It’s late at night, and I’m carefully bearing weight on my right leg. It’s been uncomfortable for a while now, with little direction or diagnosis to indicate when my suffering will subside. I’m waiting on several tests to show why it cannot support me anymore, and I still have to schedule a follow up appointment with a doctor who’s name I can’t pronounce.
Suddenly, my calf goes numb. It is as if my thigh bones are swimming, disconnected, and my knee does not exist. I cannot feel pain, only that the deadness is quickly spreading. It climbs my thigh and down to my foot, and becomes warm, quickly. I recognize the feeling. When I had broken my arm in the car accident, and shock had set, I could feel nothing but the warmth of blood rushing to the injury. Luckily, he was nearby to hear me cry out.
I tried to keep my voice steady, despite my panic. I didn’t want to scare him or concern him greatly, but I needed to go to the hospital. I was afraid, I knew it was bad, much worse than it had been before. The muscles twitched, like they were attempting to function but had become unattached. I felt weak, faint, nauseous. He drove me carefully.
We were a distance from any hospital, and I was debating in my head if I was overreacting or if I had exasperated my injury. I was wearing the brace I’d been assigned, hadn’t pushed myself too hard, hadn’t tripped or bent it too far, but my heart was racing and I was fading in and out, so I knew I had to go. I splinted my leg up in the back seat, trying to hide it’s mangled appearance.
I could see the concern in his body, held tense and straight as he dodged potholes and made his way through traffic. I knew he was talking to me, asking questions, trying to hold conversation, and I was trying my best to murmur back, stay focused, stay awake. I remember telling him I needed him. I remember telling him it would be okay so many times that he most likely doubted that it would be.
The E.R. was busy, and they were unable to pull me from the car with a stretcher, so I tried to climb out. I couldn’t breathe well. It felt like my leg had been severed on the inside, like I had been in “The Human Centipede” and my ability to walk was no more. I scooted twice and stifled a scream. I didn’t want to break in front of him, I didn’t want to scare him. There were children inside, I didn’t want to scare them either. tears streamed from my eyes as I tried to contain my pain.
The longer they made us wait, the more I was fading. He held my hand, and whispered to me. He was so worried and I felt so bad for him. I knew I was no sight to see, blood gone from my face, eyes rolling back, but he kept with me, petting my hair and soothing me. I kept forcing my consciousness to stay present with him. He reminded me to breathe, and spoke to the nurse for me when I couldn’t hold a conversation.
The first doctor offered us painkillers and wanted to send me home. I was afraid. I don’t handle meds well and I’d much rather be fixed than drugged.
“She seems to be rather dopey. Are you sure she’s not on anything?” they asked.
Nix held my hand and asked for an xray. “Please,” he said. “Do something. She doesn’t want medicine, she wants to get better. Can’t you see that she’s almost passing out?”
The doctor went to examine me. He forced my knee to bend and I vomited. Every touch went straight to my stomach and I couldn’t help but gag. My trembling lover held a pan for me and I curled into his arms, choking and wheezing as the excruciating examination continued.
My vitals showed an alarming heart rate and my blood pressure was no better. I couldn’t hold back anymore. When I was fully conscious, I was crying, and screaming. Otherwise I was fading, letting sleep soothe my body for a moment.
I’ve never been admitted overnight, but they kept me, injecting me with all sorts of things that kept me sleepy and comfortable. They ran test after test, from xray to mri to ultrasound. I felt like I was being told nothing, just exausted and consumed by pain. I kept waking to more tests and more questions.
He stood by my side all night, keeping watch over me. When he went to the bathroom, I asked a nurse if I could get him a more comfortable chair. He curled up on it next to me and held my hand as I slept. The nurses took care not to wake him, and I wondered why nobody tipped nurses. He watched me take a few steps in physical therapy, and made sure the tv wasn’t too loud. He made sure I ate and kissed me, often, even though I stank of hospital and sweat.
When I left, they advised him on my care, because I lacked clarity, I could only function with a heavy dose of Dilaudid. He showed me in the pile of discharge papers my diagnosis- Ruptured Tendon.
It means I may be out of work for a year or two, may need reconstructive surgery, and rehabilitation, among other things, just to walk on my own again. I’ve learned that it can be a complicated process, a long and painful one, and I am afraid. I know I can’t financially support myself, and I’ve got other concerns.
Nix listens. When I’m crying from the overwhelming idea of burdening him with my condition, and I feel like an imposition, he is patient. He’s working harder to ensure our comfort. He gives me more forehead kisses and a glass of chocolate milk before he leaves. So I’m patient too. I’m waiting for him to come home and read the stories I’ve written today, to enjoy them with me.
To wrap it all up, I love him. I always will.
❤ Rachael Emily, Co-Founder of Kreadiv Media
To Our Readers: Have you ever been in the hospital? What happened, and how did you get through it?
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