Recoveries... a KnightWATCH story

Chapter 5

         “Well, well, look who’s coming around. Good morning, David.”

         David Longfellow blinked his eyes several times as he awoke the next morning. Again, he saw a different face. This time, he realized it right away.

         “I’m Darlene.” David responded to the dulcet-toned voice, looking into a large, chocolate-skinned face with gray eyes. “I’ll be your dayshift nurse the next few days.” She looked at the monitor above his bed, made a few notes on his chart, then held out a notepad and pen. ”Is there anything I can get you or help you with?” David took the pen and scrawled out a question. ”I’ll have to check, but I think you can sit up pretty soon. It may even help you with your breathing. Anything else?” David scrawled another question. ”A computer? Why?” David wrote, ”So I can be more easily understood, and so I can write out the report that the turkeys at Safety and Accident Prevention are sure to demand soon.”

         ”Okay, David, I’ll see if occupational therapy might be able to spare a computer. Though it’ll be a bit tight in here for that. Besides, why the big hurry? Won’t your job give you a chance to recuperate?”

         David wrote back, “Ever hear of ‘Internal Affairs’ sections in police departments? Our safety guys can be just as bad. They’re always ready to assess blame if something goes wrong. I want to make sure my version of the truth gets out before they get their answers from the media. And on that note, no newspapers for me. I have to be able to recall this on my own, without help.”

         ”Okay, David. Sometime later you can tell me what happened. Right now, how are you feeling?” David wrote out, “Lucky to be alive. And in a bit of pain, but I’m managing that. Are my toes wiggling?”

         Darlene looked to David’s feet, and saw his toes wiggling easily. ”Yes, David, they look good.” She then touched his foot. ”Okay, now write out all the toes I touch, in order.” She touched several toes, and David scrawled out a list of the ones he felt her squeeze. Darlene then read over his list. ”Okay, left big, right pinkie, right big, left middle three, right big. All of that is right, and in the right order. Further good news to give to the doctors.”

         ”Good,” David wrote. “Hannah told me last night about the surgery, and all the work they had to do. Good to know a few things are still working. God, my chest hurts.”

         ”With your injuries,” replied Darlene, ”it’s no wonder you’re hurting. But, I’m glad to see you’ve got a good attitude. You’re not letting the pain make you an angry bastard, or a whiner/crier.”

         ”Darlene, I’m an EMT,” David wrote. ”I’ve seen a lot of different reactions to varying injuries. I’ve been banged up a few times myself, though nowhere near this bad. But I know it could be worse... I could not be here.”

         ”Exactly, David. And now that you are here, it’s time to heal. I’m going to let you rest, so you ring me if you need anything.”

         ”Okay,” David wrote back. ”I’m sure you’ll hear from me. By the way, where’s my steak?”

         ”Waiting for you at ‘Porter’s House of Steaks’ in a few weeks, David.”

         ”Darlene, do you have any news on my partner, or the patient we were transporting? Hannah said she was going to check the other hospitals on my partner, if she could. Our patient is down in eight.”

         ”Your patient was upgraded to ‘critical’ condition this morning, David. As for your partner, Hannah didn’t say anything to me or leave me any notes. Now, you rest, and don’t worry about them. Just get yourself better.” Darlene walked out to the nurses’ station, where she picked up the morning paper. The story of David’s wreck was splashed across the front page, including full-color pictures of his smashed and torn ambulance. Reading the story, which included transcripts of his radio transmissions with Dispatch (recorded off the paper’s police-band scanner by an enterprising reporter), Darlene concluded David was right -- he was lucky to be alive.

         In the ICU waiting room, meanwhile, Claudia Morgan was doing battle with the unit receptionist. ”Look, Cassie,” she said, reading the receptionist’s nametag. ”I’m not trying to smuggle in any candy or flowers. I just want to see a patient and let him know we’re all pulling for him.”

         ”If you’d like to write him a note,” the receptionist acidly replied, placing a pen and paper on the counter in front of Claudia, ”I’ll be sure he gets it.” The receptionist then turned her back to Claudia. She picked up the pen and paper and turned towards the chairs of the waiting room -- and bumped into Dr. Angie Swanson.

         ”Oh, excuse me, Claudia, isn’t it?”

         ”Yes, ma’am, Claudia Morgan.”

         ”I’m Angie Swanson. Don’t worry, it’s been a while since we’ve seen each other in the ER.” On hearing the ER reference, Claudia realized she was talking to the hospital’s chief trauma surgeon, the head of emergency services. ”What brings -- wait, I know exactly why a paramedic is visiting our ICU.”

         ”Ma’am?”

         ”You’re checking on the EMT who was flown in here yesterday afternoon from a wreck.”

         ”Yes, David Longfellow. I can’t seem to get any information from--”

         ”Cassie? She lost politeness a long time ago. Great for keeping confidentiality, but lousy at comforting friends and relatives. Never mind her. I’ll take you in to see him in a bit, but first I’d like to talk to you.”

         ”Ut-oh, this sounds serious. How bad is he?”

         ”Oh no, nothing like that. He’s actually doing pretty good, at least physically. Mentally and emotionally, though, David may be in for a rough road. He’s got a long recovery, and he may need to make some life adjustments.”

         ”Life adjustments?”

         ”Yes, Claudia. Possibly similar to adjustments you had to make.”

         ”Me? I haven’t... how did you know?”

         ”I notice when people stop showing up in the ER. I did some asking around. And Barry Polczinski is a good friend and one-time patient of mine.” On hearing Polczinski’s name, Claudia blushed a deep red. ”I treated a nasty head laceration he received after giving one of his physical therapy patients some news she didn’t want to hear. A head lac suffered when a certain lady paramedic threw... what was it she threw?”

         ”A grip-strength gauge, Doc. Barry made the mistake of telling her... telling me... that I probably wasn’t going to make any more progress than I already had. And he was right, I ended up with a permanent 40-percent disability in my left arm.”

         ”Don’t worry,” Dr. Swanson said, smiling from ear to ear. ”Barry recovered, and he doesn’t hold a grudge. Actually, he was glad to hear you could keep going in dispatch and stay involved in EMS.”

         ”Wait, how did he, or you, know all of this?”

         ”Barry’s a good man. He’s been keeping track of you with various folks. He realized he gave you a hell of a blow, and he wanted to make sure you were doing okay.”

         ”Well, I sure didn’t accept it at first,” Claudia replied. ”I stormed out, found a different physical therapist who kept saying I was making, quote, ‘marked improvement’. But I found out it was his mainly his bank account that was doing the improving.”

         ”What clued you in?”

         ”After two months of therapy with the new guy, I still couldn’t reach up to the second shelf of my kitchen cabinets with my left hand. And being left-handed, that was not good. So I got two other therapists, they worked on me together, and they confirmed what Barry said. They even refused to take my money after my third visit, saying it would be fraud to do otherwise. On hearing all of this, I became willing to accept what I thought was the end of my career.”

         ”Well, I know your career didn’t end. After all, you’re still with Knightsbridge. Aren’t you working as a dispatcher?”

         ”I’m a dispatch supervisor, actually. But it almost didn’t happen until this ‘young punk’ came along and yelled in my face.”

         ”Yelled in your face?”

         ”Yeah, he yelled in my face. Told me, and I quote, ‘Quit wallowing in a self-made crock of shit and get on with your life.’ I figured I’d be as much of a wise ass and ask him how I could do that after losing 40 percent of the use of my arm. Anything to shut him up.”

         ”Did it?”

         ”Actually, Doc, instead of him putting his foot in his mouth, he made me eat my own shoe leather.”

         ”Amazing what a good husband can do, isn’t it?”

         ”Husband? What makes you think my husband did this?”

         ”Only a spouse on really good terms, in my experience, can get away with something like that. And only the really lucky ones live to tell the tale.”

         ”Well, my husband was the teddy bear I needed to cry on at the time. He kept trying to do anything to help me. But it put a hell of a strain on him, and could have ruined our marriage. Without realizing it, this wise-ass punk helped save my marriage, because he turned my embarrassment attempt against me.”

         ”And just how did he do this?”

         ”When I asked the question, he said, ‘How the bleeping Hell should I know, Claudia? I’m not you. I don’t know your goals, your dreams, your fears, your talents, your life. Only you can answer your question. Because you’re the only one who can decide whether to mourn a lost life, or to start anew. You’re the one who decides if, when and how you move on.’ He took my fears and threw them up in the air, in my face, and made me realize just how much I was wallowing in my own self-pity.”

         ”Was David Longfellow the young-ass punk?”

         ”Actually no, he wasn’t. That was a mechanic named Bill Cartwright. He was a smart guy, and was always polite and gentle. What almost none of us knew was that he was fighting leukemia. He kept it private as long as possible, because he wanted to keep working on the trucks. In his mind, he was helping his fellow man by making sure our rigs were ready to go.”

         ”Was fighting leukemia, you said?”

         ”Yeah, he died about a year ago. But he only let everyone know he was sick when he absolutely had to, when it got too tough for him to work. He’d still come in to bend wrenches as much as possible. His direct supervisor knew the score, and if things got to be too much, Bill would shuffle paperwork while his boss worked on the trucks. Bill’s attitude was ‘Okay, I’m sick. But I’m going to let it affect me as little as possible. If that means doing something else, then so be it.’ That was also his message to me. Take the changes as a new opportunity, not the end of the world.”

         ”Whoa,” replied the doctor. ”I’ve met a few folks who need to get that message.”

         ”Well, if you need someone to deliver it, let me know, doc.” Claudia’s eyes began to mist over. ”I visited Bill in the hospital several days before he passed away.” Claudia took a short breath, then continued. “I thanked him for the kick in the ass, and apologized for not making it up to him somehow. He told me, ‘Clodhopper, you can repay me in two ways. One, don’t be bitter about what life gives you, because it’s the only one you’ll get. And two, whenever you see someone wallowing the way you were, give them the message I gave you.’ I’ve tried my best to live up to that.” Claudia sniffled and wiped her eyes. ”Now, doc, when you mentioned life adjustments earlier, were you thinking about a similar message to David?”

         ”This person, Bill... he made you promise to give someone a similar ass-kicking?”

         “If they needed it, yes.”

         “Depending on how things go, I may have you do that with David. Were you were planning on doing that today?”

         ”Not unless I absolutely have to. He needs to heal first. But if need be, I will. How long of a recovery is he looking at?”

         ”Claudia, right now he’s on a respirator because of a collapsed lung and flail chest. He’s had major trauma to both legs. It may be six to nine months before he’s completely recovered. And it may not be complete.”

         “May not be complete? How so?”

         “He’s got a lot of challenges ahead of him, including learning to walk again. Luckily, he’s young and his general health is good. Barring anything unforeseen, he’ll be out of here and in the rehab center in about four to five weeks. That may be where you and others come in. Will you be needing any temporary dispatchers anytime soon?”

         ”Temporary dispatchers, Doc?”

         ”Let’s face it, he’s off the street for a while, possibly permanently. He’ll need something to go to, a new goal, perhaps, even if it’s just a step along the way. Besides, it gives him an income, helps him pay his bills--”

         ”Come on, Doc. This is definitely a workman’s comp deal. He shouldn’t have to worry about his medical bills. As for anything else... well, the guy who hit him owes a lot of money to several people.”

         ”Attention, attention,” rang out over the P A system. “Code Blue, ICU. Code Blue, ICU.”

         ”Claudia, come with me.” The Doctor jumped up from the couch and jogged down the hall, with Claudia in her wake. As they reached a door with a code-lock, Angie Swanson pulled out a plastic card and slid it through the reader. The door unlocked, and the two ladies went into ICU. ”Okay,” Swanson bellowed to the nearest nurse, ”which room?”

         ”Code’s in eight, Doc.”

         ”Claudia, David’s in five. Keep him company.” Dr. Swanson then followed the crash cart into room number eight. Claudia walked down the unit to David’s room. She peered in and saw David sitting up, busily writing something.