Two Fives

Have you ever watched a TV drama where a coma patient opens his eyes and becomes instantly awake, alert, and “normal?” The daytime soaps do it best. All the family is gathered about the bedside, five years after the accident, and voila, the actor who couldn’t make in prime time has his old job back.

Not that there isn’t drama in the slow, painstaking, stage-by- stage return to consciousness. But it doesn’t play well on an hour drama, continuing soap, or a half hour. So, after my son’s tangle with an automobile sixteen years ago, I can finally find the humor. Sure, I could laugh at the time, but it was more an alternative to bawling my eyes out or just plain shattering into a thousand pieces.

Later it was a nervous, testing fate laugh. Now that I trust he’ll pull through, I can laugh, grateful laughter coming from the gut. I can laugh at parts of what happened on that date from which all things will forever be reckoned.

Back to the opening of the eyes. Having seen those shows I berated earlier, my husband and I hovered around our son’s intensive care bed, (as much as one can hover with all the blinking, blipping machinery around) awaiting the unveiling of those windows to the soul. Even the real nurses told us an early opening was important to recovery. So, we waited, we hovered, we feared, and we hoped.

Doctors, nurses, orderlies, custodians, and all manner of hospital denizens came and went. Friends and co-workers brought food and pity. We ate the food and avoided the pity. We had enough of our own, thank you very much. We would have sold our eyeteeth, our family jewels, our futures, and our eternal salvation to move this kid along the stages of coma to consciousness. The price, luckily, ended up being far less.

We explained coma to a practical, down-to- earth friend, a woman with children grown. She asked, “What does he like most?”

“Basic principle of reward. Offer what he wants to get what you want.” She was practical.

“Oh.” We said in unison, a speck of light glimmering in our cortisolled brains.

My mouth worked first. “He likes Nintendo, soccer, hot dogs, candy…”

We looked at each other. “Money!”

Yes, our little ten year old was a mercenary creature. Always looking for a dime.

“Money.” Our friend smiled. “So, what’s a lot of money for a kid these days?

Mine were happy with a penny, but that was long ago. A dollar too little? Twenty too

“Five.” That was my husband this time. I nodded in accord.

My husband pulled the sacrificial tender from his wallet as we reverently circled the hospital bed. My agnostic heart couldn’t quite pray over it. But I could see in his eyes, my husband’s Christian heart did.

He waved the holy wafer over my son. “Here’s five bucks. It’s yours. Just open your eyes.”

“I’m adding five.” The friend brandished hers as a crusader’s sword.

And the room slumbered, save for the flame-like crinkle of the bill and the thrumming chant of the machines.

Again we waited, hovered, etc. Those two five dollar bills had to be right. They had to be enough.

When our friend withdrew we smiled our see you laters. She slipped her five into my pocket. We didn’t say anything more. My husband stayed as long as he could, but another son had a life one of us must tend to.

“Have you asked him yet to open his eyes?” My husband stood next to me.

Sunlight peered through the blinds. I had no idea when either had entered the room.

“No.” I didn’t tell him I lacked the courage. I slid the money from my pocket and

“Open your eyes. You need to open your eyes. You want the money, don’t you?”

Morning goop outlined the lids, but they flickered. My autonomic nervous system forgot about breath and heartbeat.

The lids cracked. The goop parted.

That’s what it took. He had the best care, the best doctors, the best machines, the best medicines. But two five dollar bills opened his eyes. The long process of recovery began.

Unlike those TV dramas it wasn’t an angel, a puppy, a threat, or family pressure. It wasn’t even true love. It was money. Two fives.

Image by Becky Kjelstrom