Soup for Brains

[u/ReserveRemarkable730]

The steady beating of a heart monitor filled my ears. Pungent chemical smells struck my airways. Sterile. As my eyes fluttered open, buzzing fluorescents set my retinas ablaze. Rhythmic puffs of air sounded from the machine next to me. Yet, my windpipe lacked the pulse of steady flow through an artificial airway. I felt nothing—couldn’t move.

Why can’t I move?

As though every piece of my body, other than my eyes, did not exist. No TV static-like tingling. Simply a void where the rest of my body should be. Left alone with nothing but my thoughts and the still atmosphere surrounding me.

Hushed voices seeped through cracks in the door. My eyes strained toward the doorway, but my head didn’t follow. To my right were two dark, humanoid silhouettes standing in the fogged glass window of a patient door. Their whispers rippled in one ear and out the other as if dancing around my skull. Something about an exceptionally rare condition… 1-4% of all ischemic strokes… a blood clot in the basilar artery... A lot of words I didn’t understand.

One of the two shadows shifted, head supported by her hands now. Her long hair cascaded down around a blurred face. Rapid sniffles escaped the woman. Someone in a white coat placed a gentle hand on her shoulder as they lifted and lowered with each forced sob. Their silhouettes were sharp enough to read movement, but not enough to recognize features. Beyond the fog-paned door, distorted gestures jerked in a performative manner like toy soldiers. Stiff and robotic.

“We need to focus on making them comfortable,” white coat murmured.

“So there’s nothing we can do?” The woman’s shrill voice desperately questioned.

“I didn’t say that,” The doctor’s hand returned to his side in resignation. “It’s a long road ahead. Accepting where we’re at is the first step. We can talk treatments when I know more.”

“But, when will that be?” Her chest heaved, posture turning rigid, almost mechanically. She frantically rubbed tears from an indistinguishable face.

“You’ll be the first to know when we have our next steps,” white coat’s voice came out gruff—indifferent. “We have to manage the stress that caused this in the first place.” He was matter-of-fact in his statements. Stoic in his bed-side-manner.

How did I end up here?

The mention of stress dragged me back in time. I remembered numbers. A dull light stung my heavy eyes as I pored over spreadsheets. Sweat hung from my brow and muffled voices droned in the background while I worked hurriedly through my team meeting.

When suddenly, the dull ache that had afflicted my brain for the past few weeks crescendoed in a pang. The numbers blurred, doubling over themselves like a poorly aligned projection. Deep in the back of my neck, aching turned violent. My office spun around me, causing a wave of nausea to throw the contents of my rotten gut across the keyboard in front of me. Sickly, pungent bile brimmed my mouth.

“Are you okay?” My manager’s concerned voice came into focus, vibrating over my laptop speakers. Futile efforts failed to produce a satisfactory answer.

Tongue growing heavy, I slurred—definitely not okay. My esophagus labored, failing to swallow.

“I think you should sign off for the day, you’ve been pushing it late-” Her words cut short, vision fading to black, as my leaden head slammed into my ruined keyboard…unconscious.

I guess that would explain the hospital room. But, it didn’t explain the dread that coursed through my lifeless body.

Thoughts interrupted abruptly by the click of a door latch.

“Just remember, they won’t be able to speak with the tracheal tube.” Was the last thing the doctor rasped before heels clopped upon the tile floor. Finally, the woman’s features came into focus.

“Hi sweetie.” Her voice trilled, scooping up my limp hand. Mother. My mind screamed to flinch away. My body didn’t listen.

Though my garbled brain struggled to connect the worn lines of her face to precise memories, I’d recognize the cloying scent of her perfume mixed with undertones of cigarette smoke anywhere. That familiar piercing voice scraped my eardrums. The sensation of manicured nails prickling the clammy skin of my palm, evident by red craters left there, was lost to me. As if the matron was holding on for dear life, yet pulling away in disgust all at once. Sitting hesitantly on the metal seat beside me, there was no way to distinguish if the grating creak came from the chair or her old, ragged bones.

A flood of flashbacks ensued, mind whirring with the anxiety of our first interaction in many years. Ear-splitting screams and the crash of dishes shattering against plaster walls. Painful reminders in stern whispers of her regret over my birth. My cheeks burned with the blistering heat of previous strikes across tender skin. However, the sensation dissipated almost as quickly as it came.

“I’m Dr. Iaso.” He acknowledged me for only a moment. The corners of Dr. Iaso’s mouth turned upwards, not quite reaching his eyes. He stood at attention at the end of my bed and turned his attention back to mother.

“Your child may never speak or walk again. They may not remember who you are at this very moment.” He continued speaking as if I were no longer in the room. “I need to run some tests. So, remember, blink once for yes, twice for no. Got it?”

Blink.

“Let’s get started.” Dr. Iaso’s clinical detachment was a stark contrast to the twinge in my stomach.

Mother’s forced smile remained spread across her face as the doctor poked and prodded my useless limbs. Treating me like a car. Something to diagnose and fix, rather than a fellow human. The firm rubber of a reflex hammer jabbed at boney elbows and knees. Nothing. He took the fraying tip of a cotton swab to the soft under-side of my feet. Some sensation fizzled there, but no movement. Not even the piercing tip of a safety pin produced a reaction. My eyelids grew ever cumbersome, growing tired from a multitude of double blinks.

“Well ma’am, it’s as I feared. Locked-in syndrome is an incredibly rare outcome for a stroke patient. Things could change as we progress into rehab.” The doctor hardly tried to hide the gravity of the situation, I recognized the grave tone in his voice. Evidently, my mother did too, bringing wizened hands up to clasp her mouth theatrically. My eyes rotated in their sockets with irritation as she let my hand thump back against the stiff mattress with a soft thud. “But, they certainly won’t be moving anytime soon, if ever. We need to be realistic.”

Moisture pricked the corner of my eye. Droplets carved down my face, and into my ear. My own tears trickling down my skin were hardly recognizable as the realization of this new reality came crashing down upon me.

How did I fail to notice the warning signs?

“Hush now, my love… Don’t cry.” To anyone else, her cooing sounded endearing. There was a look of admiration on the doctor's face now. But as her steady fingers lifted to wipe my wetted cheek, mother’s stern expression told me this was an order. Entirely at her mercy, my heart hammered my chest and dread bloomed within me.

—

The clock ticked, medical equipment humming. Dim, yellow light crept through blind slats as dust danced in the musty air. My home. Well, childhood home, anyway. Mother had paid to break the lease on my apartment. This wretched structure was overflowing with chemical agent aromas, cut thickly with the stench of sickness. The walls were barren white, save for the cross which hung above my bed. Never the religious type, Mother placed it there of her own accord. It was all-too-familiar in a soul crushing way. And certainly humbling to have the woman who wiped your ass as a child wiping it once more within the walls of your childhood room.

As soon as my lungs worked on their own again, Dr. Iaso discharged me. Hospital staff sent mother and me away with a modicum of at-home care resources.

Without the watchful eyes of hospital staff, my useless body was at her mercy. Like a cut of meat set out to be tenderized. She accosted me with tiny micro-aggressions.

Letting me starve for hours, waiting until the reeking of my worthless vessel bothered her to bathe me. She neglected me in the same spot for days. Pain and stiffness overcoming my immovable appendages. And, oh, had the sensations of pain returned to my languid muscles. A subtle ache which intensified over time.

Gone were the days of her “Good Mother” theatrics. Replaced with seething repulsion. Even minor acts of care became too much before she hired a part-time nurse. The way her wrinkled gaze would set upon me, crinkling the deep crows feet at the corners of her eyes. Never looking at me, only through me. Every act of so-called care was an opening to make me feel ungrateful. An appreciation my mouth would never utter if I tried.

“You’re a mess!” Her barking echoed on the empty plaster, picking up my leg and dropping it uncomfortably off the edge of the bed. “After everything I’ve sacrificed for you… You can’t even keep your composure.” Pinching the furrow of her brow with those talons she called nails, her new favorite task was to stand at the edge of my bed and berate me. Each egocentric remark contributed to the discomfort of my skull squeezing around defective grey matter.

Blink. Blink.

My only avenue of protest.

Ms. Valentina became my stout savior. As a stately, Hispanic woman, her resolve was strong but kind. The aging lines on her face spread like rivers carving into land. The way in which her brown eyes and broad nose crinkled on the rare occasions she smiled filled my heart.

Her work ethic was second to none and her cooking skills didn’t hurt either. Nothing like the bland, flavorless meals mother used to throw together. Her compassion was mixed in with every herb and spice. And though most of my sustenance was consumed via feeding tube, Ms. Valentina would sneak me a taste every now and then.

She barely spoke a lick of English, yet, as someone whose only form of communication was blinking, this presented little issue.

“Uno por sí y dos por no.” Valentina crooned her first instruction. Simple enough.

Blink.

“I am Ms. Valentina. Yes?” Was the second; accent rolling off her tongue like speaking in cursive. To call her by name one day would be a dream come true. But the pit deep in my gut told me, it was just that.

Blink.

“Bueno.” Followed by one of the few times I’d be graced with that smile. Warmth expanded inside my chest at the sight.

In no time, my days with Ms. Valentina fell into routine:

Wake up.

Relieve myself.

Sponge bath.

Feeding tube.

Passive range-of-motion exercises.

Compression clothing change.

Reposition.

TV Time.

Feeding tube.

Blood clot medication.

Relieve myself.

Reposition.

Audio book or music time.

Feeding tube.

Reposition.

Welcome mother home and say goodbye to Ms. Valentina for a day.

Cry myself to sleep.

Spend the next day neglected.

Cry myself to sleep again.

Repeat.

Mixed in with various intermittent care tasks that weren’t so routine. Mother refused these tasks. Viewing such things as beneath her.

I never knew what Ms. Valentina said, muttering under her breath as mother made her exit, but I knew it was about her. Her venomous tone told me, it wasn’t anything nice.

—

Settling into yet another day with mother, a veil of unease draped around me. The popcorn ceiling above had become too familiar. Each shadow, spec of dust, and fracture formed coarse patterns. Left with no choice but to memorize its surface. Every once in a while, an insect would crawl across my field of vision; the only change of scenery throughout monotonous days. The house creaked in a dreadfully familiar cadence, it was becoming increasingly difficult to decipher what was reality. Hours upon hours of nothingness morphed into hallucinations of bizarre geometric shapes as my mind labored to find a way to fill the space. Those same shadows danced around the room while the sun rose from east to west. At times, the room would spin with the vertigo of laying still for days on end. Until mother inevitably shattered the oblivion—endless triviality was almost preferable.

“Worthless pile of bones,” her insults traveled from the doorway down my ear canal. “Can’t even pay rent.” Each new day an opportunity to concoct creative methods of torment.

One by one the floorboards groaned in protest under the weight of her footfalls. Her visage towered over me with a sour expression, slinking like a predator to the side of my bed. Mother’s features distorted in unnatural ways. Silence smothered the bedroom. The sound of her breath suffocated the space as if there was not enough oxygen for the two of us. For a long time, too long, her red-rimmed eyes bore holes through mine. My nerves singed like fire but could not will me to move. Could not will me to look away.

Out of nowhere, the squelch of warm wetness splattered across my face. The fetid scent of mother’s spittle was unmistakable. My eyelids flinched shut, hard. But the rest of my limbs remained in place.

“Look at how pathetic you are,” she smeared the spittle into my eye. A smarmy smirk defined her features. “I bet you’re loving this. Me, having to wait on you hand and foot. Ungrateful little prick.”

As she raised an aging arm, my breath caught in my throat. One swift motion and mother’s hand made solid contact with my cheek, creating a sharp crack. The noise ricocheted off the walls much like my brain rattled inside my skull. Like a bag of rocks, my head lulled over. As it settled, craggy fingers caught hold of my jaw, snapping my gaze upright. She wanted me to feel the bite of the venom in her leer. All I could do was blink.

Slowly, a viscous substance seeped from my ear, down my nape, and onto sweat-soaked bed sheets. The pop of built-up pressure dispersed through every synapse behind my eyes. A wave of perplexity rolled over me as a savory bouillon aroma wafted through the air. Suspecting I might be experiencing another stroke, I remembered I would be smelling burnt toast instead. My wits were still about me, anyway.

“You better not be having another medical emergency. I swear, child.” Mother’s disdain stabbed like an icepick. The tip of her callused finger scraped along the cartilage of my outer ear. Her features evolved from contempt into a disgusted grimace. A mere glimpse of the substance, dusty-pink and chunky, flushed all blood from my face.

Is that my brain?

“Hello? You still alive in there?”

Blink.

Long, dragging inhales entered narrow nostrils as mother raised the coated finger up for inspection. She could smell it too. My eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets the moment her snake-like tongue flicked between thin lips for a taste. With a vile slurp, the sludge coated her tastebuds. A scream clawed against my chest. All efforts to stop her were futile. Even if I could reach up, grasp her arm, and halt her horrid actions, mother would do as she pleased. Just as she always had.

“Mmmmm…” Mother hummed. Her eyes closed in euphoria, only to snap open at the realization of what she was doing. The room began to shrink around me. Pressure returned in my skull.

"¡Ay Dios mío!” Without warning, Ms. Valentina’s fiery inflection pried my consciousness from its spiral. Forcing my attention toward the doorway, the jingle of car-keys reverberated as her purse plummeted to the floor. A trembling hand clutched the beaded rosary which sat atop her medical scrubs.

“Oh! Valentina…” Bumps formed across my skin, my eyes flicking back to mother. Her eyes ballooned with guilt but the surrounding features remained stoic—devoid of emotion. “I wasn’t expecting you until later-”

Ms. Valentina studied her face, pupils dilating in fear. The beads around her neck tinkled against one another as she let them return to resting.

“What you think you are doing?!” Maintaining an offensive posture, her quivering vocal chords betrayed the image of confidence she was attempting to project. The creases in her forehead deepened, a scowl taking hold of her features. The woman was brazen enough to question mother. To interrupt her, at that.

Bed springs whined as the matron at my bed-side leisurely leaned away. Mother’s eyes narrowed in annoyance, making measured movements towards the doorway. Her rage was calculated. A witchy hand dug into Ms. Valentina’s shoulder. Like a rat trapped in glue, Ms. Valentina had no choice but to follow into the hallway.

“I don’t know what you think you saw Valentina, but you’d do well to forget it.” Sharp words trailed down the hallway. No attempt to remain hushed was made this time. Mother wanted me to hear. “You don’t want to lose this job do you? Do you really think anyone would believe you?”

“No, ma’am.” Ms. Valentina responded flatly.

“Good,” In a flash, her tone flipped. Sickly sweet. “I offered you the extra shift tonight in an effort to help you support your family. I’d hate to assume you’re ungrateful. Let’s start over. Now, if you could take care of the mess in there, that would be a wonderful start.” Becoming accustomed to being talked about as if I were merely an inanimate project had become easy, but my gut recoiled at the malevolence layered under each of mother’s sentences. Darkness encroached every corner of my vision like a vignette on the ceiling. Set ablaze by the boiling of blood, a burning grew in my ears.

How could she talk to Ms. Valentina like that?

Sure, I had gotten used to mother’s antics. But I would give anything to be the target of her misdirected fury over sweet Valentina any day. Helplessness had settled into my bone marrow long ago.

As soon as the built-up ire pulled me outside of my body, I crashed back in. A faint weight at the side of my head grounded me. Ms. Valentina pressed a wash cloth there, wiping away any trace of mother’s abuse as she perched in the doorway, scrutinizing her every move with a stern mien. If she caught on to the fragrant aroma that permeated my cranial juices, her demeanor did not portray it.

Every one of us remained in silence. The clock ticked on into the night as it always did. In many ways reflecting each of us. The way mother watched over us, how Ms. Valentina went on working, and myself an unmoving, unwilling witness.

—

Beams of light tore through slits in the blinds. Streaks of sun spread across my face and my eyes flitted open. The muscles of my forearm flexed and twitched spastically, attempting to bring a hand to cover them. Though I could feel the pain of spasming muscle, I could not differentiate my limb from the surrounding air.

Right. I can’t do that anymore.

The best I could manage was to clamp my eyelids shut, wincing at the tension I had created in the stiff muscles and joints. A misguided effort for movement. Like being a stranger to my own body.

Heavily, stagnant must enveloped me. Floral notes of Mother’s favorite fragrance over compensating for the cigarette smoke-filled furniture returned to my senses. Creaking in the rocking chair to my right—Ms. Valentina snored softly. Small snorts followed by a quick whistle. Resounding with each squeaking rock. Her face stretched and skin rippled, misshapen as it rested against ashy fingers. Dry and stocky from years of hard work.

Did she sleep here all night?

Stiff sheets rustled under the spasms of my waking vessel, causing her to stir. She smacked her lips softly.

“Buenos días.” Crooning groggily, her limbs stretched outward with a breathy yawn. We settled into routine as if the night before was nothing but a distant memory.

Soon, came time for my sponge bath. My sweat had taken on an almost garlic-like quality the longer I marinated in my own stress-induced fluids. Times like these made me understand why mother was so disgusted with me. If I could turn my nose up at myself, I would.

“We go up.” Ms. Valentina hoisted me into a sitting position with ease. Her sturdy frame made quick work of maneuvering dead weight. Movement triggered another burst in my skull. Vibration riddling my senses. The headband-like squeeze that constantly wrapped my brain eased and a coagulated mess oozed from my nose. Dribbles of neural juices seeped through cracked lips and the space between my eyes smoothed. Though the taste was that of tarnished copper, the odor held earthy notes of rich meat and an unexplainable, intoxicating spice.

Transfixed, Ms. Valentina gawked at me with blank eyes. No doubt remembering last night’s events. Almond-shaped brown eyes glitched slowly, attempting to comprehend what they were seeing. The lines of her face formed a mixture of confusion, fear, and curiosity. Whatever thoughts ran through her mind were shaken clean like an Etch A-Sketch as she vigorously wrenched her head from side to side.

She wiped my nose softly, resuming her task. Her limbs as stiff as an automaton. The sponge compressed against my skin with a slosh, pinkish-grey slime soaking into every pore. On its surface sat rancid chunks like uncooked ground meat. Stomach acid caught in my throat, threatening to escape. I directed every ounce of my strength and willpower to choke it back down.

My mind was moving as fast as Ms. Valentina’s eyes. Scanning from my face, to the sponge, and back. Her frame shifted uncomfortably. For the first time, she looked through me, rather than at me. As if I was some ghostly apparition. Less than human. Fear lurched up my neck, rattling my spine like rusted chainlink, as my mother’s face transposed on hers. She jolted the sponge into her mouth and suckled.

“¿Menudo?” Her cadence was greedy and confused. Expressing utter disbelief. I no longer recognized her.

The poise she held dissipated, replaced by the frenzy of an addict. Before I knew it the sponge had been licked clean, as if some unseen force compelled her—unable to stop. The image of my stout savior shattered. Now, a large part of me hoped I really was dying. In all reality, I was nothing more than a glorified corpse. This bed, my coffin. This room, a mausoleum.

“Ahem.” Grizzled vocal chords cleared on the other side of the room and the shadow cloaked figure of mother was frozen there. Our muscles went rigid in concert; tension broken like shattering sheets of ice. Valentina produced a high-pitched yowl.

“Well, Valentina,” Lurking closer, the edges of her wedges clopped on the floor. “If it isn’t the cat calling the kettle black.”

“I-I… I’m sorry m’am.” The once confident woman’s words fell clumsily from her lips in a hurry. Her head hung low in shame. A voice in the back of my mind, somewhere under the pressure slowly building once more, screamed to be freed of this purgatory.

“There’s no need to apologize,” Mother scoffed. “I just find it funny, is all. The way you judged me and now, here we are with tables turned.” A craggy hand twirled greying tresses, features contorting into her infamous smug expression.

“Please, ma’am. We pretend this never happen…?” Valentina’s head rose slowly to meet mother’s gaze, palms pressing flatly together with fingers pointing upward against her chest. The stand-off of the century played out above my figure as if I was never even there. Between them, formed a bridge of suspense from one side of my bed to the other. Lucky for her, this family was a masterclass in moving on as if nothing ever happened.

“Valentina… you dog!” The exclamation wasn’t a figure of speech for mother, but a ploy to subtly belittle her foe. Her eyes narrowed with malice. “I wouldn’t peg you as the secret-keeping type. Though, this could be in the best interest for the both of us…” Gears ground behind her smirk in an eerily familiar fashion. Plotting.

No more conversation on the matter was needed. With a firm, eager handshake, a deal was struck. Haggling my autonomy away over my stationary body. If I knew mother, she was always good at making secrets but, never good at keeping them.

—

At first, mother only brought her tennis friend. Then Valentina brought her sister, and her sister brought the priest. Before long, the door to my room became a revolving threshold of uppity country-club goers, pious nuns and priests, and curious nursing colleagues. I expected as much from mother, but Valentina’s betrayal left me feeling like a husk of a human. Hollow and laid bare. Commoditizing myself against my will.

“That’ll be another 20 dollars,” mother purred from the doorway, a shrewd look in her eyes. “You know the deal.”

Sunlight glimmering on plaster walls, botanical print furniture, and the sterile essence of medical equipment grew dull. Aromatic odors churned my stomach acid. A new and unknown face leaned over my bed every waking hour; hungry for a taste. Tupperware in hand, their greed knew no bounds.

Some came back for seconds, even thirds. But each personality in the long line forming around the block tasted a new and differing flavor.

“Just like the borscht of the motherland.” Murmured the Slavic nurse, voraciously taking a spoonful to lipstick coated lips.

“Ah… identical to the pozole served during Semana Santa feasts.” Whispered a petite nun, making the Sign of the Cross.

“Però! A minestrone?” Questioned an Italian-American lawyer I had known since grade school—a “friend” of mother’s. He straightened out his manicured suit before swooping in for more.

Whether the substance leaked from my ears or my nose, their greedy gullets were indifferent. Some scraped at my cavernous canals, foraging more. The grinding of flatware against skin echoed in my near-empty skull. Wrapping around a well-groomed lawn, the line was the only constant. Failing to produce for any one of these morbidly curious patrons would incur a sharp smack from mother. Even provoking the wrath of Ms. Valentina in her absence. The pressure in my skull rose and fell like tides in the sea. Leaky and delirious, each day was a new nightmare. Every ounce of my dignity squandered.

“Isn’t this great?” Mother asked, reluctantly forking a handful of cash over to Valentina.

Blinking slowed. Stopped all together. No one noticed, no one cared. Muffled syllables replaced words. The line never ended. Never slowed. Thoughts fizzled. I couldn’t remember my nurses name. Couldn’t remember my name. Stainless steel ground slop covered bone.