7
Riley
Homecoming
“Good morning, Mr. Cruz.” The young nurse from yesterday precedes a team of doctors and lets herself into my room. She snaps the curtains open, blinding me with the morning sun, then goes about her routine of cleaning up – but when she gets to the pee bottle, pauses and turns to me with a lifted brow. “You didn’t need to go?”
“I went in the toilet.” I lift my chin in the direction of the crutches and try to tone down my angry scowl. It’s time to go home, and I can’t afford to give them reason to doubt me. I want to leave, and I want to be left the fuck alone without having assholes up in my space every three seconds. “I used the crutches and went myself.”
She watches me through narrowed eyes. Does she think I’m lying, or am I in trouble for getting up without supervision?
“You said I have to be up and moving to prove I can do it.” I turn to the fleet of doctors. “I’ll show you; I can get up and down, I can use the bathroom. I’m ready to leave.”
“Mr. Cruz.” A sixty-something year old doctor approaches my bed with a frown. “I highly suggest you reconsider your plans. Most amputees go to the clinic for thirty days after discharge from the hospital. They’ll teach you how to live with your new abilities.”
“I already said, I can show you how I move to the bathroom. I already know how to live with my new–” disability, “–abilities. I’m fit and young, so this is easier on me than it is on a seventy-year-old diabetic. I choose to go home.”
“Mr. Cruz–”
“I already made my decision,” I seethe. “I expect you to respect that.”
He stares into my eyes in challenge, as though I might back down if he promises not to blink. Fuck him; I’ve already stared into the only pair of eyes that hold power in my world. When I don’t beg for the stupid fucking clinic, he shakes his head on a sigh and looks down at the file in his hands. “Get ready, Mr. Cruz. It’s test time. I’d like to see your staples first, then you’ll show us how you transfer safely from bed to the chair, and from the chair to the toilet.”
“I won’t be using a chair.”
Arrogantly, he lifts a brow. “Yes, you will. You will not be discharged without proof you own, have hired, or have access to one. Whether you use it at home or not is none of my business. But I willnotsign your discharge papers until I know you can.” Setting the file on my bed – where my fucking legshouldbe – he turns on his heels and passes three other pretentious pricks on his way to the sink. Washing his hands, drying them, then snapping on a pair of gloves, he comes back to me and starts unwrapping my bandages. “How do you feel, Mr. Cruz?”
“Fine.”
“Fever?”
My nostrils flare the further he unwraps the material that hides my shame. “Does my chart indicate a fever?”
His lips twitch. “No.”
“Guess your medicine worked then, huh?”
“Dizziness?”
If I did, I wouldn’t tell you. “Nope.”
“Constipation?”
“Took a shit already. Showed it to some big nosed nurse that gets off on that sort of thing.”
Dark brown eyes come back to mine and warn he’s losing his patience. “Feeling in the residual limb? Tingling, pain, anything?”
“No. It’s numb.”
Nodding, he unravels the last of the bandage and makes no comment when I look to the ceiling. “Your pain medication will soon taper off. It won’t be numb forever, so you’ll have to speak with your general doctor and make sure he’s aware of what you feel. Don’t be a hero and let the pain get ahead of you. Maintaining with low dosage pain relief is much easier than trying to bring it back from excruciating to tolerable. Communicate with your healthcare team.”
“Okay.” I feel my leg move because of his hands, but I don’t feel his fingers touching the incision. I don’t feel him squat to get a closer look, or the three other sets of eyes that come closer. “This looks good, Riley. No sign of infection, no sign of tears. Keep an eye on the leg hairs, and definitely don’t shave them off. An ingrown hair could become disastrous if it becomes infected, so if you want to remove the hair to be more comfortable, try some of the foams women use. No shaving, no waxing. Otherwise, if you leave it, it’ll likely wear away when you’ve been using your prosthetic for a while.”
A prosthetic. “Do I…” My heart hammers in my chest. “Do I have to use one of those?”
His eyes come up. “You don’thaveto do anything, but I don’t see why you wouldn’t.”Because I don’t want to look like a fucking freak! That’s why.“You’re young, you’re healthy and fit, you could potentially be casted up for a new leg two months from now. It won’t take you long to get used to it, then it’ll almost be like nothing changed.”
I finally bring my eyes back to his as fury rages through my blood. Leaning a little to my left and glancing down at his leg – intact – I come back to his eyes and make him back up from the anger in mine. “Don’t speak like you know. It’llalwaysbe gone, Doc, so it’llneverbe like nothing changed. Don’t speak about something you have no fucking clue about. Hurry up and wrap it again; I want to go home.”