Page 73 of Jackson
Paula started hunting around his bed. The corner of a card was peeking out from under the edge of his blanket. She retrieved the missing ace, realized his energy had vanished like a sprinter hitting the one-mile mark in a marathon, and coaxed him into lying down.
She dimmed the lights and went into the bathroom to change into her sleep tee. When she emerged, he was already asleep, so she set up her bed and lay down herself.
Jackson had hoped for some sleep to help him recuperate from the accident. He was disappointed to discover that hospitals didn’t seem interested in letting people sleep.
The nurse came in twice and the aide three times, on each occasion waking him whether they meant to or not. They wouldn’t give him water or anything else because of the upcoming surgery. He looked over at the window and saw a lump on the bench. It took him a moment to focus and realize it was Paula. She shifted in her sleep, and the sheet slipped to reveal one shapely leg. He hadn’t known she’d intended to stay. He appreciated her loyalty, but it left him with a dilemma.
He had to find a way to make her leave while he was in surgery.
His Melda was a woman of action, and she’d get frustrated waiting. Paula would hate to leave him, so he had to come up with a good excuse. He would send her on errands and haveher get his home ready for him to move about on crutches. That would give her something to focus on, rather than fretting over him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Jackson woke after surgery to find Paula by his side. This time, she looked freshly showered and was wearing his favorite fuchsia shirt. She was focused on her phone, which gave him a chance to take stock of his sub. He was pleased to see she was taking better care of herself now that he was out of danger, but their separation had visibly taken a toll on her. Her face was washed out, although she concealed it with more makeup than she usually wore, and he was sure she had lost weight.
She looked up from her phone. “How do you feel, Sir?”
He tried to speak but only got out a squeak. He cleared his throat and tried again. He croaked, “Mouth dry. Water, please?”
“It’s ice chips again, I’m afraid.” She moved to raise his head enough to give him some ice. “I also have lip balm for you.” When he nodded in agreement, she applied it efficiently.
Jackson cleared his throat again. “My leg doesn’t hurt much at all, but my head doesn’t seem quite right.”
“That’s probably the painkillers. Your friend, Dr. Lewis, warned me morphine wasn’t a good combination with your concussion, but he thought you needed it for your leg right now. The nurse wanted to know as soon as you were awake. Here’s the call button.”
A man bustled in less than a minute later. “Hi, I’m Brian. I’ll be your nurse until midnight. Do you prefer to be called ‘Jackson’ or ‘Mr. Cagney’? I see your friend has already given you some ice and put something on your lips. What’s your pain level on a scale from one to ten?”
Brian spoke so quickly and covered so many topics Jackson felt like he might get whiplash. “Please call me Jackson. I’d like more to drink, if that’s allowed. My pain is maybe a two, and my head feels kind of fuzzy.”
Brian moved like a small tornado, erasing ‘Mr. Cagney’ and replacing it with ‘Jackson’ on the whiteboard on the wall below the clock. He put his own name where it had space for the nurse. GT’s name appeared where it said ‘doctor’ and another, Dr. Carver, from the ICU. Brian checked his IV and explained the morphine pump that gave Jackson control over his pain relief. “When your pain gets up to five or six, press this button, and you’ll get another dose. The system will only dispense one at a time, so don’t worry about pressing more than once. I need to listen to your chest, and then we’ll see about sitting you up.”
Jackson endured the cold stethoscope on his chest for the chance to sit up higher. It seemed like he had been lying down for so long that all he could see were ceiling tiles. He hoped Brian was as fast with checking his lungs as with everything else. Before he knew it, he was being raised in bed. “Tell me if you start feeling dizzy,” Brian said as he moved the head of the bed up in small steps.
Jackson wanted to sit up, and momentary dizziness was not going to hold him back. He made it as high as Brian would take him and asked for more water. “Is it possible to get some food? I’m starving.”
“That’s an excellent sign, Jackson, but we have to go slowly. If you do okay with the ice chips, we’ll graduate you to clearliquids, and I’ll see if I can find you some orange juice. Your PT will be here soon.”
“Physical therapy already?” Paula asked. “He just got out of surgery two hours ago.”
“The sooner the better is the motto with any kind of PT. The rod in his femur makes it possible for him to put weight on it much sooner than in other situations. Today, they’ll mostly work on him in the bed, but if he does well with that, they’re likely to get him up on his feet briefly,” Brian said.
About fifteen minutes later, a giant of a man came in and introduced himself as George, the physical therapist. He towered over Paula at a height of six-foot-five or more, but shook her hand gently before he turned to Jackson. “I’ll be torturing you for the next couple of days. Let’s take a look and see what kind of shape you’re in.”
“Can I stay or do you want me to go?” Paula inquired.
“If you’re going to be around during his recovery, please stay. It will help if you know how to assist him.” George began with simple exercises, like having Jackson wiggle his toes and slowly moved up the leg with ankle rolls and movements to keep his calf from weakening. When he reached the knee, he flexed it repeatedly then straightened it for leg lifts. Initially, he moved Jackson’s leg for him, but for the last three reps, he had Jackson lift the leg as high as he could.
Jackson was starting to feel tired from the exertion. “Is that all for today?” he asked, breathing hard.
“Not quite. I’d like to get you on your feet, if you’re willing to try.”
“Sure. Hearing that gives me a second wind.”
George stepped out into the hall and returned a moment later with a walker. “What’s that for?” Jackson asked. “If I’m going to stand up, I need crutches. Only little old ladies use walkers.”
“Then consider yourself a little old lady. A walker provides more stability than crutches do, and until you can satisfy me that you have adequate control and balance, you’ll be using the walker.”
Jackson heard something that might have been a smothered giggle and looked over at Paula. “Are you laughing at me, Melda?”
