1. MAX #4
That startled an actual laugh out of her, short but real.
“Prosthetics are engineered for weight-bearing. They’re not going to detach because you shift your weight.
” Her professional face reasserted itself.
“People do continue, start, and resume existing relationships. They have partners. They have children. I’ve worked with patients who’ve returned to competitive sports.
One runs marathons—in the standard division. She places well.”
I shook my head. “I’m not a runner.”
“Well, you could be if you decided to be. My point is that limb loss doesn’t automatically close doors.”
I pursed my lips, giving an honest try to wrapping my head around the idea of having my leg chopped off not being a bad thing or not limiting me.
Nope, didn’t compute. Of course it would limit me!
I couldn’t...I wouldn’t be able to...I stopped, blinking, trying to think of what it meant I couldn’t do.
Dance at a wedding? Run up stairs? Walk on the beach?
Well, those were probably all things a good prosthetic could actually do, if I thought about it.
Still, I knew there were things, but damned if I could think of them right then.
The only thing I could think of was the now-unshakeable mental image of my leg popping off during energetic sex.
“I guess it doesn’t always,” I finally allowed reluctantly.
“There, doc, am I cured? Therapy successful?” I gave her a sarcastically hopeful look.
Meeting my sarcasm with just a hint of a smirk, she shook her head.
“This isn’t something that gets fixed in one conversation,” she said evenly.
“It’s going to take time and a team of people.
You’ll have a rehab team working with you once you’re medically stable.
Occupational therapy, physical therapy, emotional and mental health support.
I’ll continue to check in while you’re admitted here, to make sure discharge planning stays on track.
“Wonderful.” I threw an arm over my eyes and groaned. “How long am I going to be stuck here, anyway?”
“That depends on your surgical team and how your wounds are healing,” she said.
“Obviously, I’m not a doctor and nothing I say is an official judgment, but for an uncomplicated below-knee amputation, patients are often medically ready for discharge within five to seven days.
Trauma cases can run longer, especially if there are other injuries, but that’s a typical range. ”
I uncovered my eyes, surprised. “I might be here for a week or less? I thought I was going to be stuck in here for like a month!”
She flipped closed the cover on her tablet and regarded me steadily.
“Acute care is about stabilizing you. The longer—and probably harder—work happens in rehab. The time ranges I gave are what’s typical,” she said evenly.
“Once you’re medically stable, the next step is determining a safe discharge plan to get you home and into rehab. ”
“What home?” I groaned as it hit me again.
“Figuring out your housing is part of our discharge planning. We’ll identify a safe place for you before you’re medically cleared; can’t have one without the other”
“Will we, now?” I sighed as worries started piling in. “I need to get my stuff out of my hotel room. They might throw it out otherwise, if my company stops—already stopped?—paying. And my car is parked in the hotel lot.”
She re-opened her tablet and dragged a finger from one side to the other. “Okay. Let’s take those one at a time. What’s the name of the hotel?”
I gave her the name of the hotel and my room number, which she wrote down. I started to reach into my pants for the key, but then realized I wasn’t wearing them and had no idea where they were. “Uh, my keycard was in my pants pocket, but I don’t know…”
“It should be in your personal effects,” she said. She crossed to the narrow closet and retrieved a clear hospital property bag. “Your belongings were catalogued when you were admitted. Please let me know if anything turns up missing.”
She set the bag within reach on my tray table and I started pawing through it.
“I don’t need the room key,” she told me as I dug.
“I will need your car key if you’d like us to coordinate retrieval, however.
The hotel can pack your items from your room once we notify them.
We can arrange authorized pickup for both your belongings and the car with your written consent. ”
I thought for a second about whether I had anything I couldn’t stand for strangers to see, but the most embarrassing thing I had unpacked in my room was dirty underwear, and I figured that wouldn’t shock anyone — and it was all in my laundry bag, anyway. “Thanks.” I handed her the car keys.
She accepted them and entered another note into the tablet. “I’ll bring the authorization form later today.”
She stepped back from the bed and offered me a small, professional smile. “I’ll be checking back in soon. Get some rest.”
No handshake. No motivational speech. No feel better soon, as if I could. Just that tiny smile.
I mustered a rictus smile in return. It wasn’t her fault I was here, or how I was feeling, or that I was down a leg. I wasn’t going to take my feelings out on the woman who was now turning her back on me as if I was a job well-done.
As the door swung shut behind her, I let my smile fracture.
My ribs hurt like a bitch. I sighed and pressed the button dangling by my hand.