Chapter 2 - Moving the Goalposts
Ron Weasley was currently experiencing the most peculiar sensation. Half his body felt like it didn't exist—this is what being a disembodied ghost must feel like. He was acutely aware of the sounds of a siren, frantic voices and machines beeping around him, but it all seemed to be coming through just one ear. The stretcher he lay on felt warm on his back, but his legs were cold and unresponsive. There was a tingling sensation in his right arm, but his left arm just merely lay there.
Opening his eyes, Ron was horrified to find himself looking up at the inside of an ambulance—how did he end up here? Something grievous had to have happened to him at the match, but he couldn't remember the details. A paramedic stood over him, fiddling with an intricate-looking machine, not having realised his patient was now conscious. Ron figured he should make his presence known, so he tried to shift his body and sit into a comfortable position.
Nothing happened.
He tried once more, and again his limbs didn't respond. His hand fisted the bedding, but his arms wouldn't move, his toes curled, but his knees wouldn't bend. Panic and terror took over as Ron began to whimper.
"What is happening to me? Please help me."
He knew he was crying, but he couldn't feel the tears falling down his face. Whatever happened to him royally messed him up. Struggling for air, he took heaving gasps as the panic overwhelmed him. The paramedic whipped around and tried to settle him down.
"Mate, you've got to calm down. You've had a bad collision, and I've had to brace your neck and spine." He placed a hand on Ron's chest. "Control your breathing to take the burden off your ribs and back. I'll give you something for the pain." Ron did not feel the hand on his chest, and he still couldn't move his limbs. Fear overwhelmed him completely, and he once again faded to black.
He awoke to more peculiar sensations—water dripping down the side of his face and damp cloths pressing against him in various places. Ron opened his eyes and looked around at a large group of people sitting vigil at his bedside, all with looks of anguish on their tear-stained faces. He spotted his girlfriend Lavender, Harry and Ginny, his older brothers Percy, Fred and George, and his parents Molly and Arthur. Ron would never admit it to them, but their collective presence calmed his nerves.
"How long have I been out?" He asked.
"About an hour, do you know where you are? This is St. Mungo's Hospital," came the voice of his mother, Molly. "You've been asleep since the ambulance ride. The paramedic gave you something to keep you sedated."
Ron tried nodding his head. The jolt of pain he felt as he moved his neck was unbearable, and he couldn't help the groan that escaped him.
"It's okay, Ronnie. Just stay still. Don't try moving yet." The pity in his mother's voice frightened him.
Lying still, he voiced another question on his mind.
"What happened? I remember there being a corner kick—big Wilson got up for the header—or was it Williams—I don't remember who, or if I saved the shot. I think I remember landing on my neck—" he trailed off, unsure of what happened next.
"Shit. Ron, uh—it was Wilkins who went for the header. You seemed to stumble going for the dive. You made the save, but then you clattered into the goalpost and landed on your neck," Harry explained, looking around at the others as if expecting someone to continue the retelling for him. When no one did, he gave a deep sigh and carried on.
"Everyone knew it was bad the second you landed. The medics ran onto the field, and the players all formed around you. They were scared to move or even touch you, they thought, they thought you had broken your neck. The ambulance came, and they stretchered you off and drove straight here. We all left the stadium as fast as we could and hightailed it over here."
Ron could see his best friend looked quite distressed, toying with the piece of cloth in his hands. Trying to change the subject, he asked, "Why the wet cloth?"
"You were muddy, and I refuse to allow you to lay there covered in dirt and grime," his mother replied with an air of dignity.
"And why do you both have them too?"
"Because you're a lanky, tall git, and it takes multiple people to clean you up." Ginny sniffled.
Ron appreciated her attempt at sarcasm and humour—being the only girl, Ginny often avoided showing emotion in front of her brothers.
"Me? I just needed an excuse to smell you again," Harry said, grinning at Ron, who couldn't suppress his laughter. Trust Harry Potter to find a way to cheer him up, even when dealing with something this serious.
"You're a weird guy, Potter. Do you sniff the hair of all your clients?" Ron asked, trying to quirk his eyebrow, unsure if he had any control of his facial features.
"Uh—well, yeah. I mean, Ginny is also my client, and her hair smells like—" Harry began as he steadily turned beet-red.
"Shut up, Harry! That's our sister!" The four voices of the Weasley brothers all reverberated around the hospital room. Harry looked embarrassed and sank into his chair.
Ron decided to take pity on his friend and change the subject again. "We won, though? Right? The game."
Harry was about to respond when a harassed-looking nurse pulled back the curtains of the cubicle. Everyone looked on expectantly as she said, "Mr Weasley, Doctor Randall is here to explain your situation to you." She looked at the large group sitting around his bedside. "This part will be conducted in private, so I'm afraid I'll have to escort your family and friends back to the waiting area."
"Okay," Ron croaked as the nurse gestured for everyone to leave.
"We'll be here once you're finished," his mother said as she guided his father out of the cubicle.
No sooner had everyone left, a short, balding man had entered and looked down at Ron within the bed. "Hi, I'm Doctor Randall. I'm the lead neurosurgeon here at St. Mungo's Hospital, and I'll be overseeing your case for the foreseeable future."
"Foreseeable future?" Ron repeated, his eyes narrowing—how long were they planning on keeping him here?
"Yes. You and I will be seeing quite a bit of each other, given the complexity and severity of your injuries." He continued looking down at Ron, who grew impatient with his beating around the bush. Doctor Randall must have sensed this because he continued, "Well, I'll cut right to the chase. Your injury is particularly severe, and the impact of the collision resulted in significant damage to your spinal cord. The landing worsened that damage and amplified its impact. We will continue running tests and check for further degradation. You'll head for a CT scan straight after our conversation, and then we'll discuss the results and your options. The sooner we analyse your injury, the more realistic chances of recovery you have."
"How bad is it?" Ron whispered, suspecting he already knew the answer.
"That I cannot answer now. Not yet. Let's proceed with the scans, and I'll see you again in a few hours to discuss my findings and conclusion." The doctor turned and walked out of the cubicle, leaving a disheartened Ron alone in his bed.
Ron didn't get a chance to see his family and friends before a burly porter had come in and wheeled him out of the cubicle. They travelled down the lift and exited onto a pristine-looking floor with various labs and rooms. The porter took him into an immaculate area containing a big, tube-like machine behind a glass observation area. Ron had previously experienced an x-ray during his medical at Chudley United—he knew this would be a lot different and serious. A numbness began to eat away at him.
They entered the room to the sound of a buzzer, and a man in a lab coat stepped out to greet them.
"You must be Ronald Weasley. I'm Edward, the lab technician. I'll be conducting your CT scan tonight."
Ron gave a non-committal grunt in response, not quite feeling up to pleasantries.
"I get that a lot sometimes. It's fine." Edward chuckled before continuing, "Let me explain the process. I promise to get this done as quickly as possible, and you can head off to your next test before you get the results from Doctor Randall."
"Okay—" Ron wasn't sure why he felt unwilling to engage in the process. The numbing sensation had worsened, so he just lay staring at Edward, who continued to speak.
"CT scans work a little differently to normal x-rays and provide much more detailed images. One of the ways we achieve that is by feeding a dye into your system, and that allows the images to come out a lot clearer." He held up a small piece of plastic for Ron to see. "This is a cannula, and it will help me inject the dye into you. It will take around fifteen minutes to spread, and then we can begin the scan."
Ron didn't even register the prick of the needle as Edward set up the cannula. A feeling of despair alongside the numbness bubbled up inside him—nothing good was going to come from this. He spent the next fifteen minutes just staring at the bright ceiling lights above him.
It was hard for Ron not to feel useless when the porter and Edward lifted him from the bed and onto a white stretcher with bedding that smelt like disinfectant. He would never consider himself a claustrophobe, but he couldn't help feeling a little trapped while moving through the cramped machine. He took deep, steady breaths as the machine whirred and buzzed around him, willing himself not to hit the emergency stop button.
They removed Ron from the CT scan and returned him to his bed. Unsure of how long he had been at the hospital, he was now feeling a little drained. The prolonged amount of time he had spent on his back had put pressure on his bladder, and he now desperately needed to pee—how was he even meant to go?
"Edward, I'm sorry, but I—uh, need to pee. I don't think I can, though?" Ron asked, feeling embarrassed and ashamed at the inability to control his bladder all of a sudden.
"It's alright, Ron, if you need to go, then go. They hooked you up to a catheter when you arrived. A standard procedure for this kind of thing," Edward responded with an understanding smile. Unable to hold it in, Ron relaxed and felt himself go.
Ron moved from department to department at St. Mungo's Hospital with the help of the burly porter. He had his temperature and blood pressure taken on one floor before visiting another to give blood and urine samples. Ron then underwent a very odd examination to verify his sense of touch, which involved a nurse poking him with a sharp needle. They exited the room, and the burly man spoke for the first time that evening.
"I'm to take you to see Doctor Randall now, and once you're done, I'll take you back to your ward." His voice was gruff, but Ron could sense a hint of tenderness behind it.
"Thanks, uh—" Ron realised he didn't know his name and trailed off.
"Forgot to introduce myself, Rubeus is the name, but everyone calls me Hagrid." He gave Ron a gentle pat on the shoulder before wheeling him into the lift. "Given your circumstances, I can't exactly wheel your bed into his office now, so the doctor will meet with you in a private ward to explain the next steps."
They exited the lift once more, and Hagrid pushed Ron down the corridor and into a private ward with a sign outside that read "Godric Gryffindor Ward". Hagrid wheeled him in and set the bed in place as Ron spotted Doctor Randall waiting nearby.
"Ah, Ronald. Glad you've made it. Allow me to consult your medical report before I start," he said, reaching out for a file hanging off the foot of the bed before pulling out a small Dictaphone from his white coat. He rifled through the pages of the report, pressed a button on his Dictaphone and started to speak.
"Patient R.W. has suffered incomplete SCI to the lumbar vertebrae L3 and sacral vertebrae S4 and S5. Early diagnosis indicates severity as ASIA D, motor-incomplete injury with more than half of the muscle groups at anti-gravity. Impact on S4 nerves affecting the perineal area, restricting movement and mobility. Impact on L3 lumbar vertebrae affecting the bladder, knee and reproductive organs. Early prognosis indicates—"
"Reproductive organs? What about my reproductive organs? Sorry, I don't follow. Is there something wrong with me?" Ron interrupted, unable to comprehend the medical jargon.
Doctor Randall opened the file, pulled out an image, and held it up for Ron to see.
"This is a scan of your spine. It connects the nerves in your spinal cord to your brain. Those nerves relay information to the rest of your body. Following your impact and landing, you damaged these specific vertebrae." He pointed at two sections within the scan, towards the bottom of the spine. "This bottom part of your spine helps control your lower half of the body. This upper section does a whole range of things, but the L3 involves the bladder, your knees, and your sexual organs."
Ron let out a nervous chuckle.
"I don't understand how this is possible. This is ridiculous. I've been injured in collisions with goalposts and players before. It's never resulted in this." He looked at the doctor, hoping he would take back his assessment.
"I'm afraid this is one of those times when you are not as fortunate. The early prognosis gives us a six-month initial timeline and a fifty-fifty chance of recovery, where you may eventually be fit enough to walk and run. You will need to undergo intensive physiotherapy and potentially even surgery before that can happen. It is unlikely, however, that you'll ever completely regain your former athletic ability." He looked down at Ron, who felt his heart shatter into a million pieces as comprehension dawned on him—he may never play football again.
"No—I'm—No. I'm nothing without football! That's all I have," Ron yelled out to the doctor. "Please, there has to be something you can do? Surgery, medicine, anything. I have the money—I can pay for it!" This time, he felt the tears cascade down his face as he began to cry.
"Right now, Mr Weasley, all I can tell you is that your prognosis may change and could have a different outcome in the long-term. Your age, health, and physique will be major contributing factors. Our concern now is your immediate health. We will be monitoring your vitals and ensuring you don't cause further damage to yourself. That means controlling your emotions, breathing, and blood flow. If you overdo things, you'll make it all worse. My goal is to get you back to your former self, and we'll do that. Together with—" Ron gave no response and continued to cry as a dull buzzing in his ears drowned out Doctor Randall's words.
Ron remained uncomprehending throughout the rest of the conversation, resulting in Doctor Randall taking much longer to explain the next steps of his recovery. Chudley United would be covering the cost and had afforded Ron the best options. He would have surgery, physiotherapy, rehabilitation, and see a therapist, all in the hopes of accelerating his recovery.
Lavender and Harry seemed to be the only two members of his group remaining in the cubicle when Hagrid wheeled him back in. Harry sat slumped in his chair, his head in his hands, while Lavender sat and stared at the cubicle curtains. Neither had noticed him being wheeled in.
"You both waited," Ron voiced as he caught sight of the pair, feeling a surge of affection for them both. "And bye, Hagrid. Thanks for the ride."
The burly man gave him a cheery wave as he left.
"Ron!" Harry leapt to his feet and scrambled to his side. "What did the doctor say?—We didn't know where they had taken you, and it was getting late. Your dad got tired, so your mum and Ginny took him back to mine. Molly said they would be back in the morning, first thing. I spoke with the club while I was waiting, they told me about paying for your care, which is the least they could do. Your brothers all went to grab some food, and you just missed them. They'll be back around lunch tomorrow. What did the doctor say?—What's your situation like?—Is there a recovery plan?" He spoke fast, and Ron struggled to keep up.
"Harry, slow down. My head is pounding—I can't feel shit in my lower half, and now you're bombarding me with questions," he said through gritted teeth.
Harry at least had the decency to look ashamed. "Sorry."
"Ron?" Lavender called out to him. "Do you want to talk about it? You can tell us before everyone else turns up and makes it worse and harder to tell."
Ron took a deep breath and considered her words. He usually avoided letting people, especially his mother, fuss over him, but the circumstances here were different. He hated the thought of being considered vulnerable or weak by his family, but what choice did he have now? Ron would need their support and care to recover. He would have to tell everyone eventually. It would be a lot easier to tell Harry and Lavender first, and then later they could support him in telling the rest of his family.
"Long story short. I'm fucked. My spine took some damage, something about my L3 vertebrae and my sack—I don't even know if that's how you say it. But the doctor told me there's a chance I won't walk again, let alone play football. The club will pay for the healthcare—surgery, therapy, rehab, all of it. Not sure why they're bothering, but they'll realise it's a waste of money when I can't even play again," he told them.
"Oh, Ron!" Lavender cried. Ron looked up and saw her makeup streaked with tears.
Realising the next step he had to take, he spoke directly to her, "Listen. I don't expect you to take this on. It's not like we're married or anything. If you have to bail, I understand—I hope you won't—I mean—" Ron wasn't sure if he dared to finish the thought, terrified at the prospect of losing her. He was too much of a burden to ask her to stay, but it was the right thing to do, allowing her to go. "I need you with me, but if you have to—to bail. No hard feelings."
Harry must have sensed the awkwardness of the situation as he bolted out of the cubicle, muttering about grabbing a coffee.
"I'm not going to bail on you. I'm here for you, I'm going to need more than a drawer, but I'll be there for you. Appointments, therapy, training, bathing, cleaning your dirty laundry, all of it." She said, a look of steely determination in her eyes.
"Are—are you just inviting yourself to move in with me?" Ron asked.
"Yeah, well, I thought you never would." She smirked at him. "Honestly, a single drawer? Ron, you do realise I keep all my clothes in your spare room already?"
"Really? Since when?" Ron asked, taken aback by this revelation.
"Quite a while now, you took so long to ask me, and I just found it easier to keep my stuff somewhere else until you were ready. Never mind that now though, I'll be taking care of you, and we'll have you up and about in no time."
She leaned down to gently capture his lips, and Ron felt immensely satisfied to find his lips hadn't lost their sense of touch. He deepened the kiss, his heart soaring at the prospect of having Lavender by his side throughout whatever it was coming his way. He had been dealt several sucker punches tonight, but this was now a chance to begin his road to recovery.