Something was happening. Even in his unconscious state, Luca could feel the changes that were occurring in both his mind and body. Deep in his mind, with only the barest thread of awareness, he sensed that he had slipped into a unique place somewhere between life and death, and without making it a conscious thought, he realized that he was gradually releasing his hold on life. Already, he was enveloped in a floating sensation, as if freed from the confines of his earthly body, but curiously, he felt no fear, for it was not a bad place to be. There was nothing to invade his blissful tranquility, no pain that had to be endured; only the warmth and a peace far greater than anything he had ever imagined.
It�s up to you.
There had been no spoken words, exactly. It was more of a sense of perception; an understanding that it was his decision whether or not to hold on to the life he had led or to let go of his earthly self and go to wherever humans went when they passed from one life to the next.
Like the rest of his siblings, Luca�s Catholic upbringing had been instilled in him since birth, along with the firm belief of a greater Hereafter. But he was only human after all, and it was normal for humans to doubt and wonder -- What lay beyond the realm of the living? Was there simply nothingness? A deep, dark void with no awareness? Would he simply cease to exist? Or was it the wonderful place of everlasting life that his mother believed it to be?
He did not know the answer to that question, but he sensed that he would find out, very soon. All he had to do was let go of whatever umbilical was keeping him earthbound, allow his spirit to drift away from his body, and it would be over. But did he really want it to be over? Did he want to permanently release his hold on life?
A light penetrated the darkness around him, startling him with its intensity. His first instinct was that it the doctor�s penlight looking into his eyes, as he had done many times since his arrival at the hospital. But he had heard of people who had been brought back from the brink of death, claiming to see a light. Was this what was happening to him? Was it a Heavenly beacon, illuminating the path to the other side? Was his father waiting for him beyond that light? And his grandparents, who had pampered and adored him as a child; were they there as well, waiting for him to join them? All he had to do was let go of that final thread that connected him to his life. Release it, and he would solve the mysteries that existed in the minds of all humans. But once released, there was no going back.
You�re giving up. Are you sure this is what you want?
Again, the peculiar sense of knowledge nudged at his mind, speaking to him without words, and he wondered at its source and the slightly condemning quality of it. Was it his conscience? Or was someone trying to remind him of the things he would lose by letting go?
He had enjoyed a richly fulfilling life, with many friends and relatives. He had seen many things, experienced the joys and trials that were a part of the life of every human being. He had loved and lost, taken pleasure in his successes and endured crushing failures, he had made mistakes and learned from them (most of them, anyway), and through it all, he had always maintained his passion for life, eager to see what else there was to see, to touch, to taste, to love. Was it true that he was giving up? Or was it simply his time to go, his turn to make that inevitable transition?
It doesn�t have to be this way. You�ve never given up on anything before in your entire life. Always, you saw things through to completion.
Why should he go back? The pain was more than he could tolerate, more than anyone should have to bear. There was no reason to endure that again. He knew he had already experienced the worst part of dying. Why should he go back and face it all over again, later?
You�ve made a difference in the lives of so many people. There are others who need your help. How can you just walk away from it? From them?
Looking back on his life, it didn�t feel like he had made any difference at all. If he had done so much good, why did it always feel like he hadn't done enough? There were always so many more; more people who get on drugs, more people who wanted to take their own lives because they felt there was no solution to their problems, people who stole because they couldn�t afford to keep food on the table and believed there was no other way out for them. It never stopped. Many of them were beyond help, from him or anyone else. Where was the justice for them?
You can't save everyone, the silent speaker advised. You're only one man, after all; you cannot take on the weight of the world. But you do your share; perhaps even more than your share, and that is not something to be ashamed of. You go that extra step to help others in need.
His father had taught him that. �Always do your best, my son,� the elder Luca had advised in his thick Italian accent. �Always go that extra step to do what�s right. Never give up. Always, see it through to the end.�
His father�s words washed over him like a warm embrace, moistening his eyes and tightening his throat with longing. Would Pop have been proud that he had chosen to become a police officer? Would he have been proud of his son�s desire to help others and to protect the public?
Yes, he believed he would be very proud of his youngest child. But he would not be so proud to know that Dom was thinking about bailing out. Of giving up. Pop did not approve of quitting. �Always see it through to the end.� Was this the end of his natural life, as had been preordained by some higher Power? Or was he quitting? Taking the easy way out?
It�s up to you, the �voice� seemed to sigh with disappointment.
Suddenly, Luca knew he did not want to give up on his life. He was young. There was still too much to do, too many new things to experience, so many years ahead of him to enjoy, and he wanted it all. He wanted to sample everything there was to enjoy. He wanted to live!
Without warning, the pain returned in a dizzying rush, nearly doubling him over in its intensity, and he heard someone groan before he realized that it was himself, reacting to the pain. The groan was muffled, and he realized it was because of the breathing tube that was still in his throat.
With that realization, he again felt the air being forced into his lungs, but this time he did not have the strength to fight it. His body was weak and relaxed, and he simply allowed the machine to breath for him. And he had not nearly doubled over in pain, for his body was totally immobile. It had merely been a sensation; a need that could not be achieved. He could feel his spirit returning fully to his wounded body, and somehow he understood that the crisis had passed. He would not die. It was not his time.
More and more, his sense of reality was coming back to him. There were people in the room with him; a soft hand, probably a woman, was resting lightly, comfortingly, on his forehead. He focused all his attention on that hand, allowing it to draw him back. Gradually, he became aware of an emergency alarm sounding somewhere nearby. He was lying flat, and the pillow had been removed from beneath his head.
�He�s back,� he heard a male voice beside him say in apparent relief. There was a long pause of silence as the person continued to monitor his condition. �His heart rate is returning to normal. Cancel the Code Blue.�
The speaker must be a doctor, he realized. Lying there on the bed, relying solely on sound and touch as his primary senses, he listened as the unused �crash cart� was wheeled out of his room. Then, the room became quiet as the alarm outside his door was silenced.
The hand was removed from his forehead, and an instant later it lifted his head and slipped the pillow beneath it. The bed was returned to its original position and other hands straightened the hospital gown. He knew they had given him chest compressions. It had been close, he realized. He had come very close to death, and the hospital staff believed they had brought him back with their medical techniques. But Luca knew that there was more to it than just that; he had come back because he wanted to; because someone had cared enough to remind him of how much he would be giving up.
I�m proud of your courage, my son, that strange wordless understanding penetrated his mind again. Your mother and Isabella will be arriving soon. You must be here for them.
�Pop?�
The word choked in his throat, held back by that damnable tube. He could feel it in his mouth, pressing against his tongue and against his throat. Feeling resentful of its presence, he attempted to open his eyes, but they were as unresponsive as the rest of his body.
�Is he choking?� asked a feminine voice, filled with concern.
He could feel the doctor gazing into his face, examining him carefully. �No,� he answered a moment later. �I think it�s just an involuntary reaction to the tube. Keep a close watch on him for a few hours, and if he continues to improve, then we�ll remove it.�
�What about his friend? Should I let him back in the room?�
Several moments of silence ensued before the doctor replied, �Tell him that Officer Luca appears to be stabilizing, and send him down to the cafeteria for breakfast. If he continues to stabilize over the next few hours, we�ll let him back in.�
He heard the rustling sounds of their clothing as they left the room, and then he was alone. Listening to the sounds of the instruments that monitored his vital signs, he slipped into the darkness again, but this time it was peaceful, much needed slumber.
The small glowing orb shining directly into his eye was painfully bright. He attempted to turn his head away from it, but he would have been unable to achieve that desire even if he had possessed the strength to do so, for something was holding his head still. He realized quickly that it was a hand, pressed firmly against his forehead, effectively pinning him to his pillow. The thumb of the same hand had pried his eyelid open, forcing him to stare at that detestable light. It was a small penlight, shining into the eye with a flicking motion, obviously intended to test the responses of his pupil to light. Though somewhat blurred, he could see the serious face of the physician behind it, peering into the eye with a studious expression.
Finally, the physician released that eyelid, moved to the other one, and forced it open, subjecting it to the same scrutiny as the first with that infuriating penlight.
Dom felt a twinge of annoyance at the duration of time it was taking the doctor to make his examination and remove that irritating light. How long did it take a trained professional to tell that the pupils were responding to light? As a police officer, specializing in vice, he had been taught emergency medical procedures, and it had never taken him this long to determine that a drug addict's pupils were dilated or unresponsive.
When the doctor removed his hand, allowing the eyelid to close again, Dom's brow tightened in a slight frown of irritation. About time!
There was a long pause, indicating that the physician had seen the movement, as slight as it was, and was surprised by it. "Officer Luca?" he asked, hoping to generate a response from him.
Dom was able to distinguish his name, and he attempted to respond to it, but could not seem to find his voice. His eyes would not open of their own accord, but he had little time to feel alarmed by that inability to control his own body. As he moved closer to consciousness, he was becoming aware of the pain in his middle, intense and constant, and all his senses focused on that excruciating discomfort. Involuntarily, he drew a deep, shuddering breath, and released it in a low groan, a groan that reached the surface this time. The respirator, he realized with great relief, was gone, and he was breathing on his own.
"He's in pain," he heard the doctor say to someone else in the room.
He felt the hand on his forehead again, and hoped the physician did not intend to pry his eyelids open and shine that light in his eyes again. He had endured enough of that abuse. Even though he couldn't see the physician, he could sense that the man was looking at him carefully, trying to determine the level of consciousness that he had managed to achieve. Finally, after a brief moment, the hand was removed again without touching the eyelids.
"He's starting to come out of it," the doctor said to that other person in a voice that was more discernable. When next he spoke, the voice was close to his face, indicating that the doctor was leaning over him in an attempt to make his words more distinct to his semi-conscious patient. "Officer Luca? If you can hear me, I'm going to get something to ease the pain. Just bear with it a little longer. This will only take a few minutes."
Dom was unable to reply, but he would have liked to make a favorable response to the announcement that the pain would soon be reduced. I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but instead of standing here talking about it, could you go get it,, please?
"I'll be back momentarily," the doctor said, but Dom was uncertain if the words were spoken to him or to the other person in the room. He suspected it was to the other person, for the words were spoken farther away from him.
Luca heard the door open and close, and then, except for the blips of his own heartbeats on the monitor beside the bed, there was silence. Whoever the other person was, he or she had made no verbal responses to any of the doctor's announcements. He assumed it was probably a nurse or perhaps an intern assisting the physician and learning the ropes.
He drew several deep breaths, fighting that excruciating pain in his abdomen, but the act of breathing seemed to only increase his discomfort, and he felt frustrated that voluntary movements were so difficult to make. The urge to double over onto his side was almost as unbearable as the pain. He turned his head slightly on the pillow, and stifled another low groan.
The other person seemed to understand his distress, for he felt a hand placed comfortingly on his shoulder. "Hang in there, Dom. The doctor'll be back in a few minutes."
He recognized the voice. It was T. J.
He could feel the veil of unconsciousness trying to return, a byproduct of the intense pain, but he fought it, trying desperately to stay awake. Finally, after considerable concentration, his eyes fluttered and came partly open. For a moment, everything was blurred and hazy. He blinked a couple of times, and the images slowly came in to focus.
T. J. was standing beside the bed, gazing anxiously at him. He looked terrible. His unshaven face was pinched and drawn, and the darkness under his eyes indicated that he had not slept in a while, a fact that made him wonder how long he had been unconscious.
Noticing that his friend was looking back at him through half-open eyes, he said with a fleeting smile, "Hey, Dom. It's good to see you awake again."
Dom managed to part his lips slightly in an attempt to speak, but could not muster the strength to make a sound. He felt a desperate need for a drink of water, but was unable to make his requirements known.
"It's okay," T. J. assured him, realizing that Dom was trying to speak, but unaware that he wanted something from him. "Don't try to talk. Just save your strength." He paused briefly to glance at the door, as if anxious for the doctor to return. Turning his attention back to his wounded friend, he offered, "Your mom�s coming back from New Jersey. Her plane will be landing some time this afternoon."
Something in Luca's expression told T. J. that his friend had heard and understood, but after a moment or two, his eyes closed again, too weary to hold them open for very long, but he remained conscious, focused on that agonizing pain in his middle. Recalling his fears that he would not live long enough to see his mother again, he was overjoyed that he would be granted the opportunity, but he did not want her to see him in this much pain, knowing that it would cause her great distress.
What is taking that doctor so long?
After what seemed like an eternity, when in reality it was only a few minutes, the door opened again, and he heard the whispering sound of a doctor's smock rubbing against his clothing as he walked. The individual moved to the other side of his bed, and he felt the i.v. tube move slightly as the doctor positioned it so that the needle could be inserted into the rubber cap to inject the medication into it.
"I'm giving you a dose of morphine," the doctor explained. "Later, we'll find a painkiller that is not so addictive, but for now, this will make you feel better."
While Dom waited for the drug to take effect, he considered the irony of being administered morphine to ease his suffering. Morphine was a highly sought-after, highly addictive drug on the streets, one that was difficult to overcome when addicted. When he was in Vice, he had witnessed the effects of withdrawal on addicts, observing them with a feeling of sympathy and helplessness as they had struggled through the insomnia, muscle spasms, fever, nausea, severe stomach cramps, and muscle aches.
If he had been able to speak, he would have requested the less addictive medication now, rather than later, even if they were not as strong as morphine and unable to eliminate the pain completely. He had heard of police officers and military personnel who had become addicted while taking legally prescribed doses of morphine following injuries, and he was determined that he would not become one of them. But at that moment, he only wanted to feel the numbing effects of the drug he had been given. He would worry about everything else later.
Fortunately, he did not have long to wait. He knew that morphine is a fact-acting painkiller, and he soon began to feel the gradual easing of the pain, and the feeling of well-being associated with that particular drug. It was that sensation of euphoria that made it so highly desirable among addicts. He relaxed, feeling comfortable and content, and he allowed the blessed darkness of sleep to creep in and overtake him.
T. J. watched, sensing that his friend was drifting off to sleep. "His eyes were partly open for just a moment while you were gone," he told him. "He tried to speak, but couldn't. Is that a bad sign?"
The doctor smiled. "No. The night staff had him pretty heavily sedated. It's only natural that it will take some time for him to overcome it. Believe me, he's greatly improved. The next time he awakens, the drug should have worn off enough that he should have recovered the ability to speak. Right now, what he needs is rest." He glanced at the weary face of the curly-haired officer who had so generously demonstrated the value of friendship during the past twenty-four hours. "Which is what you look like you could use, as well. I don't suppose I can impress upon you to go home and get some sleep."
T. J. shook his head. "His mother will be arriving some time later this afternoon or evening. I'll leave when she gets here."
"All right. Well, I have other patients to see. I've upgraded his condition from critical to serious. I think he's out of immediate danger, but if you notice any changes, or if he shows signs of coming to again, send for me."
"I will," T. J. promised.
Doctor Windom left the room, and T. J. sank into the chair once more, but this time, it was renewed hope that Luca was going to recover.
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