Winter Counts(13)

Why didn’t I leave? People here always talked about going to Rapid City or Sioux Falls or Denver, getting a job and making a clean break. Putting aside Native ways and assimilating, adapting to suburban life. But I thought about the sound of the drummers at a powwow, the smell of wild sage, the way little Native kids looked dressed up in their first regalia, the flash of the sun coming up over the hills. I wondered if I could ever really leave the reservation, because the rez was in my mind, a virtual rez, one that I was seemingly stuck with. Then I fell into a half-sleep, immersed in fugue dreams and transient thoughts, images of Indian children dancing in my head.

IN THE MORNING, I thought I saw Nathan begin to stir; his head moved a bit, and his eyelids fluttered and quivered. I quickly roused myself and moved closer to the side of the bed, watching, hoping that he would fully open his eyes. His eyelids continued to open and shut. This was a good sign, right? Then he moved his head to the side and looked straight at me.

“Nathan, you awake? Dude, how you doing?” I felt relief wash over me like a flood of rainwater. I wanted to hug him, but worried that maybe I’d knock out the IV line attached to his arm.

“Nathan, can you hear me?”

His eyes were open, but he didn’t say anything. He looked puzzled, like he’d been taken away to some strange land where he didn’t speak the language. I felt a stab of fear—I needed him to speak, needed to know that he was still Nathan. Then the nurse came in.

“He’s awake,” I told her, “he just opened his eyes.”

At that point, I was shepherded out of intensive care. While I waited, I put a dollar in the machine for some weak coffee, which I gratefully drank. I tried to sort out my feelings while I watched the others in the waiting room. A Native couple sat next to me, their faces pinched and anxious. My body began to unwind, and I realized how much tension I’d been carrying while Nathan was in his coma. Had it been a coma? That seemed more serious than I wanted to acknowledge. He was alive and awake—that was all that mattered.

After an hour in the waiting room, my anxiety returned. Why hadn’t they updated me? Was it bad? My body begin to tense up again, and I asked the lady sitting at the front desk if there was any news on Nathan Wounded Horse. She said that someone would talk to me shortly. Then she said I was lucky, because the emergency department at the hospital had been closed for six months and had just been opened again. Apparently the federal government had made large cuts to the Indian Health Service budget, so the emergency room had been closed to save money. But, she’d said, the government had recently contracted with some private company to run the hospital, rolling her eyes to let me know what she thought of her new bosses.

Three cups of coffee later, a different doctor—white guy—found me in the waiting room. He didn’t look like a doctor, you know, crisp and professional and competent. Instead, he looked rumpled and tired, like someone who’d been on a ten-day bender. I wondered why this guy was on a reservation. Maybe he’d lost his license somewhere else, and this was the only place where they’d take him.

“Well, it was definitely heroin, but we don’t know if there was any fentanyl present, because the tox screen doesn’t catch that. We’ve extubated him and moved him out of the ICU. We had him on a mild sedative, which may seem strange given that opioids are a major depressant, but it’s important we manage the patient’s airway after an episode like this. We used to use lorazepam, but it turns out that you get a much longer ICU course with that.”

I had no idea what he was saying. “Uh, does it look like he’s going to be all right? You know, was his brain injured?”

“It’s too early to say. His corneal reflex was fine, and the EEGs and SEPs look okay. We’ll probably keep him for another day or two and monitor him. I’d like to keep him longer, but we only have thirty-five beds here, so he could even be released as early as tomorrow. He’ll be weak and dizzy for a few days, so just let him stay in bed. He’ll have the worst headache of all time after the naloxone leaves his system. If the headache gets worse, bring him back.”

I tried to take all this in. “What happens next? Do I get him in some drug treatment program here? Counseling?”

The doctor smiled at me, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I wish we had something, but we don’t receive any funding for behavioral health at this facility. I believe there’s a program in Rapid City.”

“IHS doesn’t have any drug programs here? You gotta be kidding.” I looked at him, but he averted his eyes.

“I’ll remind you that your care here is paid for, courtesy of the US government. No charge to you. If I were you, I’d be grateful he survived and that you didn’t have to pay for it. Now, please excuse me.” He turned and walked away.

I felt the urge to punch him in the back of the head. Jesus, the Americans stole the land from us, and all we got in return was shitty health care and crappy canned goods. I wanted to tell the nasty doc that we’d be happy to take our land back and give up the health care and commodities. But there was no point. I had to focus on Nathan and not piss off anyone here.

There was one thing I could do. I took my cell phone out to the courtyard, where I’d get some reception. I dialed the numbers and waited.

“Ben?”

“Yeah, who’s this?”

“Virgil Wounded Horse.”