That's Not My Type

“Sir? Sir?! I don’t think he can hear us—someone work on getting an airway!”

No. I can. I can hear you. But please…. please, I can feel it burning. Wait. WaiT. WaIT WAIT WAi—

Oh. Oh that feels better.

“Check under his nose. Good? Thank God; Sir?”

Thank you… but please, it still hurts. 

“I’m still not getting any reactions, let’s get a neuro check and see if we can stop this bleeding.”

Bleeding? I… I’m bleeding? Am I? No, that doesn’t make sense, I don’t remember bleeding. I don’t remember but—

Oh. Oh… 

I am bleeding. 

“Daddy?”

I never used a gun. Never, even when my father tried to take me hunting on Thanksgiving. I’ve never touched one. Never, even during my eleventh grade year, when it dropped from Simon Pernicks hand when the police apprehended him, and slid only a few feet from me. 

You became a cop three years after our eleventh grade year; and you brought me along as you were training at the local gun range. I never held one. And I never shot one.

I knew nothing about them, except for tales of the jerking shocks it sent back through your wrists as you fired it; the gunpowder that stained your fingers and hands when the bullet released; the deafening bang that’s shrouded by the headphones they make you wear. I knew how to.

I never used a gun.

“His eyes are open. Sir? We have your wife and daughter in the waiting room, can you try and blink for me?”

I don’t think so. 

“Sir?” 

Please… I’m tired. And the pain… maybe it isn’t so bad now.

More… more like pressure… like someone pushing down  and p r e s s i n g

“His heart rate just spiked—someone bring me a sedative!”

Oh. 

It’s dark again.

“Daddy?”

You became my wife next; my best friend, my partner, my love. I’d never been this before. A friend, a boyfriend, but never a husband. But I would be the best for you. As easy as I’d said it, however, it was so much harder than what I’d thought. Because I never had that; someone to see being a husband. Only my father. And no mother. 

You believed in me though. Kissed my cheek, and held my hand, only adding more to all the things you’d already been teaching me over the course of five years.

You got promoted to Detective the following week, and when you were dispatched to your first shootout, we both went to bed with thoughts of Simon Pernick. 

“Let’s try again. Sir? Your family is here, can you try and squeeze my hand?”

Am… am I doing it? Please, I must be, it burns so much.

“Still nothing…”

No. I have to be doing it. I have to be.

“Sir, I’m going to bring in your wife and daughter now.”

Please don’t. They’ll be so scared. They don’t want to see me burning.

“Daddy?”

I was turning twenty-seven, same as you, when there were a series of doctors appointments added to our calendar. Dr. Mary Kohn. I always liked the name Mary; reminded me of Christmas, though I wasn’t a practicing catholic. I stopped after the eleventh grade. 

I still remembered though, everything I’d learned from previous Sunday School activity.

My father wasn’t too pleased with my decision afterwards, and still believed I follow him once a week for sunday. So I sat in the church pews, with my hands folded neatly in my lap, standing and sitting, rising and falling, and pretended to listen.

People prefer when they can pretend; it’s why we have actors, and movies, and television. 

Dr. Mary Kohn. OB-GYN.

It’s funny, the things we remember.

“Ma’am, I’m afraid he hasn’t been responsive. It doesn’t mean he’s dead, because there’s still activity being monitored, and he can breathe on his own… but he doesn’t seem to recognize anything. At this time, we can only assume it’s because the positioning of the bullet.”

Bullet?

Like… from a gun? Oh—oh no. No. Oh God. Oh God… a bullet? What—

OH. Oh God! Please! PLEASE! It’s back! Oh God it BURNS! Please!

“Pressures dropping—his lung is collapsing, it must have aggravated his lung tissues when it shot through his chest—someone get a chest tube in case we need to intubate, and let’s get him stabilized NOW!”

“Daddy? Daddy please?”

She was born on a Wednesday, an oddly clear memory. It was raining outside, and the view from the window was level to the city-scape, the clouds shining an allusion through the rain and making the buildings glare with sunlight.

Although the weather was gloomy, the day was beautiful. 

She was born late in the morning, appearing tiny and pink. Until she wasn’t. 

Not until she was rushed away, that we realized she wasn’t crying. 

Then three hours later, after we’d cried, and slept and cried some more, Dr. Mary Kohn came back into the room, with our baby girl, and placed her your arms, with a little tube coming out from her nose, and a pink hat nestled around the small tufts of hair that she had.

Then you called her ‘Hope’. 

And ‘Hope’ was beautiful.

“Welcome back Sir, we almost lost you for a minute. There might be some discomfort around your chest, but we’ve given you some medication to ward off the pain.”

Pain… that’s familiar… but why? 

Oh. I got shot… I forgot for a moment. And… everything feels tired and heavy. And…. Hope. 

Hope was here. But it burned.

And then Hope was gone.

“Daddy?”

You thought she was sick. Because she wasn’t walking yet. I remember being told that I crawled until I was a year and a half, but that didn’t seem to aide your anxiety. I’m so sorry, looking back. I tried to be better… but maybe I wasn’t. 

We took her to a pediatric nurse at the walk-in, who told us that she was probably just a late bloomer. I was fine with that, but you still weren’t fully convinced.

Two weeks later, she walked to you for the first time, and you were so happy.

This was the reason I didn’t tell you that she actually walked three weeks earlier.

Because her Mommy never got to saw.

“Sir? He’s still unresponsive… what were his last vitals?”

Tired. My vitals are tired… and everything feels so heavy… 

“...ok, I want us to get another set done in fifteen minutes. How’s his wife and daughter?”

Hope… 

“Let’s give them another update, let them come in and sit while you do the vitals.”

“Daddy?”

Today. Or yesterday. 

You were out, and Hope and I were home making dinner; Kraft Dinner and hot-dogs; and watching Dora the Explorer reruns. We left the back door open, because Mickey kept running in and out into the backyard. 

So I didn’t notice when an armed man came in, and raised his arm, calling out a warning.

Mickey attacked first; grabbing onto his leg. The man lost his control on the gun, and that was when I threw myself in front of Hope.

“He’s crashing! We need more B Negative!”

No… no… 

That’s not my type.