“That’s right, it was a car wreck. It’s normal to not remember all the details right now,” she explains compassionately. “The doctor will be in to see you and explain everything in just a minute.”
Jennifer stays with me, monitoring my vital signs and all the machines that surround me as we wait for the doctor. “Can I have some water?” I croak out, my throat feels like it’s lined with cotton.
She looks at me sympathetically, “Not until the doctor approves it.” She turns her head toward the door and says, “Speak of the devil.”
A tall, older man with white hair walks in. His stride is confident and hurried. He’s on rounds, no doubt, and trying to make it through his day. “Mr. Powers,” he says as he approaches my bed. “I’m Dr. Cole, your neurologist. I’ve been in charge of your case since you came in through the emergency room,” he explains. “Has Jennifer told you anything yet?”
“I’m in Baylor Medical Center and I had a wreck,” I respond and he nods.
“Do you remember anything about it?” he asks.
“Just bits and pieces. Brief glimpses,” I respond, trying to speak as little as possible. “Can I have water?”
Dr. Cole steps closer and takes out his pen flashlight. After he’s checked my eyes, my coordination skills, and my vital signs, he tells Jennifer to get me some water. “What year is it, Mr. Powers?” he asks as he scribbles in my chart.
“2014. But I don’t know how long I’ve been here.”
“What city is Baylor Medical Center in?” he probes.
“Dallas. The state is Texas.”
“Good. You’re oriented to person, place and time—meaning, you know who you are, you know what year it is, and you know where you are. Your CT scan showed no brain bleed and we’ve been monitoring you for any swelling.
“You’ve been here with us for a few hours. When you didn’t show up for work, you had a lot of people worried. Your car had veered off the road and into a culvert. You’re very lucky they found you when they did.
“As far as other injuries, you have some significant bruising but nothing major. Our main concern has been your head. The paramedic said there was an indention inside the car where your head hit. You’ll be sore and may have headaches, so you’ll have to take it easy for a week or so. We’ll keep you here overnight to continue to monitor for swelling in your brain, but I don’t expect any complications.”
Jennifer returns with my water and the doctor says his goodbyes with a promise to return to check on me again later. Jennifer reviews the chart he left with her and says, “Dr. Cole has put you on a clear liquid diet for the rest of today. I can get you some broth or Jell-O. What would you like?”
I give her my most practiced disgusted look and answer, “So hard to choose between those fine menu choices. Why am I on clear liquids?”
“It’s standard protocol, Mr. Powers. Solid foods are unsafe if you should require emergency surgery,” Jennifer says with finality.
“Fine. Jell-O,” I concede.
Jennifer smiles knowingly and starts to leave but suddenly turns around. “There are a couple of people here to see you in the waiting room. Neither of them is family so we couldn’t let them in before. Would you like me to bring them in now?”
“Yes, please. Thank you, Jennifer,” I say, knowing exactly who’s waiting to see me.
Minutes later, Sophia rushes into the room with Tucker fast on her heels. Her eyes are red and puffy, and her beautiful cheeks are stained with tear streaks. When she sees me, her unshed tears pour down her face and she runs to my side. She’s suddenly unsure of what to do with all the tubes, wires, and gadgets everywhere.
“Where are you hurt?” she asks, her voice watery and she’s barely holding back the barrage of sobs that lie just under the surface.
“The doctor said I used my head to break my car,” I try to joke with her.
“Dominic, this isn’t funny! You were missing for hours!” she cries.
Jennifer comes back in with more water and my Jell-O with a plastic spoon.Dinner of kings, I think to myself.
Once Jennifer leaves the room, I put the bed rail down and pull Sophia into the hospital bed with me. She tries to resist but I just hold her tighter.
“Dominic, you’re hurt! And you have an IV stuck in your arm!”
“Then quit squirming and just lie here with me,” I reason. She relaxes and gingerly moves the IV tubing out of the way. “That’s much better. See, I’m healing already.”
She shakes her head and I hear her sniffle. She’s crying again but trying to hide it for my sake. “Hey, shhh, I’m okay, baby. Just a little bump on the head. The doctor says I may have headaches and need to take it easy, but that’s it. Other than a few bumps and bruises, I’m fine.”
This actually causes her to cry harder and confuses me even more. Before I have a chance to ask her what she’s thinking, Tucker pipes in.
