Preface;
Three months, three long months. Months of sitting, of standing, of pacing of watching the crisp green leaves of the oak tree outside Quinn's window turn orange and red.
Months of hoping and hoping and hoping…
She'd learnt to recite the long list of injuries like she'd done so many times before with the lines of a song. She'd heard them, read them, said them so much, they'd become a part of her, forming a slow, steady beat and low, familiar melody.
Quinn had been admitted with an ICH and a SCI - an Intracerebral Hemorrhage and a Spinal Cord Injury. The surgeons had spent the first five hours closing the bleed from her brain, and the next eight decompressing a fracture to the lumbar sacral disks and stabilizing a severe contusion to the thoracic portion of Quinn's spine. Her ribs were broken, her spleen was ruptured, her skin was bruised, and her face was swollen.
For what felt like the longest time in the world, she was just a lump in a bed in ICU, wrapped up in tubes and surrounded by machines.
It had taken nearly a week for Quinn to open her eyes, another week for her to speak, and one more after that to have a conversation. She lay flat on her back, counting ceiling tiles and clock ticks, while her legs lay hidden and lifeless under the sheets.
"How are you sweetie?" Even through the blur she could decipher her mothers facetious drawl. She could decipher the doctors sterile bedside manor, "the bowel is flaccid." She could decipher quiet voice of Rachel Berry telling her, "it's okay."
As the world became more lucid, and Quinn was truly there, rather than simply fading in and out, they began to raise the bed little by little, propping her up on pillows and bedrails because without them she'd slop from one side to the other.
There was an Medical Doctor, an Occupational Therapist, a Physical Therapist, a Case Manager, a Neurologist, a Neurosurgeon, a Psyche and a handful of nurses who rotated in appearances, checking blood pressure, heart rate, body temperature, circulation, bladder and bowel movements, turning and pain management.
Quinn's mom would drop by every other day to have short, sharp uncomfortable conversation about nothing in particular for less than an hour. Santana would bitch about school and hiss at Brittany when she spoke about her grandmothers colostomy bag, not unlike the bag she could see peeking out from under the sheets – Quinn's cheeks blushed warm pink as she quickly covered it up. Sam brought flowers. Mercedes brought magazines. Mr Shuester brought a mixtape. Kurt had read her his speech for graduation. But three months was a long time. It was the end of school, the beginning of a new journey and with the immediate threat of death over, it had become too easy for them to forget.
Now it was just Rachel, curled up on a chair beside her bed - her smile still filled to the brim with hope and a crumpled envelope with an acceptance of her deferral from NYADA.
Note; this is a re-write of a previous story
The title of the story is a song called Turn to Stone, by Ingrid Michaelson
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