(Part 18 [http://www.escapistmagazine.com/forums/jump/18.72805.6529613].)
(Part 20 [http://www.escapistmagazine.com/forums/jump/18.72805.6643658].)
I woke up, which in itself was a surprise, and grumbled hoarsely about how bright it was. My back felt artificially straight, as if it were being supported. I tried to turn, slowly, and managed with a scant unreasonable amount of pain. There was a board on my bed that held my back straight while I slept. The straps were left hanging on either side of the bed. The bedside table held my glasses, clearly having been cleaned since I last used them. I put them on, blinked as my eyes refocused, and tried to sit up. My arm was sore, and looked like it had been recently trashed. There was a sizable gash on it, one I would think would require stitches. It didn't seem to have stitches, though, so I dismissed it. It looked more-or-less closed, though I bet it would be quite tender if I poked it.
I threw the blanket off, and took inventory of my legs. They didn't seem nearly as bad as I would have thought, but that just meant they were in a single piece. One of them had the giant plastic-and-straps cast over it, and the other was bandaged on a small part of the calf. I didn't see any red on the bandage, and poked it lightly. It hurt enough to tell me the cut, gash, slice, whatever was still open. I decided not to poke it any more. I tried wiggling both set of toes, and they wiggled when I want them to. The left leg, the one in the plastic whatsit, hurt quite a bit when I wiggled it.
I tried to ignore the IV still poking my arm, and looked around for a "call nurse" button. I found one swinging listlessly in the air conditioning, off the side of the bed. I tugged gently on the wire until I could get it up to where I could reach it, and pressed the button. I was expecting to be rewarded with a loud, happy sounding bzzt, but one never came. The dark room was too-quiet while I waited.
An ungodly amount of light accompanied the opening door, which was worse when a nurse on the opposite side flipped the light switch. Ow. I slowly opened my eyes. She was inside, staring at me as if I was a ghost. "You're awake," she said, decidedly surprised that I would ever wake up.
"Yeah," I answered, throat sore as all hell. Very hoarse. "I do it about once a day."
She looked at me, "I'll go get the doc."
I rasped, hopefully she heard me before she left. "And water."
She came back with liquid heaven attached to a doctor. He eyed me with the sort of skepticism most people reserve for old cheese and uncooked chicken. "Good morning, how are you feeling."
"Not," I answered honestly, pointing at the IV. "Thanks to this, I'm sure. Throat hurts."
"Here," he replied, handing me a bottle with a straw. I sipped slowly, trying to get myself hydrated again. My throat hurt less as I drank, but it didn't help a whole lot. Still, I could speak without pain. Small favors.
H'okay, how bad am I? "How's it look, doc?"
"Much better than a guy who got hit by a truck should look. Your left leg broke pretty badly, but it doesn't seem to be fighting being set back in place. It'll probably be tender, as will the gash. We've been cleaning it up quite a bit these past few days. Your knees and ankles seem more intact than they have any right being, though your left ankle seemed to have some torn up parts. It'll likely give you trouble off and on, worse if you get arthritis, but you should have mobility before too long.
"My colleague who works in this field more than I do suggested physical therapy, which I agree with. It's going to hurt to make your leg move the way it's supposed to, but you'll need to do it anyway. The other gashes haven't completely torn any muscles or anything, so you'll get some nasty scars, but they shouldn't give you any trouble beyond what a huge gash would anyway. Your head got hit pretty hard, but if you're concussed, we couldn't tell. I don't think you'll notice any permanent damage, but I don't know for sure. Your MRIs don't show any signs of problems.
"So, physical therapy as often as you can stand it, take it easy on yourself, and keep some muscle relaxers nearby, and you'll come out okay. I wouldn't recommend pushing that left leg very hard ever again, so that ankle doesn't get worse."
That's not too bad, I guess. I admitted so aloud.
"Quite so," he said, the cap of a cheap ballpoint bobbing from his lips as he scribbled on a clipboard. "I'm putting you down for twice-weekly physical therapy as soon as this cast comes off." He thumped the plastic with the butt end of a pen. "How do you feel otherwise?"
"I think I'll make it." I answered, still squinting through the light.
"Like a good little soldier," he said, seeing a flash of the awful light in his teeth.
"How long is the cast going to be on?"
"You've been out about for a few days. Once the cuts are managed and stop bleeding, we'll be getting you a plaster cast. You'll probably have that one on for about seven weeks, maybe more."
"Nasty, how low will it have to go?"
"If you want to start therapy in a few days, we can make it a short-leg cast. It will still go down to your foot, which can't be helped with the break. You seem to be healing quick enough though, so there are worse things that can happen. Nothing got infected, and you were on blood until yesterday. Take it easy these next few days, and then go easy on physical therapy. If it all goes well, you'll be better than you could've hoped to be."
I scratched my head, noting the bandage up there. "Am I bleeding any up here?"
He checked, then unwrapped my head. My hair felt oddly heavy falling down. "Nope, looks like it closed up good. Lucky, really, that one had a good chance of being infected."
"I'll take what favors I can get," I replied, laying back down. My casted leg felt weird. "Say doc, there anything good on?"
I threw the blanket off, and took inventory of my legs. They didn't seem nearly as bad as I would have thought, but that just meant they were in a single piece. One of them had the giant plastic-and-straps cast over it, and the other was bandaged on a small part of the calf. I didn't see any red on the bandage, and poked it lightly. It hurt enough to tell me the cut, gash, slice, whatever was still open. I decided not to poke it any more. I tried wiggling both set of toes, and they wiggled when I want them to. The left leg, the one in the plastic whatsit, hurt quite a bit when I wiggled it.
I tried to ignore the IV still poking my arm, and looked around for a "call nurse" button. I found one swinging listlessly in the air conditioning, off the side of the bed. I tugged gently on the wire until I could get it up to where I could reach it, and pressed the button. I was expecting to be rewarded with a loud, happy sounding bzzt, but one never came. The dark room was too-quiet while I waited.
An ungodly amount of light accompanied the opening door, which was worse when a nurse on the opposite side flipped the light switch. Ow. I slowly opened my eyes. She was inside, staring at me as if I was a ghost. "You're awake," she said, decidedly surprised that I would ever wake up.
"Yeah," I answered, throat sore as all hell. Very hoarse. "I do it about once a day."
She looked at me, "I'll go get the doc."
I rasped, hopefully she heard me before she left. "And water."
She came back with liquid heaven attached to a doctor. He eyed me with the sort of skepticism most people reserve for old cheese and uncooked chicken. "Good morning, how are you feeling."
"Not," I answered honestly, pointing at the IV. "Thanks to this, I'm sure. Throat hurts."
"Here," he replied, handing me a bottle with a straw. I sipped slowly, trying to get myself hydrated again. My throat hurt less as I drank, but it didn't help a whole lot. Still, I could speak without pain. Small favors.
H'okay, how bad am I? "How's it look, doc?"
"Much better than a guy who got hit by a truck should look. Your left leg broke pretty badly, but it doesn't seem to be fighting being set back in place. It'll probably be tender, as will the gash. We've been cleaning it up quite a bit these past few days. Your knees and ankles seem more intact than they have any right being, though your left ankle seemed to have some torn up parts. It'll likely give you trouble off and on, worse if you get arthritis, but you should have mobility before too long.
"My colleague who works in this field more than I do suggested physical therapy, which I agree with. It's going to hurt to make your leg move the way it's supposed to, but you'll need to do it anyway. The other gashes haven't completely torn any muscles or anything, so you'll get some nasty scars, but they shouldn't give you any trouble beyond what a huge gash would anyway. Your head got hit pretty hard, but if you're concussed, we couldn't tell. I don't think you'll notice any permanent damage, but I don't know for sure. Your MRIs don't show any signs of problems.
"So, physical therapy as often as you can stand it, take it easy on yourself, and keep some muscle relaxers nearby, and you'll come out okay. I wouldn't recommend pushing that left leg very hard ever again, so that ankle doesn't get worse."
That's not too bad, I guess. I admitted so aloud.
"Quite so," he said, the cap of a cheap ballpoint bobbing from his lips as he scribbled on a clipboard. "I'm putting you down for twice-weekly physical therapy as soon as this cast comes off." He thumped the plastic with the butt end of a pen. "How do you feel otherwise?"
"I think I'll make it." I answered, still squinting through the light.
"Like a good little soldier," he said, seeing a flash of the awful light in his teeth.
"How long is the cast going to be on?"
"You've been out about for a few days. Once the cuts are managed and stop bleeding, we'll be getting you a plaster cast. You'll probably have that one on for about seven weeks, maybe more."
"Nasty, how low will it have to go?"
"If you want to start therapy in a few days, we can make it a short-leg cast. It will still go down to your foot, which can't be helped with the break. You seem to be healing quick enough though, so there are worse things that can happen. Nothing got infected, and you were on blood until yesterday. Take it easy these next few days, and then go easy on physical therapy. If it all goes well, you'll be better than you could've hoped to be."
I scratched my head, noting the bandage up there. "Am I bleeding any up here?"
He checked, then unwrapped my head. My hair felt oddly heavy falling down. "Nope, looks like it closed up good. Lucky, really, that one had a good chance of being infected."
"I'll take what favors I can get," I replied, laying back down. My casted leg felt weird. "Say doc, there anything good on?"
(Part 20 [http://www.escapistmagazine.com/forums/jump/18.72805.6643658].)
