“Look, I don’t want to scare you, but I don’t want to lie to you either. The reality is…I don’t know. I’m a little surprised at how much you’re able to talk, but you have alotof healing to do. This isn’t like a broken bone or a torn muscle where you can try to push your recovery. TIAs are serious business, even when you fully recover from them.”
Mason grimaces, but Gene is stoic.
“Mac doesn’t exactly do well with rest,” he says, far more diplomatically than I would have.
Nodding, Dr. De León smiles. “To be clear, I mean physical rest. You’ll be given exercises to help with mental acuity, and there are music-based therapies that I suspect you’d respond very well to.”
I sit up, frustrated by her positive attitude. Dr. De León thins her lips, raising her brows.
“Oh fuck,” I moan through gritted teeth. I’m so dizzy I nearly vomit on myself.
“By all means, Ms. Nash, ignore my suggestions,” she says, gently guiding me back to my pillow. “I totally lied. It’s no big deal that you had a series of mini-strokes. Hell, ignore the seizure you just had thirty seconds ago. Go for a stroll. Do some cardio while you’re at it. Let me know how that goes for you.”
I hold up my hands, surrendering. “Okay, okay.”
Our tour doc, Dr. K, pokes her head in the room. “I see Mac is being the model patient we all knew she would be.”
The stern-looking nurse purses her lips. “We need to keep Ms. Nash’s heart rate at a reasonable level. Stop antagonizing her.”
My brain doc bites back a grin and answers with an introduction. “Ms. Nash, this is Loretta, your neuro nurse. Loretta, this is Ms. Nash, who is struggling with the idea that it might take a hot minute to recover from multiple brain events.”
Loretta, who’s got to be at least six feet tall, arches her brow so severely that I melt back into my pillows.
“I don’t give a shit if you’re a huge country music star, Ms. Nash. I kept you alive when this one wanted to go after your head with a drill. Don’t go undoing all of my good work.”
Dr. De León chuckles under her breath, handing over the iPad to Loretta. “On that note, I’m off to root around in some fifteen-year-old’s skull. Here’s hoping you don’t see me for the rest of your stay here.”
Loretta looks over the iPad and inspects the bag on the side of my bed. Pointing her finger at my nose, she commands, “I need to see some more urine output from you when I come back at the top of the hour.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I respond, not about to argue with her.
With that, she leaves me alone with Mason, Gene, and Dr. K, who look a little more amused than they should.
Dr. K sits next to me on the bed. “It’s nice to see that someone around here can put you in your place.”
“Shut up,” I grumble, grabbing for the sippy cup by the side of my bed. No fucking way am I going to have Nurse Ratchet keep me in here because I’m not peeing enough.
Dr. K reaches into her fanny pack, pulls out a compact mirror, and turns it to face me.
Well, fuck.
“Why are my cheeks so full? I look like a chipmunk.”
“Just wanted you to understand how ridiculous you look when you fight about your recovery plan. You’re going to have swelling for a few more days as your system returns to normal. It’s a damn good thing your fan was a competent medical professional.”
“She’s not even a fan. She went because her friend got hurt,” I say, remembering my foot is in an Aircast. Ouch.
Rubbing her forehead, Dr. K sends me a sad look. “Do you have any idea how close you came to dying?” she asks, her voice cracking. “I’ve been trying to get you to listen to me about your stress levels formonths.”
I look down and pick at my blanket. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too. Unfortunately, once I’m fairly certain you’ll actually survive this, I’m going back to Nashville to see if I can pick up another tour.”
“Were you fired?” I ask, sending a glare to Gene.
Dr. K shakes her head. “No. I’m taking you off the road for at least six months.”
“Sixmonths?”
