To borrow a line from You Don’t Know How It Feels by Tom Petty, “I woke up in between a memory and a dream.” The last thing I remember is the anxious look on my mom’s face as she watched my stepfather drive me to the ER. Somewhere beneath the nausea and fatigue was the urge to tell her everything would be fine, but I think even then a part of me knew it wouldn’t be. This wasn’t heat exhaustion. It wasn’t the flu or food poisoning. It was something else. Something far worse.

I watched my mom watching me as Don backed us down the driveway. She held her hands clasped in front of her, as if resisting the urge to reach out. Her lavender dress matched the lilies in the yard. It would be the last time I would see her for four weeks.

#

Every type of medical machine – and not the type you’re used to seeing in person—was packed into the room. They looked more like the monstrosities only Hollywood could dream up. I couldn’t turn my head because of the neck brace, but I wasn’t afraid. This was a dream. Or so I thought. In truth, this was morphine, which still laced my blood like the muffling cocktail it is.

I could see the blue machines out of the corner of my eye. The largest one housed a beige accordion that rose and fell in time with my breathing. A white tube snaked from the machine, over the bedrail, across my shoulder, up to my face, and into my mouth.

I gagged. Or wanted to gag. My body seemed to have forgotten how.

There was a tube shoved down my throat. I had a tube. In my throat. And I couldn’t move. It was more than the neck brace: I tried to lift an arm but nothing happened. I told my leg to kick, to flail, to lift to do something but got nothing. Was I in a full body brace? This was shaping up to be a very bad dream.

I could see people in green uniforms hurrying past the glass paneled wall to my left. Greeting cards covered the wall across from my bed. Mylar balloons emblazoned with “Get Well” messages sagged on their strings nearby.

“Scott.”

A woman’s voice. I tore my gaze from the tube to find her. She stood with her back to me just beyond the machines. Her brown ponytail contrasted nicely with the hunter green of her hospital scrubs. She’d said my name so familiarly, as if she’d used it a hundred times before.

“You really need to see this,” she said. From my position in the bed, the army of machines blocked whatever she was looking at. I could hear women’s voices cheering and shouting and guessed it was a TV. I wasn’t sure I’d ever been in a dream with a TV. Then again, I’d definitely never been in a dream with a tube shoved down my throat either.

The woman turned toward me. Our eyes locked. I definitely didn’t recognize her. For a moment she went completely still. I stared at her, half-waiting for her to pull a Linda Blaire on me or some other supernatural dream magic. What I got was supernatural calm.

“Good afternoon, Scott,” she said. Her voice was smooth and soft, as if there were nothing at all amiss. “You’ve been asleep quite a while.” A smile started pulling at her mouth. It grew until it became almost giddy.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, then spun and hurried from the room. 

Wait! I tried to call out to her but the tube wedged in my mouth turned my cry into a muffled groan. Sweat started beading on my forehead. I was ready to wake up now.

#

I didn’t recognize the face of the man who came into my room next, but his white lab coat, dark suit, and checkered tie spelled doctor.

I focused on the somber line of his mouth and narrowness of his brown eyes while I studied his face for a clue as to why I was here. It was dawning on me that this, despite the surreal horrors surrounding me, was no dream. I was really in a hospital, really gagged, and my neck was really held in a brace. And I really couldn’t move.

Though not tall, the doctor was broad enough to block out everything else in my limited view when he leaned over me. He’d put himself between my bed and the machines. A tactical move? I wondered.

He bent at the waist to bring his face comfortably into my view.

“Hi, Scott,” he said, putting his left hand on my right shoulder. “I’m Dr. Henrickson. You’ve been very sick and had all of us quite worried.” By the look in his eyes, this wasn’t just a line. They really had been worried about me.

“You’ve made it down a very long road. The tube in your throat is providing you with air and is connected to this machine.” He gestured to the blue, Star-Trekian monstrosity with the accordion inside it.

“The other machines have been necessary to keep you alive and may remain so for a little while longer. The ones you can’t see are the pulse oximeter which has been monitoring the oxygenation of your blood, an intravenous drip to keep you hydrated, and the dialysis machine which has been taking the place of your kidneys.”

I felt my mind rock and sway the way it might moments before sleep. Pulse oximeter. Intravenous drip. Dialysis. Keep you alive. Even I knew these machines were used when a patient was in bad shape. What I didn’t know was why that patient was me. What had happened to me?

On cue, Dr. Henrickson said, “I want to tell you about why you’re here, and why you’re bandaged.”

Panic rose another notch. I could only turn my head an inch to either side and could see nothing below the blue tube in my mouth, which I was determined to avoid making eye contact with. For all I knew everything below my neck was currently wrapped in gauze. I stared hard at Dr. Henrickson’s brown eyes, counting my breaths. Or the machine’s breaths. Our breaths?

Were the bandages keeping me from moving? Had they strapped me to the bed? I refused to think the p-word. If I was immobilized, it had to be because of something external, not internal damage. Bandages not a broken spine.

“You contracted a serious illness, Scott. One which nearly killed you,” Dr. Henrickson said. “We refer to it as Toxic Shock Syndrome. You may have heard the media refer to it as the flesh-eating disease.”

I strained against the neck brace. Images of microscopic insects eating my skin. Get them off, get them off, getthemoff!

“The official name is Group A Streptococcus, G.A.S. for short,” Dr. Henrickson said. “It’s most commonly recognized as the cause of strep throat and impetigo. But in its invasive form, it’s also caused scarlet and rheumatic fever. And necrotizing fasciitis.”

He paused.

“Which is where the flesh-eating component comes in.” This time he at least had the decency to wince slightly at the words “flesh-eating.” Or maybe he was just wincing at my expression.

He cleared his throat. “You see, in the throat or on the skin, the bacteria can reside unnoticed or with only mild symptoms and discomfort. But in rare cases such as yours, it’s able to infect the blood, muscle, fat tissue, or lungs. When this happens, it can rapidly become life threatening.”

He paused again. Was he waiting for a response? Letting this information soak in? If I could have covered my ears and hummed, I can’t hear you, I can’t hear you, I would have. But this doctor and his “lifesaving” machines had me captive.

Dr. Henrickson continued, “As the disease progressed, your system went into multiple organ failure and shock. We were forced to put you on full life support in a medically-induced coma. You’ve been in that coma for the past month.”

I quickly did the math—a welcome distraction from other thoughts. The last date I remembered was mid-July and the Nike camp. So this must be mid-August. We were supposed to go to Europe in August. Had the team gone without me?

“During your coma, the necrotizing fasciitis caused the skin on your hands and feet to become gangrenous. To prevent it from spreading and eventually killing you, we had to amputate.”

Thoughts of the Holland Cup in Europe cut short at Dr. Henrickson’s last word. Had he just said amputate? I locked my gaze with both of his small, brown eyes. Amputate what?

Dr. Henrickson pursed his mouth and glanced away. I wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. Amputate what! 

When he met my eyes again, he looked about as happy to be there as I was. “We… were forced to remove your hands up to your mid-forearms and the front part of both feet.”

That’s when I started to laugh. Not literally, of course. I was on full life support. The tempo of my breathing didn’t even change. I did wonder briefly if there was a button for laughter on the breathing machine. Maybe one for a scream? Because that would probably come in handy later.

They hadn’t cut off my hands and feet. Who did this doctor think he was, Al Capone?

This wasn’t a mafia movie and I was not a quadruple amputee.

As if sensing he was losing his audience, Dr. Henrickson said, “Scott, I know it’s hard to accept these things right now, but you have to understand if we hadn’t done the surgery you never would have survived. The disease would have killed you. I think you only did survive because you’re a fighter and you were in excellent physical condition.”

He continued. “Your muscles are severely atrophied, which is why you find it hard to move. But you’re past the most difficult part. Now you just need to heal.”

He squeezed my shoulder and straightened. His lab coat swished behind him as he turned to look over the machines at my bedside. He checked this, tapped that, and jotted a few things down on a clipboard before turning back to me.

Laying his hand on my shoulder once more, he said, “Your mother and stepfather should be here soon.” With two pats of his hand, he told me to rest then strode from the room.

Without the doctor for distraction, my gaze fell on the wall opposite my bed again. I stopped counting the cards taped there at fifty and the Mylar balloons flying at half-mast at ten.

How long did it take Mylar balloons to lose their air?

A month, Dr. Henrickson had said. I’d been in this hospital, in this bed, in a coma for a month. I couldn’t process it all. Didn’t want to process it all. This was not how my life was going to go. I’d done everything I was supposed to do, followed all the rules for a good life: I’d worked hard, eaten right, exercised regularly. I’d been so good.

I felt wetness on my face and instinctually thought to wipe it away. But of course that was impossible. Not only did I not have enough muscle left to lift my arms, if the doctor was to be believed, I didn’t even have hands left to wipe my face.

No hands or feet, supposedly. I mentally shook my head. I refused to believe it. You can’t play soccer with no feet. And I was a collegiate soccer coach. I needed my feet.

I’d also like to keep my hands, thanks.

Scott Martin has returned to the classroom as a teacher in Central Wisconsin along with coaching soccer. Wanting to help the advancement of prosthetics and public awareness of amputee abilities rather than disabilities, he has participated in research projects for the University of Washington and Johns Hopkins University. He holds an advanced national coaching license and has spent 25 years coaching soccer at select youth, high school, and college levels. He’s worked with prominent national coaches both here and abroad. You can find him on Facebook, Twitter: @ScottRoadTrip, and his website: https://lifesaroadtrip.podbean.com/