22. Clark
Clark
Riding around in a helicopter sounds great until you’re strapped to a stiff board with a broken arm and a busted head. But at least that came with morphine.
Absolutely nothing, though, would ever soften the agony of hearing my son beg me not to die.
I was in and out of consciousness on the ground but came to midair once they got fluids on board. Even with the good drugs, I felt every bump and draft, with River’s cries rebounding in my head.
I was flown to the trauma one center in Denver, where I was sedated, my broken bone straightened, and my head sewn up. By the time I regained consciousness, I was in a private room, listening to a doctor tell River how lucky I’d been.
“Your father had a displaced distal fracture of the ulna, which we were able to reduce in the ER without surgery.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
I was pretty out of it, but I nearly laughed at my son’s attitude. He may have been hyperventilating on the trail, but my healthcare team was about to get a crash course in dealing with a pissed-off River.
“It means your dad got very lucky.”
The nurse rolled her eyes at the doctor and held up her arm, tapping the long arm bone on the pinky side. “It means he broke this bone, but we were able to set it without having to take him to surgery.”
River leaned on his walking stick and focused on her. “What about his head wound?”
She took the doctor’s iPad and scrolled through a few screens. “Honestly? Head wounds are dramatic. He has, at best, a mild concussion.”
“He was unconscious almost for a full minute after he hit the ground,” River argued, “and he kept passing out until the helicopter got there.”
The doctor took back his iPad. “Ah. Well, that was a painful break, which probably explains the initial loss of consciousness, but…” More scrolling.
“Oh. Dehydration and a blood glucose of forty-nine. Looks like metabolic collapse… He was given dextrose in the field and regained consciousness in the helicopter.”
“Could you please fuckin’ speak English?”
Get ’em, Riv.
“He didn’t have enough water or calories on board,” the nurse explained, then turned to me. “Mr. Jensen, have you been having trouble with your glucose? Or has your appetite been off?”
I blinked, surprised to be part of the conversation, and a little confused by her question. “No…?”
River rolled his eyes.
“Do you disagree?” I asked, now thoroughly confused.
“You stopped eating breakfast.”
“Because I woke up wanting to throw up.”
“You’ve been suffering from gastrointestinal distress?” the doctor asked.
“Not distress, per se.” I shifted and immediately regretted it. I stared at my casted arm. Fucking ouch. “I just don’t have much of an appetite in the morning anymore.”
“You hardly have any appetite at all, Dad,” River insisted.
“I tend to lose my appetite when I’m stressed out, son. But I’ve definitely been eating.”
“You pick at your food,” he argued. “You always leave a whole bunch of it behind. Just last night, all you had was a protein bar, and this morning all you had was coffee with a little bit of creamer in it.”
“Is this new?” the doctor asked, listening along.
“Yeah, ever since my mom died,” River answered for me.
“Your wife died?”
I shook my head. Ouch again. “No. My ex-wife died. But this one almost died right alongside her in the car accident last December, and this has been a horrible year for both of us.”
River shifted on his feet, and I hated the guilt in his expression.
“That’s completely understandable, Mr. Jensen, but it’s clear that you have not been getting enough calories. You’re a good ten to fifteen pounds underweight.”
I looked down at myself, maybe for the first time in six months. I was a lot bonier than I remembered being. I was certainly tired. And hadn’t slept well the night before. “So, not eating enough at dinner and then just having coffee for breakfast was enough to make me pass out?”
“Well, sir, maybe not in a low-stress environment. But you were thrown from your horse. And you broke a bone and were losing blood. Your body immediately went to source glucose to take care of the pain and the repair work, and there was none. That’s why you kept passing out.”
River was shaking his head, distraught. “Dad…”
“Still not letting you take the blame for this one, son. I promise I will be more careful about my calorie intake. I just… Every time I think about the fact that I almost lost you, and when I see how awful this has been for you, that I would do anything to take it away from you, I feel so...” I swallowed heavily.
“Helpless. It makes my stomach riot at the thought of food sometimes.”
“But you have been helping me,” he said, almost angry. “You made sure I got therapy, you didn’t force me to take summer school, you dragged me all the way out here…”
“I also brought supplies so that you could have your little summer fling with Miguel…” I cracked, going for the bad joke.
River shot me the finger, but a smile slipped through anyway.
The doctor chuckled. “Sexual health is important. But so is metabolic health, Mr. Jensen. I can provide some suggestions for you to take to your doctor back in Chicago, but the biggest one is gonna be getting more calories on a regular basis.”
“I can do that.” I grabbed River’s hand, shaking it until I had his eyes on me. “Honestly, I was just trying to keep up. You aren’t the only dramatic one.”
River snort-laughed because I was ridiculous, then collapsed in on himself. His shoulders turned inward, shaking as tears streamed down his face.
Father of the year, right here.
“You really scared me, Dad,” he said through snot and tears.
“I know, I know. I’m sorry.” I turned to the doctor. “Do you need anything more from us?”
“Not at the moment. But this could’ve been much, much worse if you hadn’t had the help you did. The hypoglycemia was the most dangerous element.”
“I hear you, Doc. I’ll do a better job of staying on top of the calories.”
“Good.”
The doctor left, but the nurse stayed behind and squeezed River’s arm. “My station is right outside this room. If you need anything, just ask.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
River’s crying jag ended as abruptly as it’d begun, leaving him standing there, looking lost.
“Come here, son,” I said, gesturing with my good hand. “I’m okay. My dad jokes aren’t going anywhere, and you never came close to losing me. Sorry, you’re going to have to wait for your inheritance just a bit longer.”
River set aside his stick and carefully crawled into bed on my good side. “Shut up. And stop making jokes.”
“Nope.”
“Ugh. So embarrassing,” he muttered, touching his forehead to my non-injured temple.
We lay there for a long time, breathing in sync with one another.
“So, this trip to Snow Creek … a spectacularly bad idea or…”
He gave a wet laugh. “You’ve had worse ideas.”