Not a Princess
She's still stroking me. I haven't quite woken up yet, but I can hear her. Sitting beside me on the chair, as always, running her fingers through my hair. Who am I to her? A toy, a doll, a princess, or just a standard patient?
I feel everything. Comfortable, soft pajamas… She keeps changing my clothes. Gowns, pajamas… so that I'm as comfortable as possible? It really is comfortable. Well, almost.
The stiff collar is still fastened around my neck. Needles, catheters, sensors, a blood pressure cuff, and, of course, the breathing tube. Without it, I would truly die. The machine, the tubes, and, of course, the constant noise. I don't know how many days I've been lying here. But I've gotten used to it. Practically.
Of course, there are many nurses and doctors here.
They talk to me constantly. Well, almost — I'm intubated, I can't say anything. Plus the medication, the needles… I don't quite hear everything, and I don't understand everything either. At least I'm not a vegetable, not a plant. Mentally, that is. Physically — yes, almost. A fully wired patient. A former coma patient.
I remember some of it. A shirt, a leather vest, black pants… I was on my way to work. My heart suddenly clenched, like a fist tightening in my chest. It hurt. I didn't even manage to sit down on a bench — my legs gave out. A stretcher, a collar… so I must have fallen hard, hit my head. It was hard to breathe. They put an oxygen mask on me. It helped. Not for long, but it helped. And then — darkness, from which I don't remember how long it took to climb out.
They told me a lot, but — not everything. I had already been in a coma. I was intubated. Connected. There was surgery. They showed me a photo. A hospital gown, a surgical cap. Sensors, tubes…
I didn't recognize myself. Was that really me? Pale, eyes closed, as if I were simply sleeping. But I know — it wasn't sleep. In the photo, I looked dead. Alive-dead.
I felt afraid. Not for myself back then — I don't remember her, she's a stranger to me. Afraid for myself now. How much of the person in that photo is still left in me?
I did wake up, after all. Of course, it was terrifying.
The first thing I saw was the ceiling. White, with a small crack in the corner. The light hurt my eyes, even though it wasn't bright. Voices around me sounded as if through water — distant, unclear, someone speaking quickly, someone touching my wrist.
I tried to move — and couldn't. My body wouldn't obey, as if it didn't belong to me. Something was lodged in my throat, hard, foreign — I later understood it was the tube. Every breath was being taken not by me, but for me.
Panic hit before I could process anything. My heart — the same heart that had started all of this — was pounding so hard I could hear it in my temples. I wanted to scream, to call someone, to ask "where am I? what happened?" — and I couldn't force out a single sound.
Then I saw her. She was sitting on the chair beside me, as always — as if she had been waiting for exactly this moment. She took my hand — carefully, as if afraid I might fall apart — and said quietly:
"Shh. You're in the hospital. You're safe. Don't be afraid."
I couldn't answer. But I heard her. And for the first time in these unknown days — I believed her.
My body has already gotten used to these catheters, the tubes. They give me massages. But I'm still practically paralyzed. Is this normal, from the medication? Or will I stay this way?
They keep changing my tubing, the medication bags too. Will I end up fat and disgusting? Or, maybe, the opposite? Of course, they clean the breathing tube — it's necessary, the mucus… I could choke.
New hairstyles, new pajamas. So that I'll look pretty? I really am a doll, aren't I?
They took a new selfie of me. The glasses were unnecessary, but at least I'm a pretty intubated model.
It wasn't her this time. A different nurse — straight red hair, a shiny blue uniform with metal buttons that clinked quietly as she moved. I'd seen her before, more than once. I just don't remember when exactly, don't remember the details. Her face, her movements — familiar, but where and how many times — lost somewhere in the fog of these days.
They do this on purpose, to… what? So I can see the progress? So I can compare myself "then" and "now"? Or maybe it's not for me at all — maybe it's so they can prove to themselves that the work isn't in vain.
The redhead held the phone so I'd be sure to see the screen. She wasn't looking at the photo — she was looking at me. As if waiting for some reaction. I wanted to smile, but with a tube in my throat, even that is a luxury I don't have. So I just blinked twice.
"Pretty," she said, and smiled, fixing my hair.
I don't know if I can trust her the same way I trust the other one. But something in this familiar unfamiliarity makes me want to try.
It's me again. There's even good news. They're going to take me off the machine. I'll even be able to breathe on my own. And move a little. Just a little.
Long, glossy red nails on my fingers — someone gave me a manicure while I was lying here. Was that on purpose? So that, looking at my own hands, I'd see not illness, but something alive, something cared for. A small thing, and yet it makes me want to cry.
I've been intubated for almost two weeks now, and because of that, it's not as simple as it seems. There are certain scenarios. The doctor explained it calmly, almost casually: either I'll be able to breathe normally on my own, or I'll stay connected.
If things go badly, they'll do a tracheostomy. A hole straight into my throat, a tube going directly into the trachea, bypassing my mouth. It's truly terrifying. But, as they told me, it will be the only reliable option if my lungs can't manage on their own.
I lie there and think: two weeks. Two weeks of my life I don't remember, not even in fragments. And ahead — another choice that doesn't depend on me.
The feeding tube, the breathing tube… they removed them. It was disgusting and unpleasant — my throat felt raw, like sandpaper, coughing tore up from somewhere inside, and I barely had the strength for it. I held a tissue to my mouth for a long time. Mucus, saliva, the taste of rubber and medication — all together.
They put an oxygen mask on me. It's still hard. Every breath had to be pulled out, not simply taken. And now — it's hard. My chest feels weighed down by something heavy, my lungs won't obey, no matter how much I ask them to.
Could I really end up staying here? Connected… The word keeps circling in my head and won't let go. I glance at the mask out of the corner of my eye, at the tubes leading somewhere behind me, and think: what if this is forever? What if my body has simply decided it doesn't want to breathe on its own anymore?
I'm afraid to ask. I'm even more afraid to hear the answer.
I just lie here and wait. For whatever comes next.
The doctor is already sitting on the chair beside me. Is it evening already? It's getting dark outside. A blouse, a leather skirt, dark tights, a white coat over it. And a badge — it catches the light from the lamp, but I can't read the name. I don't have my glasses, so I can't see everything.
She stays silent longer than usual. I've already learned: when the silence stretches on — it's either very good, or very bad. There's no in-between here.
She finally spoke. Quietly.
"Your heart stopped. Out on the street. People nearby managed to help, they called an ambulance."
I listen and try to piece it together with what I remember myself: the tightness in my chest, my legs giving out, the darkness. It turns out the darkness lasted far longer than I thought.
"Then there was surgery. And a coma. A long one."
She pauses. Looks at me as if weighing every next word.
"We still don't have enough data, so you'll be staying here for now. We might need to put you back on the machines. But we'll take care of you. Absolutely."
Absolutely. The word hangs in the air, too smooth, too confident for a situation where nothing is clear — not even to me.
Not a princess, after all. A doll. The kind that gets dressed, washed, connected and disconnected whenever they decide it's necessary — not whenever I decide. The situation is unclear, and it seems it's not just unclear to me. They know something. They just don't want to say.
Well, at least I never had to ask… not while intubated, not while afraid.
There's still an oxygen mask over my face. Maybe I'll be able to eat normally… Without feeding tubes, without the other tubes.
Of course, I'm far from recovered. Still plenty of catheters, plenty of needles. But I'm not a vegetable anymore. And even that — is good.
