Disclaimer: I still don't own them; I'll let you know when I do.
I don't like what I'm hearing.
The exact some words have just been spoken by the doctor and I have to agree with him.
He takes the stethoscope away from my chest and sighs.
I guess I knew this would happen sooner or later. You don't get shot three times in the back and have your lungs shredded up without suffering at least some form of complication.
Pneumonia. I guess I knew it would happen sooner or later. I've been laying here for the past few hours listening to myself wheeze and cough. It's a horrible sound, in an empty room like this it echoes and more than once I've found myself wondering if I wasn't in a room filled with heavy smokers.
It's depressing when it happens to be the only audio entertainment available. The radio broke last night when I accidentally knocked it off the bedside table during a particularly nasty nightmare. I don't have a roommate and the nurses always seem to appear when I'm too doped up to start a conversation.
My room is too high up to hear any of the sounds from the streets and the PA system brings little entertainment, just doctors being paged.
The other day I suggested they hook a radio up to the PA system and tune it into a good rock and roll station, but the nurse only giggled and said the doctor would hardly approve. With all the drugs in me I doubt she thought I was being serious.
So now I just lie here listening to the doctor going on about a treatment plan.
Antibiotics, that's a given. Plenty of rest, although that's been on the agenda since I got here. And of course we can't miss out the horrible nasal cannula. I'll admit, it's less annoying than an oxygen mask, but it makes me want to sneeze.
I try to tell the doc it's not necessary, but the wheeze in my chest and the coughing gives it all away. He's sent the nurse off to fetch the equipment and all I can do is groan and cough.
I wish Hutch were here. He hasn't been able to come in much at the moment, what with the trial and the paperwork that he's determined to do perfectly. Sometimes he brings it in and I've even fallen asleep to the sound of Hutch reading over the case notes. Not the most thrilling bedtime story, but it always makes me smile when he reads over the part where he strode into Gunthers's office and took the son of a bitch down. That's what I like to hear.
Hutch always recounts it with a mixture of sorrow and pride. I know it's hard for him to hear his own words out loud, having to remember that terrifying week, but I also think that facing that fear, hearing those words help him to come to terms with what happened and reminds him that even though he couldn't stop me from getting hurt, he stopped it from happening again while I was in the coma.
I could do with that bedtime story right now. My wheezing is a lullaby I can't stand and it brings along with it a heavy feeling that presses against my chest to hard I'm surprised I can cough at all with the pressure.
The nurse comes back with all the equipment needed and all I can do is groan as they hook it up. The IV has to go back in, oral meds aren't good enough at this stage.
The cannula goes over my head and secured in place. It helps, but that doesn't take away the annoyance.
The doctor waits until the equipment is set up before he places his stethoscope over my chest again.
I know what he's about to say and I decide to beat him to, not liking when my voice sounds weak and raspy.
"I don't like what I'm hearing."