‘I know that’s what I said, but I got crook,’ I point out. Measured, calm. ‘I can’t look after you if I’m crook, Dad.’
‘Where are you? Are you in Ouyen? I’ll come in with the ute –’
I deflect that one. ‘The hospital set me up with a place to stay, just for a month. The head nurse said she told you about it. I gotta be at the hospital every week or they’ll send me up to Mildura for an amputation assessment.’ I lean heavily on the next sentence. ‘I don’t wanna get my leg amputated, Dad.’
‘Well, shit…’ He can hardly argue with that.
I don’t wait for him to wind up again. ‘I’ll be back in a month. And I’ll be looking for work so I’ll send you a bit of money when I can, okay?’
That seems to mollify him. ‘Shit… Okay, then.’
‘I’ll call again soon, Dad. Don’t stress.’
‘Easy for you to say,’ he whines. ‘You’re not the one –’
‘I gotta go now, Dad,’ I say. ‘Dad, I gotta go. Bye.’
I disconnect. Then I sit on the couch for half an hour and wait for the shakes to pass.
*
‘Take your jeans down.’
It’s Wednesday, and a command like this is a bit early for a Wednesday. I kept my promise, made it to the hospital for my first appointment. When I arrived on time Amie smiled as if she’d known all along I could do it. But she quickly ushered me into a treatment room, put on her serious clinical face, and I was reminded this isn’t a social visit.
I start to unbutton, hesitate. ‘I’ve only got jocks underneath.’
She doesn’t bat an eyelid. ‘At least youworejocks.’
‘What, some blokes don’t?’ I find that a bit horrifying. ‘So you’re coming in to work every day, not knowing if some guy will be flashing his tackle at you?’
Amie raises her eyes to heaven. ‘You don’t wanna know. C’mon, then. If you need a hand –’
‘No, no, I’m good. It’s just…’
‘Look, it’s up to you. You can wear a gown if you prefer –’
‘No gown.’ Those things are the pits. It’s like being dressed in a Chux.
‘Here, then. Put this over you.’
She hands me a drape, which I wrap around my hips with one hand, while awkwardly dropping my jeans with the other. I manoeuvre back onto the examination table. Amie eases off the tape and the wound dressing, prods at the tender skin of my surgery site.
‘It’s a bit mucky,’ she pronounces finally.
‘Well, it’s –ow– the stitches pull a bit, if I’m moving around –’
‘You’re not supposed to be moving around.’ We’re so close to each other we’re practically eyeball to eyeball, and she’s really dosing me with it now. ‘You’re supposed to be doing your physio exercises, but otherwise staying off it.’
‘Seriously? I have to get upsometimes. I mean, I can’t sit on Westie’s couch all day, then sleep on it all night, I feel like –’
‘Like someone recuperating from a gunshot wound and follow-up surgery? Shocking.’ She presses down on a spot along my thigh. ‘Does that ache?’
‘Ye-ow, yes, it does –’
‘It still feels warm. Are you taking your meds?’
‘Yes, I am, and –’
