Rockgut update: Hard Drink.
Title: Hard Drink
Rating: PG-13
Series: Rockgut
Summary: Clark is beginning to wonder whether it’s worth living “like this”.
They turned together and began cleaning up the broken test tubes until a large shard cut Tim. As he stared at the blood dribbling down his arm, Tim remembered a pbs special that he’d watched months earlier on leukemia… totally oblivious that Lex had stopped and was watching him curiously. When he finished cataloguing what Tim was doing, Lex shot a hand out grabbing Tim’s wrist.
“Shit, Tim, you should have said something.”
“Lex?”
“What?”
“A marrow transplant?”
“What?!?”
“To boost Clark’s immunity? Could you use a marrow donation from someone, who has stronger immunity? Maybe someone that the meteors don’t bother?”
Hard Drink
Clark was beginning to hate the feel of their hands on him. Lifting him, pushing him, positioning him, forcing endless glasses of water, or worse watered down liquor. Hands he couldn’t see held him when he vomited which he always did after the made him drink too much. They carried him to the bathroom when he could almost walk, or more often than not simply cleaned up what he couldn’t keep from happening when they were out of the room or he was too embarrassed to call on them again. It was all getting to be too much. But, he had no choice, he knew it, and so did they. If he wanted to live, and he did, though he sometimes questioned why, he had to submit to their demands.
But. the worst thing that the hands were doing was what they were doing now. The were pressing him back onto the metal lab table, lowering the head rest until…
“Please don’t,” he sobbed. He hated what came next.
“Clark, relax. It’s Toby. Do you remember me?” With the hands came voices that always asked that question, in part because his answer wasn’t always “yes”. (He still hated the question though almost as much as he hated their intrusive touching). But, this time Clark’s answer was a weary “yeah”, because he could associate Toby with this… because Toby always did this.
“Do you remember why we’re doing this?”
“The poison.” It had to be everything was because of the poisoning-the impenetrable darkness of sight and mind, the headaches, the pain, vomiting, fevers, nightmares, the gallons of water that they constantly forced on him, the nausea, the… the list was too long, everything was because of the poison. Some days it felt as though his life began and would end with the poison.
“Clark?”
What was almost worse, though, was knowledge that everything he was going through was meaningless. His suffering was helping no one, and the people around him were being hurt as they watched their efforts bring so little progress. If he had to go through it, Clark wanted it to …
“Clark? Listen to me. I need you to pay attention, now. Do you remember what we’re going to do now?”
“Wash out my stomach.”
“Well, yes, that’s what the lavage does, but more specifically… do you remember what we need you to do?”
…
…
“Please… please don’t.”
“Clark? You know we need to do this. Now, what do we need you to do?”
“Sweetheart, we know it’s hard, but answer Toby. What are you going to do?” The voice that Lex said was his mother… no, his mom, asked. Her hands stroked his arm as she encouraged him to comply. It was hard not to pull away, but every time that he did her voice took on that sad disappointed tone that he hated to hear even more than he hated the constant touching.
Clark wilted as he answered, “Swallow.”
“Good, then what?”
“Hold still.”
“Excellent, and then?
“Relax” he answered bitterly.
“Very good. Now we’re going to start with the endotracheal tube. When you feel like you need to gag take a long slow swallow. Okay?”
“mmmhmm.”
“Okay. Now, Jonathan get his shoulders. Martha, just keep holding his hands. Remind him that your right there for him…” Clark couldn’t think of a worse for Toby to say. There hands pushing him down as Toby pushed the large tracheal tube into his throat to keep him gagging only made him feel like panicking more. No one seemed to understand that without the associated memories for comfort, his parents’ touches only felt more oppressive-demanding an intimacy that he couldn’t remember and didn’t feel. To make it worse, he was horrified by the thought that his parents were having to deal with his other intimate physical functions as though he were a sick infant again instead of an almost adult man. Before he realized it, tears were rolling down his cheek and his nose was filling with mucous.
“Clark? Are you in pain?”
“Then, we need you to calm down. Martha. Help him to blow his nose.”
A soft clothy fold closed over his nose and waited for him to cooperate.
“Clark!” The huskier voice of his father commanded. “You can do this. Now, blow your nose and let’s get this over with.”
Clark had no doubt he could do this… or more to the point that they could do this to him; they had already done it so many times since he’d woken up. He just didn’t know how many more times he could take it.
The first tissue was replaced by a second, then a third, and a fourth, until he could prove to Toby with three hard blows and three inhales that he could breath.
“Good, now. Here we go Clark. Take it easy. Easy. No don’t swallow to soon. Jonathan hold his shoulders a bit steadier.” Toby narrated as he pushed the wide tube between Clark’s teeth, scraping his tongue, and pressing the narrow confines of his throat apart until Clark was starting to gag.
“Swallow, Clark. Remember, you need to swallow. Long and slow. Don’t panic. We’ve done this before and it’s all down hill from here.” That, at least was the truth. This part was always the worst for Clark because it felt like someone was trying to lodge a fist in his throat. One long swallow, a second as Toby wiggled it in place, then a third and Toby was finally satisfied.
“Great job, Clark. Now just hold still. We’re going to use the smaller bore tube now.” Almost as soon as Toby said it, Clark could feel it sliding snakelike over his tongue, through the larger tube, and down his esophagus brushing past the valve, and into his stomach. After checking the bore tube’s position, by pushing air bubbles down the tube and into his stomach-with slow care, they used several large syringes to draw the gastric juices out of his stomach. Apologizing when they pressed to hard against his chin or lips, they constantly touched him (holding him down, stroking his arm, checking his pulse, and brushing his hair back). By the time they were refilling his stomach with a solution of sodium bicarbonate warmed to his body temperature, tears were again pouring down his cheeks.
“Clark, get yourself together.” Toby urged sharply. “This won’t take much longer, but we can’t stop yet. Martha, can you calm him down. I can’t speed this up. Jonathan, bring the basin here.”
With Martha gripping his hand, running her free hand up and down his arm, and murmuring futile, unwanted encouragements that only served to make him feel more miserable, Clark suffered through as they filled then drained his stomach four times. The tears continued to fill his eyes and run slowly down his cheek, despite his mother’s attempts and by the time they had started on the fifth wash, Clark was starting to snuffle for breath.
“Damn it, Clark.” Toby fussed, “It’s still running off green. If we stop now, we’ll only have to start it up again as soon as we get you cleaned up. Martha, damn where is it… Go to the middle drawer, now look in the back of the second drawer down. In the first aid kit, there’s a rubber ear-syringe. Good. There’s something similar that can be used to clear the nasal passages of infants. Have you ever used one? Good.”
Without warning, a stiff rubber tip was being pressed into one of his nostrils to suck the mucus out with a thick chwhuff of air. After a second, it was pressed into his other nostril then set aside. But, the small action, while making it possible for him to breath- felt like it had destroyed the last of his emotional endurance and he knew instantly that even if the next lavage treatment would save his life - and cure him completely- it was beyond what he could take.
Everything was. As they refilled and emptied his stomach three more times, he felt every ounce of his resistance to his condition fold in on itself and flatten into an aching numbness that sought only cessation-instead of relief. The numbness was so complete that he wasn’t aware that they were removing the tubes until Toby finally informed him that he could close his mouth. Mentally and physically exhausted by the process he drifted off to sleep.
…
…
…
The soft tapping on the door to his room finally woke him.
“Can I come in?”
Clark recognized the voice immediately, and nodded. But he dropped the farce of turning over as though to see his face as he previously had (even up to that morning). It was obvious that he couldn’t see their faces and it didn’t matter what they saw in his because they would continue on as they had been trying to do what they could to save him-whether he wanted it or not.
“Hey,” the screeching of a metal on stone told him that Lex had pulled a chair close. After a moment and a plastic-y squish of air told Clark that Lex was sitting a few feet in front of him, a question -voiced so softly that it might have been rhetorical-reached him: “I hear it’s been a bad day?”
Rhetorical or not, he answered, “No, better or worse than any other day I can remember.” In trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice, Clark hadn’t realized how much of the numbness would come through.
“Oh… Clark.” Lex breathed softly. That was all he said, and all that he did, but somehow, curiously Clark knew that he was crying. Reaching out to confirm his suspicions, Clark paused when his fingertips ran into the back of Lex’s hands, which were pressed firmly against his eyes as though helping to keep the tears contained. When he felt Clark’s fingertips, he dropped his palms but didn’t move away as Clark traced the trail of tears over his cheek bones.
“I can’t … Lex. Not anymore. I…” When Lex wilted at his words, Clark suddenly felt like he was betraying Lex, who -he knew- had been trying harder than anyone else to cure him. “I’m sorry, Lex. I’m sorry.” He sighed. “It’s too much.”
“I know.” Lex’s simple statement coursed through Clark. He had gotten used to everyone else mindlessly encouraging him to hang on because it was going to get better without any evidence of their assertion that he didn’t know how to take Lex’s simple acknowledgement.
“That’s what makes what I’m about to ask, all the more difficult.”
“Lex what is it?”
“A different treatment.”
Clark’s heart felt like it turned to lead in his chest, but Lex continued as though he hadn’t recognized the change in Clark’s expression-though Clark could tell that he had from his quick intake of breath.
“It could be dangerous. We’re not the same blood type, I’m not a universal donor, and I would never even consider it if I weren’t …” Lex’s words trailed off as realized that Clark would have no frame of reference to understand what he was saying.
“Lex?”
“What?”
“If you weren’t what?”
“A mutant… Clark, I’m was in the meteor shower.”
“I don’t understand. Why? How? Would that make a difference?”
“In this case, yes. I have a fairly strong immunity to meteor radiation. The same radiation that is turning all of that ethanol into methanol. You don’t. I also have rather strong immune system and an advanced ability to heal myself. If I give you a marrow donation, and those factors work, it might prevent your body from metabolizing the methanol in your system and possibly prevent more from converting while we get rid of the rest.”
Catching the last implication that there would be more washouts to get rid of the poison, Clark wanted to reject it out of hand. But, there was something in Lex’s voice that prevented him.
Instead…
“Lex?” Lex had been trying so hard to find a solution- it would be cruel not to let him down easy; “Can I think about it?”
Rating: PG-13
Series: Rockgut
Summary: Clark is beginning to wonder whether it’s worth living “like this”.
They turned together and began cleaning up the broken test tubes until a large shard cut Tim. As he stared at the blood dribbling down his arm, Tim remembered a pbs special that he’d watched months earlier on leukemia… totally oblivious that Lex had stopped and was watching him curiously. When he finished cataloguing what Tim was doing, Lex shot a hand out grabbing Tim’s wrist.
“Shit, Tim, you should have said something.”
“Lex?”
“What?”
“A marrow transplant?”
“What?!?”
“To boost Clark’s immunity? Could you use a marrow donation from someone, who has stronger immunity? Maybe someone that the meteors don’t bother?”
Hard Drink
Clark was beginning to hate the feel of their hands on him. Lifting him, pushing him, positioning him, forcing endless glasses of water, or worse watered down liquor. Hands he couldn’t see held him when he vomited which he always did after the made him drink too much. They carried him to the bathroom when he could almost walk, or more often than not simply cleaned up what he couldn’t keep from happening when they were out of the room or he was too embarrassed to call on them again. It was all getting to be too much. But, he had no choice, he knew it, and so did they. If he wanted to live, and he did, though he sometimes questioned why, he had to submit to their demands.
But. the worst thing that the hands were doing was what they were doing now. The were pressing him back onto the metal lab table, lowering the head rest until…
“Please don’t,” he sobbed. He hated what came next.
“Clark, relax. It’s Toby. Do you remember me?” With the hands came voices that always asked that question, in part because his answer wasn’t always “yes”. (He still hated the question though almost as much as he hated their intrusive touching). But, this time Clark’s answer was a weary “yeah”, because he could associate Toby with this… because Toby always did this.
“Do you remember why we’re doing this?”
“The poison.” It had to be everything was because of the poisoning-the impenetrable darkness of sight and mind, the headaches, the pain, vomiting, fevers, nightmares, the gallons of water that they constantly forced on him, the nausea, the… the list was too long, everything was because of the poison. Some days it felt as though his life began and would end with the poison.
“Clark?”
What was almost worse, though, was knowledge that everything he was going through was meaningless. His suffering was helping no one, and the people around him were being hurt as they watched their efforts bring so little progress. If he had to go through it, Clark wanted it to …
“Clark? Listen to me. I need you to pay attention, now. Do you remember what we’re going to do now?”
“Wash out my stomach.”
“Well, yes, that’s what the lavage does, but more specifically… do you remember what we need you to do?”
…
…
“Please… please don’t.”
“Clark? You know we need to do this. Now, what do we need you to do?”
“Sweetheart, we know it’s hard, but answer Toby. What are you going to do?” The voice that Lex said was his mother… no, his mom, asked. Her hands stroked his arm as she encouraged him to comply. It was hard not to pull away, but every time that he did her voice took on that sad disappointed tone that he hated to hear even more than he hated the constant touching.
Clark wilted as he answered, “Swallow.”
“Good, then what?”
“Hold still.”
“Excellent, and then?
“Relax” he answered bitterly.
“Very good. Now we’re going to start with the endotracheal tube. When you feel like you need to gag take a long slow swallow. Okay?”
“mmmhmm.”
“Okay. Now, Jonathan get his shoulders. Martha, just keep holding his hands. Remind him that your right there for him…” Clark couldn’t think of a worse for Toby to say. There hands pushing him down as Toby pushed the large tracheal tube into his throat to keep him gagging only made him feel like panicking more. No one seemed to understand that without the associated memories for comfort, his parents’ touches only felt more oppressive-demanding an intimacy that he couldn’t remember and didn’t feel. To make it worse, he was horrified by the thought that his parents were having to deal with his other intimate physical functions as though he were a sick infant again instead of an almost adult man. Before he realized it, tears were rolling down his cheek and his nose was filling with mucous.
“Clark? Are you in pain?”
“Then, we need you to calm down. Martha. Help him to blow his nose.”
A soft clothy fold closed over his nose and waited for him to cooperate.
“Clark!” The huskier voice of his father commanded. “You can do this. Now, blow your nose and let’s get this over with.”
Clark had no doubt he could do this… or more to the point that they could do this to him; they had already done it so many times since he’d woken up. He just didn’t know how many more times he could take it.
The first tissue was replaced by a second, then a third, and a fourth, until he could prove to Toby with three hard blows and three inhales that he could breath.
“Good, now. Here we go Clark. Take it easy. Easy. No don’t swallow to soon. Jonathan hold his shoulders a bit steadier.” Toby narrated as he pushed the wide tube between Clark’s teeth, scraping his tongue, and pressing the narrow confines of his throat apart until Clark was starting to gag.
“Swallow, Clark. Remember, you need to swallow. Long and slow. Don’t panic. We’ve done this before and it’s all down hill from here.” That, at least was the truth. This part was always the worst for Clark because it felt like someone was trying to lodge a fist in his throat. One long swallow, a second as Toby wiggled it in place, then a third and Toby was finally satisfied.
“Great job, Clark. Now just hold still. We’re going to use the smaller bore tube now.” Almost as soon as Toby said it, Clark could feel it sliding snakelike over his tongue, through the larger tube, and down his esophagus brushing past the valve, and into his stomach. After checking the bore tube’s position, by pushing air bubbles down the tube and into his stomach-with slow care, they used several large syringes to draw the gastric juices out of his stomach. Apologizing when they pressed to hard against his chin or lips, they constantly touched him (holding him down, stroking his arm, checking his pulse, and brushing his hair back). By the time they were refilling his stomach with a solution of sodium bicarbonate warmed to his body temperature, tears were again pouring down his cheeks.
“Clark, get yourself together.” Toby urged sharply. “This won’t take much longer, but we can’t stop yet. Martha, can you calm him down. I can’t speed this up. Jonathan, bring the basin here.”
With Martha gripping his hand, running her free hand up and down his arm, and murmuring futile, unwanted encouragements that only served to make him feel more miserable, Clark suffered through as they filled then drained his stomach four times. The tears continued to fill his eyes and run slowly down his cheek, despite his mother’s attempts and by the time they had started on the fifth wash, Clark was starting to snuffle for breath.
“Damn it, Clark.” Toby fussed, “It’s still running off green. If we stop now, we’ll only have to start it up again as soon as we get you cleaned up. Martha, damn where is it… Go to the middle drawer, now look in the back of the second drawer down. In the first aid kit, there’s a rubber ear-syringe. Good. There’s something similar that can be used to clear the nasal passages of infants. Have you ever used one? Good.”
Without warning, a stiff rubber tip was being pressed into one of his nostrils to suck the mucus out with a thick chwhuff of air. After a second, it was pressed into his other nostril then set aside. But, the small action, while making it possible for him to breath- felt like it had destroyed the last of his emotional endurance and he knew instantly that even if the next lavage treatment would save his life - and cure him completely- it was beyond what he could take.
Everything was. As they refilled and emptied his stomach three more times, he felt every ounce of his resistance to his condition fold in on itself and flatten into an aching numbness that sought only cessation-instead of relief. The numbness was so complete that he wasn’t aware that they were removing the tubes until Toby finally informed him that he could close his mouth. Mentally and physically exhausted by the process he drifted off to sleep.
…
…
…
The soft tapping on the door to his room finally woke him.
“Can I come in?”
Clark recognized the voice immediately, and nodded. But he dropped the farce of turning over as though to see his face as he previously had (even up to that morning). It was obvious that he couldn’t see their faces and it didn’t matter what they saw in his because they would continue on as they had been trying to do what they could to save him-whether he wanted it or not.
“Hey,” the screeching of a metal on stone told him that Lex had pulled a chair close. After a moment and a plastic-y squish of air told Clark that Lex was sitting a few feet in front of him, a question -voiced so softly that it might have been rhetorical-reached him: “I hear it’s been a bad day?”
Rhetorical or not, he answered, “No, better or worse than any other day I can remember.” In trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice, Clark hadn’t realized how much of the numbness would come through.
“Oh… Clark.” Lex breathed softly. That was all he said, and all that he did, but somehow, curiously Clark knew that he was crying. Reaching out to confirm his suspicions, Clark paused when his fingertips ran into the back of Lex’s hands, which were pressed firmly against his eyes as though helping to keep the tears contained. When he felt Clark’s fingertips, he dropped his palms but didn’t move away as Clark traced the trail of tears over his cheek bones.
“I can’t … Lex. Not anymore. I…” When Lex wilted at his words, Clark suddenly felt like he was betraying Lex, who -he knew- had been trying harder than anyone else to cure him. “I’m sorry, Lex. I’m sorry.” He sighed. “It’s too much.”
“I know.” Lex’s simple statement coursed through Clark. He had gotten used to everyone else mindlessly encouraging him to hang on because it was going to get better without any evidence of their assertion that he didn’t know how to take Lex’s simple acknowledgement.
“That’s what makes what I’m about to ask, all the more difficult.”
“Lex what is it?”
“A different treatment.”
Clark’s heart felt like it turned to lead in his chest, but Lex continued as though he hadn’t recognized the change in Clark’s expression-though Clark could tell that he had from his quick intake of breath.
“It could be dangerous. We’re not the same blood type, I’m not a universal donor, and I would never even consider it if I weren’t …” Lex’s words trailed off as realized that Clark would have no frame of reference to understand what he was saying.
“Lex?”
“What?”
“If you weren’t what?”
“A mutant… Clark, I’m was in the meteor shower.”
“I don’t understand. Why? How? Would that make a difference?”
“In this case, yes. I have a fairly strong immunity to meteor radiation. The same radiation that is turning all of that ethanol into methanol. You don’t. I also have rather strong immune system and an advanced ability to heal myself. If I give you a marrow donation, and those factors work, it might prevent your body from metabolizing the methanol in your system and possibly prevent more from converting while we get rid of the rest.”
Catching the last implication that there would be more washouts to get rid of the poison, Clark wanted to reject it out of hand. But, there was something in Lex’s voice that prevented him.
Instead…
“Lex?” Lex had been trying so hard to find a solution- it would be cruel not to let him down easy; “Can I think about it?”