10. Declan #2
“Keller,” I say by way of greeting and warning. Winona might not be my girlfriend, but she’s not his anything.
“Hi,” Winona says, sticking her hand out to shake Keller’s. “I’m Winona. I’m Declan’s home health aide.”
“And here I was feeling sorry for him,” Keller winks. “He’s at home with you for company. I’m officially not spending one more ounce of sympathy on our boy.”
Winona giggles. It’s a giggle. Like a tittery, delighted, swoony giggle.
“Okay, okay,” I say. “We’ve got an appointment.”
“Better get to it,” Keller says. “It’s good to see you, man.” His tone grows more sincere. “Do all the things. We need you out on the line.”
“You’re doing okay,” I say, referring to our winning streak.
“Okay is not enough. You’re missed.”
I smile. “Thanks. I’ll do my part.”
“Hold him to that, Winona,” Keller says.
“I will,” she promises.
Winona peers into the treatment room when the door swings open again. It’s busy in there—guys getting taped, massaged, and iced. I don’t slow down to talk to everyone. The sooner I get this cast on, the closer I am to being back here for real.
A trainer walks out, smiling at both of us as he passes by.
“Wow,” Winona practically whispers.
“Welcome to my house,” I tell her.
Oddly, this space feels far more like home than the house I grew up in.
“Which one is your bed?” she teases back.
“We share. But I usually sit on that one way toward the back of the room. The one that’s empty right now.”
She nods. The door swings shut.
I propel down a hall until I reach the private exam room where the team’s orthopedic specialist will see me.
“This is the place,” I tell Winona.
She opens the door and I maneuver past her.
The room is smaller, with a single exam bed as compared to the ten beds in the main treatment room.
Bright overhead lighting gives the space a clinical feel.
The oversized TT emblem consumes the side wall.
A sink and cabinets are on the other side of the room.
I swing over to the exam table and lean my crutches up against the edge. Using my upper body, I lift myself onto the table and pivot. Winona stands by and when she sees I’m situated, she takes a seat in one of the plastic chairs. I watch her take it all in.
A few minutes after we’ve arrived, the team orthopedic specialist comes in. “Declan!”
“Hey, Andrew,” I say.
“How are you feeling?”
“Pretty good.”
“Great. That’s what we want to hear. And who is this?” Andrew eyes Winona as if she’s something other than my nurse.
“This is Winona,” I tell him. “She’s my home health aide.”
The words feel wrong. Winona’s become a friend, I think. But maybe that’s just projection—one of those patient attaches himself to the caregiver types of situations.
“Winona, this is Dr. Bernstein,” I say.
“Nice to meet you,” Andrew says to Winona. “And, please, call me Andrew. All the guys do.”
“Nice to meet you too. Do you want me to wait outside?” Winona asks Andrew, and starts to get out of her chair.
“No,” I say, before Andrew can answer. I look at my doctor. “I want her here … if that’s okay.”
Winona’s eyes meet mine. Her brows lift in question.
I don’t have an answer. Why do I want her here?
It’s not like she’s a qualified medical professional when it comes to splints and casts.
At least, I don’t think she is. But knowing Winona, she actually is a qualified professional.
She’s full of surprises, that’s for sure.
Thankfully, Andrew answers for me. “What Declan O’Connell wants, Declan O’Connell gets.”
I glance at Winona and she wags her brows in a way that tells me she’s going to be teasing me with that phrase for weeks to come.
Andrew smiles warmly at me and then he asks Winona to follow him out while a medical assistant wheels in the portable X-ray machine and drapes me in a lead vest and blanket.
After the X-rays are taken, Andrew and Winona return with Lynn, the trainer, and Coach Griffin, our offensive coordinator, in tow. Coach is laughing at something Winona said and she’s smiling back at him.
“What’s so funny?” I ask, my tone territorial and borderline irritated.
“I was just asking Winona if you’ve been a good patient,” Coach says.
“Don’t worry, Declan,” Winona says, smiling at me. “I gave you an A plus.”
“Still doesn’t tell me what was funny,” I say quietly.
What is happening? Why do I care if Winona and Coach share a good laugh? That’s a good thing. She’s comfortable here—fitting in like she seems to do everywhere she goes.
She approaches the treatment table and places her hand on my forearm. “I was just telling him about when I propelled around the room on your crutches.”
I smile at her even though it feels like she shared our private joke with the world.
I’ve been injured before. I’ve had temporary care.
Usually it was on a rotation. Nurse A came.
Nurse B was another day. Some other caregiver showed up the next time.
I never had what I’ve had with Winona—someone in my house daily, getting to know me, pushing past my walls without even seeming to try.
Andrew pulls my X-ray images up onto the digital monitor on the wall. The team gathers around, staring at my ankle on the screen. The plate and screws are clearly visible. Winona stands up and moves next to Lynn, her eyes fixed on my X-ray.
She’s not here to merely do a job. Or maybe I am just a job to her.
She studies the X-rays with an unexpected professionalism.
This is not the woman who showed up to check on me wearing clown makeup.
And yet, here she is acting as a part of a medical team, serving me, helping me heal. A tightness grips my abdomen.
Andrew says, “This is looking really good. The hardware is doing its job. If you look here, the bone is knitting slowly. Right on schedule,” he points to a white spot along the fracture line in the image of my ankle bone. Then he turns to me. “Let’s get a look at that incision.”
The words ring in my ears. On schedule. A tension I hadn’t noticed in my chest loosens. This schedule is much longer than I’d like, but I made it two weeks already. If all goes well, I’ll be back on the field before we’re out of this season. I’m coming back.
Lynn removes my splint. Winona steps back, taking a seat in her chair, staying out of the way, but engaged. I can’t stop watching her—like I’m seeing a wild animal in a new habitat.
Lynn turns to Winona. “We’re going to clean this up and then we’ll do a quick PRP injection to aid healing.”
“Platelet Rich Plasma,” Winona says to Lynn.
Lynn nods. I keep my mouth shut, careful not to show my surprise at Winona’s ease and familiarity with the medical terms. An inner voice reminds me, She did take three years of nursing school. She didn’t just Winona for Hire herself into this position. I smile at the idea.
She looks over at me, a questioning expression on her face.
“Color me impressed,” is all I say.
She smiles shyly.
Lynn asks me, “Which arm, big guy?”
Winona says, “Right? His arms are massive.” And Lynn laughs. Then Winona says, “I mean, I guess you’re used to massive arms around here. Personally, I’m not. Most of my work is in Waterford—with seniors and regular people.”
“Declan’s regular,” Lynn says, with a soft laugh.
“Maybe to you,” Winona says.
Lynn wraps my arm, pulls out the needle and draws my blood. Then she excuses herself to run the blood through the centrifuge for fifteen minutes.
“This is really interesting,” Winona says. “Sports medicine. I’ve never thought much about it.”
“We couldn’t keep playing without this team behind the scenes.”
“It’s incredible what they can do for you. Extracting plasma on-site? That’s so cool.”
I chuckle. I hadn’t anticipated this reaction from her at all.
My phone pings with a text while we’re waiting.
Delaney: Sorry I can't pop in. We're knee-deep in drills. I'll catch you later.
I text him back.
Declan: No worries. Thanks for checking in.
Winona’s looking at me as I pocket my cell.
“That was Delaney,” I tell her. “You met him at the house?”
“Yes. I remember him. Marcus, right?”
“Yeah. Marcus. He’s our quarterback.”
“That’s an important position?” she asks.
I laugh. “Yes. Some would say it’s the most important.”
“Why would they say that? Isn’t football a team sport? It seems like all the positions are important.”
I study her. And she stares back at me with an expression that says, What? Tell me I’m wrong. And I can’t. She’s actually more right than she realizes.
Lynn returns and injects the plasma at the fracture site in my ankle.
Then she applies the stockinette, padding, and the casting material.
She molds the padding while Winona looks on, talking Winona through every step of what she’s doing.
At some point Winona stopped being the woman who drove me here and she slipped into the role of nurse in everyone’s eyes.
“Winona?” Lynn asks. “Would you mind holding the foot at a neutral angle? Don’t let it rotate while I shape the cast.”
“Sure,” she says, her eyes flicking to mine for the briefest moment as if she’s asking for my consent.
I nod once and she steps closer, holding my foot like it’s a live grenade. Her focus is laser-sharp. I practically stop breathing. Lynn molds the cast, smoothing out wrinkles, making sure there are no pressure points.
“Feels warm,” I say.
“That’s normal,” Lynn says. “And I’m glad you don’t know that. We don’t need you out there breaking bones often enough that this becomes routine.”
“Definitely not the plan,” I tell her.
“Not that you can control that,” Lynn adds.
“It all happened so fast,” I say.
She just nods. A memory of us riding off the field plays like I’m reviewing game film.
“Thanks for being there,” I tell her.
“Doing my job,” she says. But she smiles up at me.
About five minutes or so later, Lynn folds the stockinette back over the raw edges of the cast and secures it.