Post by thelori24 on Aug 25, 2016 3:12:03 GMT
Severe traumatic head injury, they told her. She was lucky to be alive, they told her.
The details of that day were still hazy, pieces still missing. She remembered her team…she remembered shooters…she didn’t remember the specifics.
Some memory loss is to be expected, they told her. Especially around the incident that resulted in the injury. It may or may not ever fully come back, they told her.
She tried to speak, tried to ask questions. How had she gotten here? How long had she been here? But the words that came were not the words she’d intended to ask.
Sometimes speech gets scrambled, they told her. It was alright, the words should come back in time.
Simple things she’d never given a second thought to doing proved difficult, water poured out across the table instead of the glass.
Your coordination and depth perception have been damaged, they told her. With time and therapy they will hopefully get better.
The cybernetic eye you’d had before was shattered, they told her. The shrapnel severely damaged the nerves around it, we could try to put in another but there’s a good chance it wouldn’t take, they explained. She opted against more surgeries that might not even help her.
She had trouble sleeping.
Sometimes after such an injury sleep patterns are disrupted, they told her. We can give you medication to help with that, they offered.
She didn’t tell them about the nightmares that came with it as well, dreams of shadowy figures, of watching her friends die, of the dreams where she was the one who pulled the trigger.
Her head hurt terribly, worse than just about anything else she’d ever experienced.
We will up your pain medication dosage, at least temporarily, they promised.
For everything, they had answers. Calm, detached, professional answers. Except for that one nurse with cheerful attitude that just felt painfully forced to her.
She wasn’t sure which irritated her more.
She wasn’t sure why it irritated her. It shouldn’t. They had saved her life, and were just doing their jobs. It wasn’t them who had just been told they might never be as they were before. That they might not ever be able to fully speak straight or walk straight or think straight again. She certainly couldn’t shoot or fight like this.
Emotional swings are normal, they told her. You’re dealing with a lot right now, and it’s normal to go through a wide range of emotions. You might become angry, or depressed. There are ways to help with that, they assured her.
Answers. To every damn thing.
She didn’t want a bunch of answers to things she didn’t want to think about right now though. All she really wanted though was not to be here like this, alone. She missed her family, her friends…she wanted them here with her, just to not have to do this alone.
But then something else would happen. She’d drop something, or snap at someone for trying to talk to her when she couldn’t think past the pain in her head and she had to pause…this was not how she wanted any of them to see her. To think of her. She didn’t want them to pity her, and just how broken she felt.
After a while on the days she felt better she started watching television to pass the time. There was little else to do between treatments and she grew bored and restless.
The news report left her gutted. Explosion at the Overwatch headquarters in Switzerland which left the building leveled, multiple presumed dead, including Overwatch Commander Jack Morrison.
A few days later highlights from the Memorial were broadcast as well, the world saying goodbye to an international, and despite everything in recent history, much beloved hero. The gathered crowds, the ceremony, the speeches, the familiar faces, she took them all in as though from a surreal distance. Reinhardt, tall and proud in his dress uniform, speaking warmly of the friend he’d lost. A glimpse of Fareeha in the crowd, trying so hard to look brave. They had lost so much, and she ached for them and to be there with them.
But how could she have comforted them…when what they had lost fell so much on her shoulders?
She should have been there. She should have been in Switzerland. She should have been there when they’d needed her. And she would have, had she protected them better on that last damned mission.
Instead, she had failed. Maybe she’d gotten careless. Maybe she was getting too old for this. But she had failed them. And in turn had failed herself. And had ultimately failed not just one team, but all of them.
She had always been a soldier; it was all she’d ever known. She didn’t know how to be anything or anyone else.
But she couldn’t protect them anymore.
And she couldn’t go back. Not like this.
She’d rather they remember her as she had been, the protector, the soldier, strong, capable, loving and happy.
It was better than being remembered as the broken, pitiable woman who’d let everyone down.
It was better to be just a ghost than to be that.
It was better to be anything than to be that…
The details of that day were still hazy, pieces still missing. She remembered her team…she remembered shooters…she didn’t remember the specifics.
Some memory loss is to be expected, they told her. Especially around the incident that resulted in the injury. It may or may not ever fully come back, they told her.
She tried to speak, tried to ask questions. How had she gotten here? How long had she been here? But the words that came were not the words she’d intended to ask.
Sometimes speech gets scrambled, they told her. It was alright, the words should come back in time.
Simple things she’d never given a second thought to doing proved difficult, water poured out across the table instead of the glass.
Your coordination and depth perception have been damaged, they told her. With time and therapy they will hopefully get better.
The cybernetic eye you’d had before was shattered, they told her. The shrapnel severely damaged the nerves around it, we could try to put in another but there’s a good chance it wouldn’t take, they explained. She opted against more surgeries that might not even help her.
She had trouble sleeping.
Sometimes after such an injury sleep patterns are disrupted, they told her. We can give you medication to help with that, they offered.
She didn’t tell them about the nightmares that came with it as well, dreams of shadowy figures, of watching her friends die, of the dreams where she was the one who pulled the trigger.
Her head hurt terribly, worse than just about anything else she’d ever experienced.
We will up your pain medication dosage, at least temporarily, they promised.
For everything, they had answers. Calm, detached, professional answers. Except for that one nurse with cheerful attitude that just felt painfully forced to her.
She wasn’t sure which irritated her more.
She wasn’t sure why it irritated her. It shouldn’t. They had saved her life, and were just doing their jobs. It wasn’t them who had just been told they might never be as they were before. That they might not ever be able to fully speak straight or walk straight or think straight again. She certainly couldn’t shoot or fight like this.
Emotional swings are normal, they told her. You’re dealing with a lot right now, and it’s normal to go through a wide range of emotions. You might become angry, or depressed. There are ways to help with that, they assured her.
Answers. To every damn thing.
She didn’t want a bunch of answers to things she didn’t want to think about right now though. All she really wanted though was not to be here like this, alone. She missed her family, her friends…she wanted them here with her, just to not have to do this alone.
But then something else would happen. She’d drop something, or snap at someone for trying to talk to her when she couldn’t think past the pain in her head and she had to pause…this was not how she wanted any of them to see her. To think of her. She didn’t want them to pity her, and just how broken she felt.
After a while on the days she felt better she started watching television to pass the time. There was little else to do between treatments and she grew bored and restless.
The news report left her gutted. Explosion at the Overwatch headquarters in Switzerland which left the building leveled, multiple presumed dead, including Overwatch Commander Jack Morrison.
A few days later highlights from the Memorial were broadcast as well, the world saying goodbye to an international, and despite everything in recent history, much beloved hero. The gathered crowds, the ceremony, the speeches, the familiar faces, she took them all in as though from a surreal distance. Reinhardt, tall and proud in his dress uniform, speaking warmly of the friend he’d lost. A glimpse of Fareeha in the crowd, trying so hard to look brave. They had lost so much, and she ached for them and to be there with them.
But how could she have comforted them…when what they had lost fell so much on her shoulders?
She should have been there. She should have been in Switzerland. She should have been there when they’d needed her. And she would have, had she protected them better on that last damned mission.
Instead, she had failed. Maybe she’d gotten careless. Maybe she was getting too old for this. But she had failed them. And in turn had failed herself. And had ultimately failed not just one team, but all of them.
She had always been a soldier; it was all she’d ever known. She didn’t know how to be anything or anyone else.
But she couldn’t protect them anymore.
And she couldn’t go back. Not like this.
She’d rather they remember her as she had been, the protector, the soldier, strong, capable, loving and happy.
It was better than being remembered as the broken, pitiable woman who’d let everyone down.
It was better to be just a ghost than to be that.
It was better to be anything than to be that…