M McDonald - March Into Hell

Brenda took his blood pressure reading, popped a thermometer in his mouth, and stuck a clip on his finger. Various beeps sounded and the devices were removed. "Hmm… looks like you're running a little temp. I'll get some acetaminophen for you."

Mark sighed, wondering if the fever was going to delay his discharge. He'd hoped to go home in a day or so, but at least he was no longer on a monitor.

Images from that night would flash through his mind at random times… even when he was thinking about something else entirely and at night, with no distractions, it was even harder to keep the nightmares at bay. If he could, he'd just stay awake all the time. As much as he wanted to leave the hospital, the thought of sleeping in his loft made his skin crawl. Mark shuddered. Somehow, he'd have to get over it.

"Are you cold? Getting chills?"

Mark started at the sudden question, not realizing that Brenda had returned with his medication. Now that she mentioned it, he became aware that he was shivering and it wasn't just from the images in his head. "Yeah, I guess it is a little cold in here."

Brenda frowned. "Here, take these and I'll be back in an hour or so to take your temp again."

He tossed the pills back, and fumbled with the water glass. After washing the medication down, he took a few more sips. His throat still hurt from the tube and the water felt cool and soothing. Tugging the covers up, he settled down to try and get a little more sleep before the nurse returned, and then shortly after that, if he had their schedule figured out, the lab rats would come and draw blood. He yawned and wondered how doctors ever expected anyone to get better when the patients were continually awakened.

In the morning, his temp was near normal and he felt half-way human again.

"Good morning, Mark." His doctor swept into the room, his white coat flapping behind him. "I'm Doctor Matt Jenkins. I doubt you remember me very well." He laughed and his eyes crinkled into a pleasant expression. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay. Better than I did." Mark only vaguely recalled the man coming into his room yesterday after the tube had been pulled. The doctor had tried to ask him some questions, but Mark hadn't been able to keep his eyes opened.

"You sound a lot better too. I think we'll advance you to a soft diet. How does that sound?" He jotted something down on Mark's chart then set it on the bedside table and stepped right up to the bed.

Mark would have shrugged if he could. It didn't matter to him. He nodded instead. "Sure."

"Let me take a look at your incisions." Dr. Jenkins untied the back of Mark's gown and eased it down. Quickly, he pulled the tape off one side of the incision in Mark's shoulder. "It looks good." He removed the entire dressing and tossed it into a trash can. "You don't need that anymore."

His exam moved down to Mark's abdomen and Mark tried not to wince when the doctor's fingers lightly pressed near the wound. He didn't say anything this time, and his mouth set in a grim line before he re-tied Mark's gown.

Sitting in the chair Lily had used earlier, Dr. Jenkins grabbed the chart and began writing again. Idly, Mark watched him, wondering at the other man's expression. Was something wrong? He looked pissed off.

Sighing heavily, the doctor stood again. "Okay, now let me just take a quick peek at your hands and feet." He unwrapped the bandage and Mark watched the other man's face instead of looking at his wound.

"Can you make a fist?"

Mark grimaced and clenched his right hand as hard as he could, which wasn't very hard at all. He could barely hold a paper cup and even that was a challenge.

The doctor ran the tip of his pen along Mark's pinky finger and Mark pulled his hand back at the sharp sensation. Jenkins glanced up at Mark and smiled. "That's good. I was testing for sensitivity there. You're very lucky. You could have wound up with permanent nerve damage."

Mark shook his head and remarked dryly, "Yeah. I"ll try to remember how lucky I am."

Dr. Jenkins glanced up sharply, not missing Mark's sarcasm but choosing to keep any comments he had to himself as he re-wrapped the wound.

Mark tried to smile to take the bite out of his previous comment, but he was incapable of forming his mouth into a curve and closed his eyes in embarrassment instead, feeling like a first class jerk. None of this was the doctor's fault. He opened his eyes but kept his gaze fixed on the sheets bunched around his waist. "Sorry about that, Doc."

"No need to apologize. I'd be pretty pissed too if I were you." He walked around to the other side of the bed. "Let's take a look at this hand." He repeated the thing with the pen, and this time, Mark didn't feel the need to pull back. He could feel it, but it was more distant, a pressure more than anything sharp.

"Hmmm… it could be temporary. Can you make a fist?"

Mark tried and his fingers curled, but it was even weaker than the other hand. His little finger didn't curl as much as the others. His eyes flew to the doctor's. "It's not working as well as the other one." He tried to keep the fear out of his voice.

"No, it's not, but it could be temporary and with some physical therapy, you could regain all or most of your normal function."

Mark absorbed that and prayed that the doctor was right. Then he wondered why he bothered to pray at all. He'd prayed before and it hadn't stopped the crucifixion from happening. His jaw clenched and he felt bitterness rise up within him. At the very least, there could have been a hint of what was going to happen in the camera. He'd done so much for that damn camera and now, when he needed help, it had abandoned him.

The doctor moved onto his feet and seemed satisfied with the results of those tests. "I'd like to get you up walking today. It's going to hurt a bit, but you'll recover faster from the abdominal surgery if you're up moving around." Jenkins moved over to the sink and washed his hands, and after drying them with a paper towel, sat back in the chair. He crossed his legs and opened the chart once more. "As long as you don't try running a marathon, your feet should be okay."

Mark barely heard the joke and only glanced at the doctor in confusion.

Apparently realizing his attempt at humor had fallen flat, Dr. Jenkins leaned forward, his expression serious. "Mark, would you like to talk to someone? A psychiatrist? Or clergy? We have a fantastic chaplain here at the hospital. I could send him in later."

Mark shook his head. "I don't think so. I'm okay." He avoided the doctor's eyes and leaned back, his gaze fixed on the water stain. Maybe he wasn't completely okay, but he would be. Eventually.

Sweat popped out on Mark's forehead and he dipped his head to swipe the moisture with his shoulder. Gritting his teeth, he took another step. Every time his foot made contact with the floor, it felt like stepping on an upturned knife. He swallowed hard and bit his lip in determination. He couldn’t remain sitting for the next few weeks while his feet healed.

“That’s it! Good job, Mark.” Wayne, his physical therapist, smiled in encouragement. “Just a little bit more.” He gripped Mark’s right elbow with one hand and his other reached for a nearby chair, angling it to make it easier for Mark to sit down. “Here you go.” Wayne stepped aside to allow Mark access.

Heaving a sigh of relief, Mark sat and attempted to catch his breath. He looked at the ten feet he’d covered between the chair and his bed and shook his head. “Jeez, how pathetic is it that I feel like I just ran a marathon?"

The therapist laughed. “Well, you’ve been flat on your back for about four days. It doesn’t take long. Add your injuries to that, and it’s no wonder you’re short of breath.”