“What does that mean?” I ask. “I need to do more rehab here?”
“No. This hospital isn’t set up for intensive spinal rehab. What you need is a dedicated inpatient facility. Multiple hours of therapy a day.”
“So, you’ve done everything you can do here? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“We have. You’re stable. The surgical concerns are addressed. The most important thing now is giving the spinal cord the best environment to recover. That happens in rehab, not here.”
“Where do I go?”
“The top program in the state is a rehabilitation hospital in Jacksonville. That’s our first recommendation if a bed is available. If not, there’s another one in Pensacola. And there are national programs like the Shepherd Center in Atlanta, but that’s farther and depends on availability.”
Jacksonville is four and a half hours on I-10 from Panama City. Pensacola is three hours west. Atlanta is six. Doesn’t matter which one. Either way, nobody’s just dropping in to visit.
“Which one gives me the better shot to get better?” I ask.
“Jacksonville. Without hesitation. They have a dedicated spinal cord injury program. More experience and more resources than anyone else in the state.”
“How long?”
“Six to eight weeks. Sometimes longer. Depends on how you progress.”
“And if nothing comes back?”
“Then we keep working. Rehab isn’t just about walking. It’s about independence. Learning how to function with whatever your body gives you, and pushing it to give you more.”
“When do I move?”
“Likely within the next couple of days,” she says. “As soon as we secure placement.”
“This is the next step then.”
“Yes, and it’s the best one.” She stands, squeezes my shoulder, puts the chair back and walks out. The door clicks shut and I’m alone with the knowledge that they’re done with me here. The next stop is Jacksonville, four and a half hours from everyone who matters.
I don’t have time to think about it before the door suddenly slams open and Tex barges in. He’s carrying a Styrofoam container in one hand and a thermos in the other. He drove two hours at six in the morning on a mission and the mission involves food.
God, how I’ve missed my best friend.
He’s wearing a Big Tex’s Roadhouse T-shirt that’s seen better days and jeans with a barbecue sauce stain on the left thigh that I suspect is permanent. His beard has gotten longer since the last time I saw him, and it’s doing a thing on the left side that suggests he slept on it wrong and didn’t check a mirror before leaving. He looks like he woke up in the middle of the night, loaded food into a truck, and drove two hours without once considering his appearance. He’s a giant disaster in a stained T-shirt delivering breakfast.
“Good morning, sunshine,” he says.
“Damn, am I glad to see you, Tex.”
“I bet you are. I brought food. Real food, not eggs from a carton that you’ve been bitching about.”
He pops the container open and the smell of a full Southern breakfast hits me. Biscuits, sausage gravy, scrambled eggs, pancakes, two fat sausage links. Steam curls off the gravy in the fluorescent light.
“I stopped at Dottie’s,” he says. “Dottie herself was behind the counter. She asked where I was headed that early in the morning with enough food for a family of four and I told her my best friend was in the hospital in Tallahassee. She added two extra biscuits and wouldn’t let me pay for them. I tried to pay. She threatened me with a spatula. You don’t argue with a woman holding a spatula. That’s a losing fight. The spatula always wins. The coffee’s from my pot.”
He hands me the thermos cap full of coffee. The smell of Tex’s coffee, rich and dark, hits me. I take a sip, close my eyes and for three seconds I’m standing in Tex’s kitchen at five in the morning before a shift. The memory brings tears to my eyes before I can blink them away. Seeing Tex makes me so damn homesick.
“I also brought you a gallon of sweet tea that I’ll get later from the truck. I know what you’re going to say. ‘Tex, I can’t drink a gallon of sweet tea,’ and I’m going to say ‘of course you can, you’re in a hospital, all rules are suspended, sweet tea is medicinal.’ The sugar content alone will cure you. I’m not a doctor but I’m willing to make that claim without evidence.”
“I didn’t know you were coming this morning,” I say.
“Surprises are my specialty,” Tex says. “Now eat your biscuits. I microwaved the gravy in the waiting room. Oh, and Sheila says hello. Actually, Sheila says, and I’m quoting directly, ‘Tell my baby I love him and miss him so bad.’”
“She also sent you this.” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. “It’s a note. She wrote it on a napkin at the bar because Sheila doesn’t believe in stationery. She says stationery is for people who don’t have napkins. I haven’t read it because she told me if I read it, she’d know, and I believe her. I’ve always been convinced she has psychic abilities. She knows things before they happen, but I can’t prove it because every time I bring it up, she gives me the look and it makes me forget what I was going to say. I’ll never be able to prove it.”
