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Bitten
The birds had stopped coming, which led to an uncomfortable silence. Too much so for my liking. Our home overlooked the sea to the east, and the orchard to the south. And though the sea had offered our town a turbulent summer with gales and thunder, it had become softer, quieter, as if the tantrum child had finally passed on. Elaine, my wife, had not eaten a suitable meal in days, and had taken in very little water. She, like the sea, had quieted and often spent hours at a time sleeping in silence.
A week had passed since this queer silence had begun when she sat up mid sleep and screamed a terrible cry. I flew out of bed, heart pounding, expecting an intruder, but found only my wife pressed against the hardwood, panting and sweating, trembling in terror. I tried to comfort her, but her freight wouldn’t allow close proximity. For hours, I tried to calm her, offer her drink, and cool towels. Her face remained red, and her head was balmy. Sleep finally took her, and she was able to rest.
It was mid August when her confusion and fear became harmful. Often I would come home to find her balled on the ground, terrified of our doctor, who tried his best to treat her confusing symptoms. She called out to men and women who were not there, spoke to apparitions, angels, God. She often warned me of danger, of dragons and spirits that haunted our home, and seldom ate out of fear of poison. Her cleanliness deteriorated, the doctor had informed me, often citing, and supported by our servants, that she had urinated in her clothing, and on her sheets.
A day later, she refused to eat or drink. Her body had shrunk and her bones outlined her frame. Still though, her fear persisted beyond the meager energy her body could supply. Under doctor’s orders, we took her to the hospital and treated her for malnutrition. She screamed throughout the night, terrified of shadows and phantoms. She became incoherent. Her words sounds more like the guttural moans of an injured dog. I was asked, and gave permission for staff to restrain her, and move her to a psychiatric facility.
After a short stay at St. Mary’s Psychiatric Facility in Jordan, we returned home. I was offered and given instructions on how to inject my wife with tranquilizers when her fits became troublesome. But as I learned, the injections did little to improve her state. Her hair had become stiff, and smelled of rot. Her eyes darted from corner to corner like a trapped bat in an attic. Her skin had darkened and she fought every comforting touch I offered.
Three days passed without my being able to offer her any food or water. Each night she had waken screaming, crying out to God. Her hands trembled as her shrieks echoed throughout the empty hallways of our home. The next morning, I awoke to a sound I had almost forgotten. The birds had returned, and chirped loudly in the orchard. I stood on our porch and looked out, watched them jump from branch to branch, eating my unattended fruit. It was the first time in weeks that I looked out to them, or to the sea.
I walked down the hall to my wife’s room. She had been silent for the few hours of the night. I prayed that she had finally found rest from this nightmare. Or perhaps God had answered my prayer to end this torture. I pushed open the door and found her slumped, struggling to breathe. Her body was limp, and she did not respond to my calls.
The doctor arrived later that morning, and explained to me that she had entered into a coma, and would not be woken. We argued. For hours I asked of him treatments, techniques, pleaded with him to offer me some other way that had not yet been explored. Alas, he finalized our conversation by pointing my inquiries to God. And with that, he left.
Throughout the day, I looked in on her for any sign of progress, of movement, of hope. But like God, no answered had been offered, no signed had been given. I walked up and down my halls, listened to the birds, to the waves, to the wind, and cried. What had taken my wife to Hell? What had I done to be taken with her?
That evening, I stood on my porch, and marveled in the silence. The birds had sung their last songs of the night, and the waves had calmed. The wind in the leaves was gentle, and offered a sway to the landscape that lulled me. I stood there for an hour, perhaps two, and considered a life tormented by demons and specters. I considered a life of fire and pain, and of never ending despair. And then, I considered my wife, who lived these moments every day, every moment. I walked to my bedroom where I found the very pillow she had slept on for years. It smelled of washed cotton and was soft to the touch. I walked, slowly and calm, to her room down the hall, and placed the pillow over her head. She did not struggle. She did not wake. She continued to sleep until dead.*
This story is based on an article about rabies I pulled from Wikipedia:
"On June 17, 1981 she was bitten on the ankle by a dog in New Delhi. On August 18, about two months later, she experienced the first prodromal symptoms. She became anxious and depresed, and it became impossible for her to drink more than small sips of liquid. While sleeping, she frequently sat up in bed suddenly, terrified. On August 19, she became confused, hallucinated, and was incontinent of urine. On August 20, she was unable to eat or drink and was taken to the hospital where she hallucinated and screamed in terror. Misdiagnosed as a psychiatric case, she was injected with a tranquilizer and sent home, however she repeatedly woke up screaming in fear and became so wild and agitated that her husband felt he could not deal with her by himself and took her to her mother's house. She remained terrified, hallucinating and screaming in horror throughout the night. She had no water for almost three days. She fell into a coma the next morning, and died on August 23."
The birds had stopped coming, which led to an uncomfortable silence. Too much so for my liking. Our home overlooked the sea to the east, and the orchard to the south. And though the sea had offered our town a turbulent summer with gales and thunder, it had become softer, quieter, as if the tantrum child had finally passed on. Elaine, my wife, had not eaten a suitable meal in days, and had taken in very little water. She, like the sea, had quieted and often spent hours at a time sleeping in silence.
A week had passed since this queer silence had begun when she sat up mid sleep and screamed a terrible cry. I flew out of bed, heart pounding, expecting an intruder, but found only my wife pressed against the hardwood, panting and sweating, trembling in terror. I tried to comfort her, but her freight wouldn’t allow close proximity. For hours, I tried to calm her, offer her drink, and cool towels. Her face remained red, and her head was balmy. Sleep finally took her, and she was able to rest.
It was mid August when her confusion and fear became harmful. Often I would come home to find her balled on the ground, terrified of our doctor, who tried his best to treat her confusing symptoms. She called out to men and women who were not there, spoke to apparitions, angels, God. She often warned me of danger, of dragons and spirits that haunted our home, and seldom ate out of fear of poison. Her cleanliness deteriorated, the doctor had informed me, often citing, and supported by our servants, that she had urinated in her clothing, and on her sheets.
A day later, she refused to eat or drink. Her body had shrunk and her bones outlined her frame. Still though, her fear persisted beyond the meager energy her body could supply. Under doctor’s orders, we took her to the hospital and treated her for malnutrition. She screamed throughout the night, terrified of shadows and phantoms. She became incoherent. Her words sounds more like the guttural moans of an injured dog. I was asked, and gave permission for staff to restrain her, and move her to a psychiatric facility.
After a short stay at St. Mary’s Psychiatric Facility in Jordan, we returned home. I was offered and given instructions on how to inject my wife with tranquilizers when her fits became troublesome. But as I learned, the injections did little to improve her state. Her hair had become stiff, and smelled of rot. Her eyes darted from corner to corner like a trapped bat in an attic. Her skin had darkened and she fought every comforting touch I offered.
Three days passed without my being able to offer her any food or water. Each night she had waken screaming, crying out to God. Her hands trembled as her shrieks echoed throughout the empty hallways of our home. The next morning, I awoke to a sound I had almost forgotten. The birds had returned, and chirped loudly in the orchard. I stood on our porch and looked out, watched them jump from branch to branch, eating my unattended fruit. It was the first time in weeks that I looked out to them, or to the sea.
I walked down the hall to my wife’s room. She had been silent for the few hours of the night. I prayed that she had finally found rest from this nightmare. Or perhaps God had answered my prayer to end this torture. I pushed open the door and found her slumped, struggling to breathe. Her body was limp, and she did not respond to my calls.
The doctor arrived later that morning, and explained to me that she had entered into a coma, and would not be woken. We argued. For hours I asked of him treatments, techniques, pleaded with him to offer me some other way that had not yet been explored. Alas, he finalized our conversation by pointing my inquiries to God. And with that, he left.
Throughout the day, I looked in on her for any sign of progress, of movement, of hope. But like God, no answered had been offered, no signed had been given. I walked up and down my halls, listened to the birds, to the waves, to the wind, and cried. What had taken my wife to Hell? What had I done to be taken with her?
That evening, I stood on my porch, and marveled in the silence. The birds had sung their last songs of the night, and the waves had calmed. The wind in the leaves was gentle, and offered a sway to the landscape that lulled me. I stood there for an hour, perhaps two, and considered a life tormented by demons and specters. I considered a life of fire and pain, and of never ending despair. And then, I considered my wife, who lived these moments every day, every moment. I walked to my bedroom where I found the very pillow she had slept on for years. It smelled of washed cotton and was soft to the touch. I walked, slowly and calm, to her room down the hall, and placed the pillow over her head. She did not struggle. She did not wake. She continued to sleep until dead.*
This story is based on an article about rabies I pulled from Wikipedia:
"On June 17, 1981 she was bitten on the ankle by a dog in New Delhi. On August 18, about two months later, she experienced the first prodromal symptoms. She became anxious and depresed, and it became impossible for her to drink more than small sips of liquid. While sleeping, she frequently sat up in bed suddenly, terrified. On August 19, she became confused, hallucinated, and was incontinent of urine. On August 20, she was unable to eat or drink and was taken to the hospital where she hallucinated and screamed in terror. Misdiagnosed as a psychiatric case, she was injected with a tranquilizer and sent home, however she repeatedly woke up screaming in fear and became so wild and agitated that her husband felt he could not deal with her by himself and took her to her mother's house. She remained terrified, hallucinating and screaming in horror throughout the night. She had no water for almost three days. She fell into a coma the next morning, and died on August 23."
