Eleven
Tuesday
Rachel Johnson was looking over some notes when she landed
herself at the foot of D.R.’s bed. “Alright Fallington, time for a new day. I
just spoke with your doctor and he said you’re to continue with physical
therapy as is, and you can get out of bed, use a wheelchair with a special leg
prop that will keep that right leg elevated.” Hands on her hips, “How’s that
sound?”
He sighed, “I’m not sure.”
She gave him a hard look. “Not sure? Not sure? Well then
maybe you need to stay in bed another month. I’ll get you a fresh blankie and
pacifier and you can sulk some more.” She turned and headed for the door,
taking with her the wheelchair that had been delivered to his room earlier.
“Wait. Wait. Let me start over, please.” He paused, mentally
working on his attitude. “What you suggested sounds really great. Everything.
I’ll try anything you suggest from now on. Really.” He was mentally gritting
his teeth. Cooperation? Not something I’m familiar with, he thought.
Rachel came around the bed chuckling. “We make a great team,
Fallington, you and me. Maybe we could get our own TV show one of these days.”
He laughed the first time in he didn’t know when. “Rachel,
you’re a riot. You’d be the star of the show.”
After Rachel showed him a few maneuvers and operational
features of the wheelchair, D.R. was settled in, but he could feel his
emotional level sinking just from being in a wheelchair. How disgusting, he
thought. But I’ll deal with it. I’ll deal with it, he kept telling himself. He
practiced in his room a little, backwards, forwards, turning, braking, raising
and lowering the right leg adjustment.
Rachel watched, nodding her head in praise. “Why don’t you
test drive this beauty out in the hall, and then go exploring around this wing
of the building? There’re a couple of sunrooms you might want to check out as rest
stops.”
“Sounds good to me.” But he was dreading other people seeing
him sitting cramped in the damn wheelchair.
“One warning,” Rachel said, “you can think of this speed
mobile as your new Corvette; just don’t wreck it like you did the last one.”
She chuckled.
He looked up at her, shaking his head. “Never again Rachel,
never again.” He’d had his share of nightmares of the wreck, each time waking
up in a sweat.
She patted his left shoulder and went to check on other
patients.
He slowly touched his right hand to his left shoulder. It’d
been a long time since anyone had patted him on the shoulder or back.
After a few moments he wheeled off down the hall, staying
close along the bank of windows, overlooking the hospital grounds, parking
decks, and flag poles with flags whipping in the May breeze. Damn, I wish I
wasn’t in here, he thought. I’ve got to get better so I can get out of here. He
went the full length of the U-shaped wing. He located elevators, drink
machines, nurses’ station, and a few staring visitors. Damn, he hated being in
here.
He paused in the hall across from room 400. The hall was
empty of people, so he thought he’d try a couple of maneuvers with the
wheelchair. Back and forth, a little to the right, a little to the left. I’m
getting pretty good with this damn chair, he thought.
A shiny pan slipped from the overloaded cart rounding the
corner, clanging as it bounced and slid to a stop. D.R.’s jangled nerves sent
cross signals to his right hand causing him to jerk the chair the wrong way,
slamming his right leg against the wall. Throbbing pain reminded him of his
helplessness. Curses came through clenched teeth, as he waited for the awakened
pain to subside.
The patient propped in bed in room 400 watched the NASCAR
drama unfold, through her cracked door. She chuckled to herself thinking that
he can’t drive a wheelchair any better than his Corvette. She recognized the
glistening perspiration on his forehead, borne of raw pain. She knew that
experience well. She watched
Tuesday
Rachel Johnson was looking over some notes when she landed
herself at the foot of D.R.’s bed. “Alright Fallington, time for a new day. I
just spoke with your doctor and he said you’re to continue with physical
therapy as is, and you can get out of bed, use a wheelchair with a special leg
prop that will keep that right leg elevated.” Hands on her hips, “How’s that
sound?”
He sighed, “I’m not sure.”
She gave him a hard look. “Not sure? Not sure? Well then
maybe you need to stay in bed another month. I’ll get you a fresh blankie and
pacifier and you can sulk some more.” She turned and headed for the door,
taking with her the wheelchair that had been delivered to his room earlier.
“Wait. Wait. Let me start over, please.” He paused, mentally
working on his attitude. “What you suggested sounds really great. Everything.
I’ll try anything you suggest from now on. Really.” He was mentally gritting
his teeth. Cooperation? Not something I’m familiar with, he thought.
Rachel came around the bed chuckling. “We make a great team,
Fallington, you and me. Maybe we could get our own TV show one of these days.”
He laughed the first time in he didn’t know when. “Rachel,
you’re a riot. You’d be the star of the show.”
After Rachel showed him a few maneuvers and operational
features of the wheelchair, D.R. was settled in, but he could feel his
emotional level sinking just from being in a wheelchair. How disgusting, he
thought. But I’ll deal with it. I’ll deal with it, he kept telling himself. He
practiced in his room a little, backwards, forwards, turning, braking, raising
and lowering the right leg adjustment.
Rachel watched, nodding her head in praise. “Why don’t you
test drive this beauty out in the hall, and then go exploring around this wing
of the building? There’re a couple of sunrooms you might want to check out as rest
stops.”
“Sounds good to me.” But he was dreading other people seeing
him sitting cramped in the damn wheelchair.
“One warning,” Rachel said, “you can think of this speed
mobile as your new Corvette; just don’t wreck it like you did the last one.”
She chuckled.
He looked up at her, shaking his head. “Never again Rachel,
never again.” He’d had his share of nightmares of the wreck, each time waking
up in a sweat.
She patted his left shoulder and went to check on other
patients.
He slowly touched his right hand to his left shoulder. It’d
been a long time since anyone had patted him on the shoulder or back.
After a few moments he wheeled off down the hall, staying
close along the bank of windows, overlooking the hospital grounds, parking
decks, and flag poles with flags whipping in the May breeze. Damn, I wish I
wasn’t in here, he thought. I’ve got to get better so I can get out of here. He
went the full length of the U-shaped wing. He located elevators, drink
machines, nurses’ station, and a few staring visitors. Damn, he hated being in
here.
He paused in the hall across from room 400. The hall was
empty of people, so he thought he’d try a couple of maneuvers with the
wheelchair. Back and forth, a little to the right, a little to the left. I’m
getting pretty good with this damn chair, he thought.
A shiny pan slipped from the overloaded cart rounding the
corner, clanging as it bounced and slid to a stop. D.R.’s jangled nerves sent
cross signals to his right hand causing him to jerk the chair the wrong way,
slamming his right leg against the wall. Throbbing pain reminded him of his
helplessness. Curses came through clenched teeth, as he waited for the awakened
pain to subside.
The patient propped in bed in room 400 watched the NASCAR
drama unfold, through her cracked door. She chuckled to herself thinking that
he can’t drive a wheelchair any better than his Corvette. She recognized the
glistening perspiration on his forehead, borne of raw pain. She knew that
experience well. She watched
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