “You’ve never read anything by John Green have you?”
    “No; although I might have, I can’t really be sure.”
    “Oh. I was told that you just had trouble remembering. You have to be able to remember something about who you were?”
    “Nope, nothing, except for instincts: I can read, write, talk, and walk, but I can’t remember where I learned to do them. “
    “That’s not so bad. I don’t remember when I learned to talk, and forgetting about school –trust me John, some things are better left forgotten.”
    “I suppose you’re right. I’d like to remember things, but I don’t want who I was to come back.” That was where our conversation ended. Cherri’s shuffling footsteps approached the door. Felicia quickly hid her book under her pillow and pretended to be sleeping. “Oh would you look at that!” Cherri exclaimed. “Pretending to sleep like that. I could hear y’all down the hall.” I don’t know why, but I felt like now was a good time to lie. “She’s not pretending. I’ve started to read my journals aloud. To help me remember.”
    “Uh-huh.” Cherri muttered as she shuffled out of the room. “Thank you” mouthed Felicia. I don’t know why I covered for her. I don’t think she would have gotten in trouble. Maybe I –I don’t know.
    Day 7: On the matter of Felicia. I have yet to describe her: Felicia is a woman in her mid 20’s; she has brown eyes, tears can be seen forming at, or falling from, the corners of her eyes. A sadness envelops her. Her anguish was caused by three things: her sickness, her husband leaving her because “He couldn’t handle the stress of the sickness” and because someone in Felicia’s novel died. Felicia had just finished reading The Fault in Our Stars, a novel about a girl, Hazel, who has cancer. Cherri has been trying to confiscate the book from her, and from what I’ve heard about it I can see why. It must be depressing to read that while in a hospital. Now is also the time to mention why Felicia is here, instead of in an ICU. She was diagnosed with cancer, and she did something that she wasn’t proud of. Felicia was moved here for her own safety.
    Day 8: I never knew that one percent could make a difference. It’s a strange feeling to face your own mortality. I was given another test today; they discovered what is wrong with me. I have a growth, a tumor roughly the size of a golf ball in my head. The surgery to remove it has a 99% mortality rate; whereas, leaving it in and hoping I don’t have an aneurism only has a 98% fatality rate. I spent a majority of today settling my affairs and speaking to Felicia; she seemed to know what I was going through. When it came to settling my affairs, let’s just say I don’t have many affairs to settle. I decided to give my – this – journal to Felicia, and I would return the hospital pen –which I am currently using, to the gift shop from where I “Borrowed” it. With my affairs settled, all that was left to do was wait. “How are you doing?” Felicia asked. “I know it sounds cliché, but I kinda wish death would just happen... You know? I can’t stand this waiting.” Felicia giggled, an honest Tee-hee-hee, Felicia was trying to not laugh.
    “What?”
    “Oh nothing” She said. “It’s just, I think it’s funny how you can’t remember ever hearing that, but you know it’s an overused cliché.” She did have a point; that was the oddity behind my injury, my growth. I can’t say the ABC’s, but I can write all (abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz) 26 of them. “I think we all just handle death differently. Apparently, I’m not one to wear my emotions on my sleeve.”
    “Yeah, I opted for the “Do something impulsive” approach to death.”
    “What did you do?”
    “I broke into an amusement park” I looked at her quizzically.“ Don’t judge me. I know that look. I broke into it because it was there, on top of the Ferris wheel where I was proposed to. I know that, all things considered, I shouldn’t remember my marriage as a happy one, but I remember the proposal as the happiest moment of my life. I guess I just wanted to relive that moment.”
    “Is that why you were moved here? It seems a little harsh.” Felicia looked down at her wrists; I could see bandages around them. “Oh.” I muttered.
    Day 9: It’s an odd feeling knowing that in roughly 24 hours your eyes will close for the final time. Felicia tried to be comforting; she had been told five months ago that she only had six months left to live, but it wasn’t much consolation. She still had time left. “What do you think Death is like?” I queried. “I don’t know; although, if I had a choice. I would end it like in Les Misérables: everyone singing, somber yet joyous, as you slowly slip away.”
    “Huh, I am more expecting a cloaked figure with a scythe, but I like yours better.” Felicia remained silent. I looked over; her eyes were fixed on the ceiling. “Felicia?” She didn’t respond. Her heart rate monitor began to beep, faster and faster. Cherri ran into the room as Felicia began to convulse. Cherri hit a button on the wall. “Get a crash cart!” she shouted. Several orderlies rushed in carrying equipment. Cherri quickly pulled the curtain close, blocking my view of what was happening. Seconds stretched into minutes as I waited, hopelessly, for Felicia to be brought back. I waited for her to be safe.
    Day 10: Felicia is okay. She went into cardiac arrest. After reviving her, Felicia was brought into the OR for emergency surgery. She will live. I spent the night outside of the OR, I couldn’t go to sleep. I couldn’t forget. I was planning on talking to Felicia when she woke up this morning, but after tonight –I will most likely not be here when she wakes up, so I will have to write what I was going to say.

Felicia,     There are so many things that I wish I could have said to you. I wish I could’ve been there when you get out of surgery. Our time together was short, but it was the best time of my life. I love you. John.

     Now all that I can do is wait for my time. Felicia will read my journal when she gets out of surgery.
    Day 11: I must keep writing. I stayed awake tonight, hoping that I would still be alive for when Felicia came out of surgery. I stayed awake, waiting for the moment when either Felicia would be brought back, or I would close my eyes forever. I found the secret to remembering; I have been awake for two days now, and I can remember it all. That is why I must keep writing; that is why I must stay awake. I have to stay awake for her, for Felicia. I must stay awake, or I will forget. I will lose my memories of Felicia, and my memories of her are all I have left. Felicia’s surgery didn’t help. She didn’t wake up from the anesthesia. Cherri and the others tried to save her, but –she passed away while she slept. I must keep writing. I can feel a wall of anguish building inside me, I feel like I’m choking. I am drowning in my own sorrow. Tears flow from my eyes as I try, desperately, to keep writing; however, deep down I know that it is a losing battle. I will fall asleep –I will wake up to a tear stained pillow, not knowing why it is wet; I will forget, I will forget. I don’t want to forget her.

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