Page 87 of Hypothetical Heart
It doesn’t bother me much. I know protocol is there for a reason, but as soon as I sit in the faux leather chair, I’m already itching to get back to her.
By the time I’m allowed into Winnie’s room, all of the doctors have funneled out, and there’s not very much information to be given by a morphine-high Winnie.
When I first enter the room, she’s sitting up, looking down at her foot like it somehow let her down, like she’s let herself down, and God, it kills me.
“How ya holding up?” I ask, pulling up a chair next to her.
“The pain meds kicked in,” she says sleepily. “I’m just upset I’m here.”
“Yeah,” I agree. I don’t want her here either because I know how much it’s destroying her spirits.
“I’m going to have to quit ballet,” she says under her breath like it’s some type of realization she’s only now come to.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I tell her, grabbing her hand. “It could be a lot worse than you think. Plus, lots of people return from injury.”
“In four months?” She sighs. “I’m going to get kicked out of the NYU ballet company when they find out I’m injured.”
“If that happens, it just means you’ll have more time to heal, and you can audition again once you’re better.”
“That’s not a good answer,” she replies. “I’m supposed to be worried about getting better than I already am, not having to try and get this good again.”
I understand her concern. She doesn’t want to take any steps backward, especially when the NYU ballet company is on the line.
“I know, Win, it sucks.” I rest a hand on her shoulder, squeezing her deltoid. “Right now, let’s just hope for as small of a setback as possible, alright?”
She throws her head back against the hospital bed, staring up at the tiled ceiling. “I knew I shouldn’t have done it.”
“Winnie—”
“I was getting tired, and right before I jumped I had a feeling that my leg was going to give out. I didn’t listen. I thought I could push through it. My body didn’t want me to do it, and it finally rebelled against me.” Tears are falling down her face, and I’m having flashbacks of a few hours ago when she was lying on the floor of the ballet studio.
I’m not sure what to do because there’s nothing I could say that would make the situation any better. It’s going to befrustrating for her no matter the outcome, and I can’t stop her from being disappointed, as much as I wish I could.
She reaches forward, silently asking for my hand. I give it to her, and when she squeezes it three times, I do, too.
Then her dad walks into the room, and the second he looks toward his daughter, his eyes fill with tears. “God, Win.”
“Dad.” She tries to laugh, to offer him some type of comfort, but it comes out hoarse. “I’m okay.”
“I know, I know.” He wipes his eyes. For such a hardcore guy, it’s odd for Winnie and I to see him this way. “It’s just—the last time I saw a long blonde-haired Carter girl roll into my ER in a gurney, it was your Mother. Not that this is a comparable situation, it’s just—it’s hard for me.”
Winnie’s heart breaks. I can see it in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.
Dr. Carter shakes his head. “No, honey. Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault.”
The room goes silent, and her dad pulls out his hospital tablet to look at her chart.
I look toward the monitor above her head. “Why is your blood pressure so high?” My brow furrows, and her dad looks over. I may not know a lot about blood pressure, but I do know the normal range, and that is not it.
“Jesus, it’s almost in the 140s.” He hits the button on the machine to signal for it to take her blood pressure again. Maybe it’s just a fluke.
When it still shows her blood pressure is extremely high, he pulls his stethoscope off from around his neck. “Are you feeling any chest pain, honey? Or like it’s hard to breathe?”
“A little bit, but nothing too alarming,” she says.
Her dad looks at me, pressing the stethoscope to her armunder the compressor. “You want to be a doctor, don’t you?” he asks me when he’s done listening.
“Yes, sir,” I reply.
