BARE HUNTER

I had woken up in the hospital. They told me my heart had stopped, and while in the Cardiac Care unit, the doctor put two stents in my heart to clear several blockages. They were more concerned with the drugs they found in my blood system than the condition of my heart.

I had more important things to worry about now. Was Sharon hurt? Had her husband finally found her? Did he kidnap her? Kill her? Why didn’t I spend the night with her? I should have stayed. I should have stayed.

As I tried to unravel events, a plainclothes policeman approached the bed, snapping open a leather ID case to show me his badge. “Mr. Bronsky, we are going to remove the cuffs. When you recuperate, you are free to leave. We have questions for you, though, concerning Mrs. Decker.

We’d appreciate it if you would report to the police station to help us understand the timeline of her attack. Any information will help.”

“Sharon,” I couldn’t finish my sentence.

“Mrs. Decker will recover, thankfully. She has identified her attacker, and we are currently looking for him.”

“C-can I see her?” I croaked out in a voice I didn’t recognize.

“Sorry, that’s above my pay grade. Ask a nurse. Get well, Mr. Bronsky,” he said, leaving after uncuffing me.

She’s alive. That’s all that mattered to me. She made it. She was a survivor. I admired her strength and courage more than ever. The exchange with the officer left me drained and I slipped back into the comfort of unconscioiusness. It was dusk by the time Dr. Carpenter stopped by on his rounds. “So, Mr. Bronsky, we found quite a few drugs in your bloodstream. Can you tell me who your primary is?”

Shrugging awake, I replied, “Uh, it’s Dr. Mitchell at the VA clinic. I only take what he prescribes, but I recently changed a med and was starting a new one.”

“Can you list them for me?”

“Lexapro, Paroxetine, Zoloft, and Rizatriptan.”

“So, no Thorazine?”

“Thorazine? No. Why?” I asked, surprised.

“You don’t engage in purchasing illicit drugs?”

“No. I have enough meds in my system legally.”

“Well, we found enough Thorazine in your blood to kill an elephant. How do you suppose it got into your system? No doctor would prescribe it on top of what you already take.”

“I have no idea how that got in my system,” I insisted.

“Does anyone else have access to your medications? Kids, family, friends?”

“Absolutely not. I live alone. No one visits.”

“Okay, then, I’m scheduling you for a follow-up appointment in one week. I’d like to keep you here until the Thorazine is out of your system. You had two small blockages in your heart that we stented preventatively, but that doesn’t explain why your heart stopped. So, I’m guessing it was the Thorazine overdose.”

“Wow, I’ve been feeling out of it lately. I thought it was from my regular meds, though, and I have trouble sleeping.”

“Rizatriptan, PTSD?” he quizzed.

“Since the military. Last deployment was, it was...”

“Are you seeing anyone for it?”

“Just Doc Mitchell. I don’t believe in all that pscho-babble.”

“Well, I do, so you are going to have to speak with a mental health professional before I let you out of my sight. Hope you’ll cooperate.”

“I’m sort of your prisoner. Where am I going?”

“Yep. That’s right. Hope we can get you on the road to total wellness, and by the way, thank you for your service. I’m sorry to see you suffering. This sort of thing, untreated PTSD for our vets, makes me furious,” he stated before walking out.

A young, blond nurse in scrubs came in to make more notes and ask if I needed anything.

“I could use a trip to the bathroom.”

“Number one or number two?” she asked, without missing a beat.

“Number one. I feel like I’m back in kindergarten.”

She smirked, pulled a portable urinal out of a cabinet, handed it to me, and said. “You know what to do. I’ll give you some privacy.”

When I finished, she asked, “Ready for dinner? Your menu is on the stand next to you. Just use your phone and follow the directions to order.”

“I get a menu and a choice?”

“Yep, five-star restaurant.”

She checked my IV drip and left the room. A few minutes later, a tall, young doctor, in a white lab coat walked in, carrying a notebook. He pulled a chair up to the bedside, flung his badge over his shoulder, as if it irked him, and introduced himself. “Hello, I’m Dr. Porter. Your Cardiologist asked me to confer with you before he releases you. I’m a psychologist.”

“I don’t how you can help. But, sure, if it means I get out of here sooner, I’ll talk with you.”

“So, they said you had a cocktail of potent drugs in your blood samples when you arrived. Were you aware of that?”

“Yes. Most of them were prescribed and I don’t know where the other one came from.”

“The Thorazine?” he asked.

“Yeah. I wasn’t taking that.”

“Umhm. You have no idea how you ingested it?”

“No. Not a clue.”

“Where do you keep your medicines, sir?”

“At home, and I never, ever have visitors.”

“Okay. Then. Have you been depressed, feeling hopeless lately?”

“I always feel depressed and hopeless but I wasn’t trying to off myself, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“How long have you been feeling depressed and hopeless?”

“Since my last deployment in the Middle East,” I told him.

“So, for about ten years, then?”

“Ah, yeah,” I said tentatively, not feeling entirely comfortable. How did he know when I was last deployed?

“Can you tell me what prompted these feelings?”

“No. I cannot.”

“Whatever you say is held in strictest confidentiality by our HIPPA laws.”

“Well, hip, hip, hurray. No. That’s not territory I’m willing to get into. Sorry, doc.”