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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Inspirational
- Subject: Character Based
- Published: 01/08/2026
M24-Comatose
Born 1950, U, from Arlington, TX, United States.jpeg)
Dedicated to Rose, who's story Hollow got me thinking about that it would be like to be in a coma.
*. *. *
The short holiday week was finally over, and Robert Mahoney was on his way home. The light snow did not present a problem for driving and was even a nice addition to his Thanksgiving mood.
Soon, he would be in his warm cozy little house with his wife Francine and their little Yorkie, Sharla, snacking on some Texas Trash that his mom had sent them, and helping Francine to get the small feast that she had planned for them prepared. She had said that there was some to make tonight and some to get ready tomorrow.
He never saw the out-of-control truck that slid into him and bumped his little Fiat off the road. He had a momentary sense of movement that should not have been, then there was blackness as his car, which had been traveling 35 mph, was suddenly completely stopped by a large oak tree. He did not feel his head bounce off the driver’s window as it shattered from the blow. Snow drifted down on the crumpled car as its horn began to blare.
*. *. *
The private room in Mercy Hospital that Robert was occupying smelled slightly like disinfectant. The beep beeps of machines filled the room and the lights of their illuminated displays dispelled the darkness. Robert did not notice any of this nor the fact that his wife, Francine, waited quietly in one of the chairs.
Hospital staff moved in and out of the room at regular intervals, but Francine was only slightly more aware of this activity than Robert. He noticed nothing. He rested in his bed deep in a coma, as he had since arriving earlier in the evening.
Doctors had spent several hours stabilizing his condition, but so far, he had not regained consciousness. They assured Francine that he was in good health and should recover when his body was ready.
Of course, they could not guarantee this, they said. Things happen. Twice since she had rushed to the hospital after the police had called, the machines had caused the staff to respond like there was an emergency, but they claimed that this was not unusual in such circumstances.
Now alone in the room with her husband, Francine stood by the bed holding his limp, cold hand and said, “I’m not ready to lose you. Please come back.”
Robert answered with the same silence that he had since arriving. His eyelids would sometimes twitch, but that was the only sign of life from his inert body.
Francine had been talking to her husband regularly since she had arrived hours ago. She could not sleep. She remembered reading that people in a coma reported that they had heard everything while they lay there, so she wanted to keep assuring him that she was waiting for him.
Neither Robert nor Francine was aware of the invisible, ethereal figure of the man who stood at the end of the bed with his hands resting on the temples on either side of Robert’s head. The figure was tall. If he could have been seen, he would have appeared to be an older gentleman. He was dressed in a formal kilt and Prince Charlie jacket with a large scarf or fly plaid of cloth, the same vivid red and black tartan plaid pattern as his kilt, draped across his left shoulder, a small bit coming down the front and a much larger amount down his back, held in place by the shoulder strap of his coat and an ornate silver pin with the seal of his clan. The formal attire was completed by his gray knee high woolen socks worn with Ghillie brogue shoes laced up his calves and a jaunty Tam O’Shanter cap with its big ball of yarn atop. It was the same thing that he had worn to the court of Mary, Queen of Scots on that fateful day in 1566, when he had been killed defending David Rizzo, the Queen’s secretary, who had been murdered by Protestants loyal to the English.
*. *. *
In the hospital bed, Robert drifted in a gray haze. He could not remember where he was or where he was going. He seemed to float in nothingness. Nothing around him was solid.
Strange beeps seemed to come from outside the mist. He wondered for a while what they might mean, but since nothing came to mind, he eventually stopped thinking about it.
Sometimes, there would be a bright light that filled his entire vision, but it would disappear as quickly as it came with no effect.
At other times, it seemed as though he was drifting along a dark tunnel, carried as though by a current of air. There was no sensation of walking, only of gentle movement. There was a light filling one end of the tunnel, but it was very far away. He would drift towards it but then he would feel a tug. A tug that felt both warm and comfortable, pulling him back in the direction from which had come.
A voice sounded softly. He could not tell from which direction it came. It was just there, everywhere. ‘Your family and friends be all hopin’ to see you well again soon.‘
‘Who’s there?’ Robert tried to say, but no sound came out. ‘Where are we?’
‘I be Doohan MacDonald,’ the unattached voice answered. ‘Your body has been injured in an accident.’
Robert wanted to ask more questions, but his mind would not focus. This seemed mildly odd and made him nervous, almost afraid.
‘I be a Messenger, sent to help ye through this time. You be not alone.’
‘I want to see my wife!’ Robert finally thought, or said, or communicated, he was not sure which.
‘Ye will, but ye must rest and heal now.’
That was the last he heard from the disembodied voice before he ceased to be what he thought was awake.
Time had no anchor to give it meaning. Robert drifted in and out of awareness. There appeared to be lengths of time when he was aware of nothing, as if he slept lightly. Then there would be the lights and sounds but he paid them no heed.
At other times, he would hear Francine speaking to him from a distance, but he could not move or talk to tell her to come closer. His heart nearly burst with the love that he felt for her as he strained to reach her. But he never could and then he would drift into unconsciousness again.
Then again, at times the unseen gentleman with the distinctive Scottish accent would speak to him, always reassuring him that he was loved and missed and that all was normal.
*. *. *
It seemed that much time had passed. Robert had been becoming increasingly aware. He now knew that he was in some sort of coma, or something like it. The area that he was aware of during his lucid times was no longer a gray mist. It had been replaced by first a sterile white empty room, which gave way to a comfortable sitting room, or study as he had begun to think of it. Now his area of consciousness included two comfortable overstuffed leather chairs with a small table between and some unseen light source.
There were two chairs because he frequently shared the space with the owner of the voice that he had been hearing. That gentleman did indeed turn out to be Scottish. Robert remembered that he had introduced himself as Doohan MacDonald. When he had finally allowed himself to be seen, he was in his full formal kilt attire.
The two would sit in the comfortable chairs and chat until Doohan proclaimed that it was time for him to rest and heal. Doohan would disappear in a brief flash of light and Robert would dutifully retreat from consciousness.
During one such chat session, Robert sat across from Doohan and said, “How long will this go on?”
“Until you no longer be needin’ it”
“You mean until I am healthy?”
“Or no longer can be.”
“What does that mean?” Robert questioned in alarm.
“The doctor men no kin if you be set to recover,” Doohan admitted solemnly, slipping deeper into his Scottish burr.
Even in Robert’s half-unawares state, this news hit home hard. At first, he was in denial that this could be happening to him. He had always been good. Bad things like this just did not happen to good people.
“How is that possible?” Robert said. “Of course I’m going to heal!”
“I be hopin’. Your lassie, she be hopin’. Yet your body be not cooperating as it should.”
“I can’t die! I have too much to live for!”
“Dyin’ be not the hard part, me lad. It’s the livin’ of the ones you be leavin' behind that’s hard.”
“I’m afraid. What will happen to me?”
“There be naught to fear. Dying be not painful. Livin’ be the painful thing.” Doohan assured him. “Pain be gone. Fear be gone. Your mind be open to the WHOLE. You KNOW!”
“Will you be there to help me?” Robert asked.
“Aye, that be the way of it. There always be someone there to help. I be there for you.”
“Rest now. Tonight be the tellin’.”
*. *. *
Robert was in the dream again. He could see the light at the end of the tunnel. It seemed closer but he was not afraid.
The pull of the warmth from the other direction was strong. He could feel moisture on his face. That was new. He had not been feeling anything for so long. Seeing and hearing but not feeling.
Salt. The taste of salt was on his lips. Why was that? He wondered if his other senses were coming back.
His eyes fluttered open. There was so much light! But there was a shadow partially blocking it.
His eyes focused on the shadow. It was Francine! She was bending over him. Her tears were falling on his lips and cheeks. She was begging him not to leave.
His voice did not work. He croaked out a sound that was supposed to be her name but wasn’t. Her eyes, which had been closed, flew open.
“Robert! You’re back!” Francine cried. Grabbing the cord with the call button attached to the bed she pressed it over and over frantically.
There had been no need to summon the staff. They had already been notified by the change in his vital signs and were entering the room as she dropped the button.
The nurse led Francine to a chair. “Give us some room to work, dear. It looks like he will be fine now.”
And he was. Robert got stronger rapidly and was released to return home after a couple of days. He did not see the invisible Doohan MacDonald waving as he was pushed out the entrance of the hospital in a wheelchair to the waiting car.
As he recovered at home, he shared with Francine what he had experienced.
*. *. *
The short holiday week was finally over, and Robert Mahoney was on his way home. The light snow did not present a problem for driving and was even a nice addition to his Thanksgiving mood.
Soon, he would be in his warm cozy little house with his wife Francine and their little Yorkie, Sharla, snacking on some Texas Trash that his mom had sent them, and helping Francine to get the small feast that she had planned for them prepared. She had said that there was some to make tonight and some to get ready tomorrow.
He never saw the out-of-control truck that slid into him and bumped his little Fiat off the road. He had a momentary sense of movement that should not have been, then there was blackness as his car, which had been traveling 35 mph, was suddenly completely stopped by a large oak tree. He did not feel his head bounce off the driver’s window as it shattered from the blow. Snow drifted down on the crumpled car as its horn began to blare.
*. *. *
The private room in Mercy Hospital that Robert was occupying smelled slightly like disinfectant. The beep beeps of machines filled the room and the lights of their illuminated displays dispelled the darkness. Robert did not notice any of this nor the fact that his wife, Francine, waited quietly in one of the chairs.
Hospital staff moved in and out of the room at regular intervals, but Francine was only slightly more aware of this activity than Robert. He noticed nothing. He rested in his bed deep in a coma, as he had since arriving earlier in the evening.
Doctors had spent several hours stabilizing his condition, but so far, he had not regained consciousness. They assured Francine that he was in good health and should recover when his body was ready.
Of course, they could not guarantee this, they said. Things happen. Twice since she had rushed to the hospital after the police had called, the machines had caused the staff to respond like there was an emergency, but they claimed that this was not unusual in such circumstances.
Now alone in the room with her husband, Francine stood by the bed holding his limp, cold hand and said, “I’m not ready to lose you. Please come back.”
Robert answered with the same silence that he had since arriving. His eyelids would sometimes twitch, but that was the only sign of life from his inert body.
Francine had been talking to her husband regularly since she had arrived hours ago. She could not sleep. She remembered reading that people in a coma reported that they had heard everything while they lay there, so she wanted to keep assuring him that she was waiting for him.
Neither Robert nor Francine was aware of the invisible, ethereal figure of the man who stood at the end of the bed with his hands resting on the temples on either side of Robert’s head. The figure was tall. If he could have been seen, he would have appeared to be an older gentleman. He was dressed in a formal kilt and Prince Charlie jacket with a large scarf or fly plaid of cloth, the same vivid red and black tartan plaid pattern as his kilt, draped across his left shoulder, a small bit coming down the front and a much larger amount down his back, held in place by the shoulder strap of his coat and an ornate silver pin with the seal of his clan. The formal attire was completed by his gray knee high woolen socks worn with Ghillie brogue shoes laced up his calves and a jaunty Tam O’Shanter cap with its big ball of yarn atop. It was the same thing that he had worn to the court of Mary, Queen of Scots on that fateful day in 1566, when he had been killed defending David Rizzo, the Queen’s secretary, who had been murdered by Protestants loyal to the English.
*. *. *
In the hospital bed, Robert drifted in a gray haze. He could not remember where he was or where he was going. He seemed to float in nothingness. Nothing around him was solid.
Strange beeps seemed to come from outside the mist. He wondered for a while what they might mean, but since nothing came to mind, he eventually stopped thinking about it.
Sometimes, there would be a bright light that filled his entire vision, but it would disappear as quickly as it came with no effect.
At other times, it seemed as though he was drifting along a dark tunnel, carried as though by a current of air. There was no sensation of walking, only of gentle movement. There was a light filling one end of the tunnel, but it was very far away. He would drift towards it but then he would feel a tug. A tug that felt both warm and comfortable, pulling him back in the direction from which had come.
A voice sounded softly. He could not tell from which direction it came. It was just there, everywhere. ‘Your family and friends be all hopin’ to see you well again soon.‘
‘Who’s there?’ Robert tried to say, but no sound came out. ‘Where are we?’
‘I be Doohan MacDonald,’ the unattached voice answered. ‘Your body has been injured in an accident.’
Robert wanted to ask more questions, but his mind would not focus. This seemed mildly odd and made him nervous, almost afraid.
‘I be a Messenger, sent to help ye through this time. You be not alone.’
‘I want to see my wife!’ Robert finally thought, or said, or communicated, he was not sure which.
‘Ye will, but ye must rest and heal now.’
That was the last he heard from the disembodied voice before he ceased to be what he thought was awake.
Time had no anchor to give it meaning. Robert drifted in and out of awareness. There appeared to be lengths of time when he was aware of nothing, as if he slept lightly. Then there would be the lights and sounds but he paid them no heed.
At other times, he would hear Francine speaking to him from a distance, but he could not move or talk to tell her to come closer. His heart nearly burst with the love that he felt for her as he strained to reach her. But he never could and then he would drift into unconsciousness again.
Then again, at times the unseen gentleman with the distinctive Scottish accent would speak to him, always reassuring him that he was loved and missed and that all was normal.
*. *. *
It seemed that much time had passed. Robert had been becoming increasingly aware. He now knew that he was in some sort of coma, or something like it. The area that he was aware of during his lucid times was no longer a gray mist. It had been replaced by first a sterile white empty room, which gave way to a comfortable sitting room, or study as he had begun to think of it. Now his area of consciousness included two comfortable overstuffed leather chairs with a small table between and some unseen light source.
There were two chairs because he frequently shared the space with the owner of the voice that he had been hearing. That gentleman did indeed turn out to be Scottish. Robert remembered that he had introduced himself as Doohan MacDonald. When he had finally allowed himself to be seen, he was in his full formal kilt attire.
The two would sit in the comfortable chairs and chat until Doohan proclaimed that it was time for him to rest and heal. Doohan would disappear in a brief flash of light and Robert would dutifully retreat from consciousness.
During one such chat session, Robert sat across from Doohan and said, “How long will this go on?”
“Until you no longer be needin’ it”
“You mean until I am healthy?”
“Or no longer can be.”
“What does that mean?” Robert questioned in alarm.
“The doctor men no kin if you be set to recover,” Doohan admitted solemnly, slipping deeper into his Scottish burr.
Even in Robert’s half-unawares state, this news hit home hard. At first, he was in denial that this could be happening to him. He had always been good. Bad things like this just did not happen to good people.
“How is that possible?” Robert said. “Of course I’m going to heal!”
“I be hopin’. Your lassie, she be hopin’. Yet your body be not cooperating as it should.”
“I can’t die! I have too much to live for!”
“Dyin’ be not the hard part, me lad. It’s the livin’ of the ones you be leavin' behind that’s hard.”
“I’m afraid. What will happen to me?”
“There be naught to fear. Dying be not painful. Livin’ be the painful thing.” Doohan assured him. “Pain be gone. Fear be gone. Your mind be open to the WHOLE. You KNOW!”
“Will you be there to help me?” Robert asked.
“Aye, that be the way of it. There always be someone there to help. I be there for you.”
“Rest now. Tonight be the tellin’.”
*. *. *
Robert was in the dream again. He could see the light at the end of the tunnel. It seemed closer but he was not afraid.
The pull of the warmth from the other direction was strong. He could feel moisture on his face. That was new. He had not been feeling anything for so long. Seeing and hearing but not feeling.
Salt. The taste of salt was on his lips. Why was that? He wondered if his other senses were coming back.
His eyes fluttered open. There was so much light! But there was a shadow partially blocking it.
His eyes focused on the shadow. It was Francine! She was bending over him. Her tears were falling on his lips and cheeks. She was begging him not to leave.
His voice did not work. He croaked out a sound that was supposed to be her name but wasn’t. Her eyes, which had been closed, flew open.
“Robert! You’re back!” Francine cried. Grabbing the cord with the call button attached to the bed she pressed it over and over frantically.
There had been no need to summon the staff. They had already been notified by the change in his vital signs and were entering the room as she dropped the button.
The nurse led Francine to a chair. “Give us some room to work, dear. It looks like he will be fine now.”
And he was. Robert got stronger rapidly and was released to return home after a couple of days. He did not see the invisible Doohan MacDonald waving as he was pushed out the entrance of the hospital in a wheelchair to the waiting car.
As he recovered at home, he shared with Francine what he had experienced.
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