Peace, Confusion, Lies and Fear

 
I wake up to the long familiar scent, the scent which will remain my favorite for my entire life. I keep my eyes closed and block out my other senses, letting the smell wash over and calm me. To most people, this scent brings to mind fear, sickness, and death. For me, it's the smell of home. Not in the 'this is where I live' meaning of the word, but in the sense of feeling cared for, of being the place I can relax, where I don't have to worry about anything. This scent is home in that within it is the first and only place I felt safe, truly safe.

I let my focus expand to include sound, and the rhythmic beeping fills my ears; my lifeline, counting, checking that everything's ok. Most would find it irritating. I find the measured beeps reassuring. Punctuating the rhythm is the intercom, periodically calling out in indistinct voices.

I lay, enjoying the repetition, until I move my hand and the slight tugging of my skin distracts me. I decide to expand to touch as well. I start generally. The pillow beneath my head, warmed by my body heat. The bed, the perfect stiffness. Then I move to specifics. The tugging of that hand, where the needle is carefully held in place. The tiny pinch of... I can't remember what I was told their name was... electrodes?.. the sticky squares on my chest. The light pressure of the tubes and wires running off of and over me; some I know are connected to put liquids in, some to take them out, and some to take readings for the beeping machines. The snugness of bandages and medical tape. Something on my mouth? The sensations all combine to create the distinct feeling that I'm bound in place, that I can't move, and yet there's comfort in it. Trusting in others was such an alien concept, but once I got used it, the relief was wonderful. I can't move, I'm not expected to, and they'll take care of me. My job is to get better.

I open my eyes from the memory and the profound peaceful feeling it induced is tainted, then taken over, by confusion. I was there between three and six months, approximately, and yet I can't remember the reason. Why was I there? Was it a sickness? An injury? What could have lead to such a prolonged stay? And why can't I remember?

And why, when I ask my mum about it, does she tell me it never happened? Insistently, as if it's important that I believe it? Why does she get uncomfortable? Why does she hastily change the subject after her denials? If she just looked confused and calmly said that it never happened, I might start to doubt these memories... but she's a terrible liar. I don't think it can have been an illness; she wouldn't get so nervous, or lie about it, if it was.

I just want to know what happened to me. I know that I could request my medical records and find out once and for all...

but I'm also afraid of what I might find.

Maybe I forgot for a reason.

Maybe I don't want to remember.