Page 219 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part Two
Shae pulses my hand quickly for a second, like a signal.
“What’s…wrong…me?” I ask, staring directly at Dr. Swanson. “Who…are…they?”
She steps to the side.
“Ah, yes, let me introduce you to everyone. This,” she points to a tall Black doctor who wears wire-rimmed glasses and a crisp line-up, “is Dr. Jamal Malcom. He’s the lead trauma surgeon on your case, and we worked side by side to get you patched up.”
Dr. Malcom takes a step forward, his eyes flicking behind me for a second before going to my face.
“You survived a stab wound that narrowly missed your kidney, smoke inhalation, and a fall from the second story. You’re one resilient man, Mr. Sandoval,” he says.
I tilt my chin down, and the thing around my face pulls me back.
“And…her?” I ask, nodding to the Asian doctor at the foot of my bed.
“I’m Dr. Wu. I’m your spinal surgeon. I’m also the one who will follow you as you enter rehab.”
I blink again, then again, and again, trying to latch on to any single part of that statement.
Another man in a lab coat walks in—tall, lanky, and blonde—bee-lining to the hand sanitizer on the wall and then zipping over to me.
“I’m gonna check your eyes,” he says, already pulling at my eyelids. I try to bat his hands away but can’t.
“What…the hell…is going…on?” I shout, or try to, and everyone but Dr. Swanson takes a step back.
And Shae. Shae’s still here, holding my hand tight.
My lifeline.
“Okay, Storm, here’s the deal,” Dr. Swanson says. The new doctor mumbles something to her, and Dr. Swanson nods. The man leaves again.
“That was Dr. Blankship. He’s your neurologist,” Dr. Swanson offers. “He’s gonna come by and assess you a little later.”
The world starts to spin, and I look at Shae, latching on to her.
“Shae…” I rasp, and she shifts to sit on the bed with me. I see her hip pressing close to mine, but I can’t feel it.
“I can’t…f-feel my…legs,” I say, horror dawning on me.
“Storm, you had extensive injuries from your ordeal. The fall did a lot of damage, including a spinal fracture at the L1-L3region. You can’t feel or move your legs right now because of the swelling clamping off the nerves there.”
“I’m paralyzed?” I ask, oddly settling down instead of spiraling out into the stratosphere.
Dr. Swanson tilts her head from side to side.
“Yes and no,” she says, and I grunt. “You’re very lucky. You didn’t sever the spinal cord, so we’re optimistic it’s possible for you to recover most, if not all, the functionality in that region.”
Spinning. Spiraling. I’m paralyzed…sort of?
“Doc,” I start. “What…does that…even mean?”
“You broke your right femur, shattered your pelvis. You’ve had three surgeries since you came in, and there will be more procedures to come. Your recovery will be slow, there will be pain, but if I know anything about you, Storm Sandoval, I know you’ll put in the work to be as strong as you can be.”
I drop my head to the scratchy pillow behind me, and the plastic tubing tickles my nose.
“Can I get…this thing off?” I ask Dr. Swanson.
“Oh, your cannula?” She looks behind me, likely at my vitals. “Yeah, your O2 saturation is ninety-nine percent, and you’re barely on a whiff of oxygen at this point.”
