Brave

Chapter 5: Pep Talk

"So, what happens now?" I ask my mom once I'm finished primping.

"I'm not sure. We'll have to wait for Dr. Fischer. I think they said they will be moving you out of ICU today because you're clearly doing much better."

It's not long before Dr. Fischer makes an appearance. He informs us that I will indeed be moving out of the intensive care unit. I will move to a regular bed, and when I'm ready to begin physical therapy, they will transfer me to another part of the hospital that's reserved for rehabilitation patients, such as myself. I will be working with a physical therapist in my room until then.

My heart falls with the news. I'm getting homesick already. And I think it's more than just missing home, but I'm missing my old life, which will never be back to the way it was.

"Can't I just go home and come back for physical therapy?" I ask hopefully.

"I'm sorry, Sarah. You'll have to stay here until we know that your legs are healing well."

My right leg will never heal, I think. It's gone.

Perhaps Dr. Fischer can read my mind because the next words out of his mouth are, "Your right leg is gone, but we still have to watch for signs of infection and swelling. And don't forget that your left leg has to heal, too. It won't take as long, but it will be sore for a while. In fact, it's a miracle that it's not broken or worse."

Yeah, some miracle, I grumble internally. Thirty-four stitches and no right leg. I'm a walking miracle! Wait, I can't walk. What the hell kind of miracle is that?

I wonder if it's psychological, but my left leg seems to be aching more since I noticed the bruises and the stitches earlier.

"It hurts," I tell the doctor, motioning to my left thigh.

"We've been backing down the pain medication."

Thanks for asking me, I think sarcastically.

He continues, "We'll eventually install catheters in your right leg to deliver numbing medication only to the residual limb. For now, I will ask your nurse to bring your IV back up to what it was before," he assures me.

It's not long before a transfer tech comes to push me, bed and all, to the new unit. My mom gathers up all of the flowers, cards, and balloons in my room. I'm amazed that so many gifts came in such a short period of time. I realize I haven't really even looked at them yet, so I make a mental note to do just that after the transfer.

My new room is a little more cozy than the ICU. Dark sage wallpaper climbs up about half way, met by a delicate border of flowers. The top part of the walls is just a creamy color with tiny little sage flecks. It's not exactly my decorating style, but it feels more homey than the ICU. Most of all, I'm relieved that I still have a room to myself.

My mom puts my tiny suitcase in a small closet across from my bed, an unwelcome reminder that I'll be staying here longer than I want to. She places all of my essentials on a small table next to the bed. She puts my laptop on the rolling table that fits snugly over the top of my bed.

I don't realize how much I'd been out of the virtual loop until I start my computer, my trusty laptop. It's oddly comforting somehow.

I log on to Facebook and I'm a bit taken aback by hundreds of notifications. I click on them to see message after message, everyone wishing me well, assuring me of their thoughts and prayers.

Then I take a look at all the cards and notes, along with the flowers and balloons that accumulated mostly while I was unconscious. Of course there are flowers from Sam, Cam and Morgan, from some people at my mom's church, and a large bouquet from my dad. He must have sent them right away, before he knew he'd be hopping a flight. There are several cards from a few people from my dorm, from my aunt and uncle in Grand Rapids, and even from some of my college professors.