Trauma and Trouble (Mach & Bear)

[Machiavelli]

William Cade's car accident probably would have given most people trouble recovering. Struck in the side by a speeding truck through a red light, his car had flipped and pinned him underneath. Both of his arms had been broken, his left leg fractured, and his lungs had nearly collapsed at the scene when paramedics arrived. He nearly bled out on the pavement.

But it was worse than it looked. As paramedics tried to stabilize him onto the stretcher, he insisted over and over again that they aid "Danny", who he begged them to save. Over and over again, until they put him under.

He had been alone in the car.

Will had been kept in a medical coma for about a week to allow his bones to set properly, and to reduce the pain, but as he slowly came to, he struggled to wrap his mind around the accident. It blurred together, sometimes his car, sometimes the smoking Humvee that he'd been in a year ago, in Iraq. When that IED had detonated, flipping their car and smashing them into a ravine. Blood, screams, smoke, and fire. The sounds of his buddy, Danny, choking on that smoke. Feeling the steel pinched in around his leg, giving him the terrible scars that would never heal. The blood in his left eye that would leave him partially blinded.

He'd come out of the coma with a scream, and was nearly instantly given another sedative, more slowly eased into the world again. He faded into and out of thought as if the real world were just another dream, a different nightmare in a world of dark memory. Dark hair a mess from sweat, body covered in only a thin sheet and thinner hospital gown, he slowly came to, surrounded by nurses and doctors as he blinked away the days of sleep from his eyes, finally able to think straight, see straight...

And feel the pain that ached in his body. He was sure it was numbed some, but it still reminded him of laying in that bed back on base, watching as his fellow soldiers were zipped into body bags. Of the ten men on that patrol, he'd been one of three survivors. Their faces still haunted him, asking him why he got to live when they'd died.

He knew it was stereotypical, he knew it was the played-out story of survivors guilt, but the cliche didn't make it less terrible.

He weakly grasped at the tube in his throat, only to have his arm, slapped away by a nearby nurse as the attendings began to deal with the various attachments. Once he was freely able to speak again, able to turn his head, he glanced around at himself, his toned body bandaged, restricted, and cast, the IV line in his arm, and the hospital tag on his wrist.

"Damn. Twice in a row." He muttered. His voice sounded like gravel under a tire. "How bad?" He said simply, his tone flat and emotionless as he looked at his leg. Great. Unable to walk again, after eight months of therapy.

Why had he survived again?

 

[HeyThereLittleBear]

Twice. This man had been through hell not once but twice in his life and this body told the stories of it all. When he'd come into the ER and had been unwrapped from his already tattered clothing, his skin looked more like roadmaps of his scattered history. A war veteran, a soldier, but most of all, he seemed to be a survivor.

The surgeries hadn't been easy on him, hell, they wouldn't have been easy on someone who hadn't just gone through physical therapy, but she felt anxiety like never before when he finally was returned to his room. You don't attach to your patients. She could hear the mantra playing through her head time and time again each time she passed his room.

The mantra played through her mind again as she watched him even distantly, the rhythmic motion of his heart monitor at the nurse's station giving her hope that he would pull through. The surgery had been rough and taken unexpected turns, the only thing they were waiting on now was... Well, him. The sedatives had been reduced slowly so that he could wake naturally and though they had been given a window, it wasn't a science as much as it was a time bomb.

The world this man would be returning to would be rough, painful, and filled with tragedy. After returning from the war a whole man, a bad circumstance had stolen his pride and his health from him again. He had been effectively robbed. Stress knit a gordian knot in her stomach as she watched the heart race increase, her eyes darting to his room. There was no time for reminding herself of the mantra, no quiet whisper to keep her heart out of her chest. it was instinct and instinct alone that made her fly to his room, her hands quick to keep him under control so that the attendings could tend to the wounds.

Though the doctor was skilled in his craft, his bedside manner left much to be desired. The man's gaze was cold as he let out a soft sigh of regret.

"Mr. Cade, your injuries were rather severe." The man's gaze didn't indicate which part of the body hurt, "You will be put into therapy to work with your physical strength. You have been in a medically induced coma for a little over a week for everything to heal. Your left leg is on the road to recovery and is doing well. You can't put weight on it yet and will need to remain in a wheelchair so that the bones can set properly."

His eyes didn't waver even as the nurse that stood beside him did, her head turning away as she dabbed at her tearing eyes.

"You will have a lot of pain in your right leg. It was injured worse than your left one. i understand it was damaged in combat, and we saw evidence of that in the operating room. We did everything we could and salvaged what was still viable, Mr. Cade."

You can't get attached to your patients.

"We will have prosthetics up here to work with you in a few days. Nurse Jacobs is here if you need anything."

The doctor's matter of fact and blunt tone didn't help with the blow of the partial loss of limb at all, the nurse left at a loss for words as he breezed out of the room without time for the patient to so much as ask a question. The weight of responsibility felt crushing on her shoulders, but she straightened them and let out her last sniffle before stepping forward.

"I... Is there anything I can do for you?" She asked, her slim but steady hands adjusting his IVs and checking his bags as if there were something that she simply had to do in his room. She couldn't imagine leaving him like this, not alone and left by himself to deal with this realization of what had happened. "And... You're welcome to call me MJ. You don't have to call me Nurse Jacobs." She added, her voice soft with a gentle and reassuring smile.

Even with the tears still fresh in her eyes and cheeks splotched red, the smile was genuine. No amount of tears was going to bring his leg back, and her tears would only add to his sorrow and make him feel like he had to comfort her.