Chapter 10
As promised, Dr. Trendell was back around 4 to talk to Charlie.
Alan was a little surprised that Don had not come back, but hoped that it meant he was getting some sleep. Charlie had emerged groggily from his Thorazine-haze about an hour earlier, and had been quiet, slipping in and out of dozes.
Dr. Trendell introduced himself to Charlie again. "We met in the ER," he smiled, "but I think you were a little distracted."
Charlie stared up at him solemnly, and wondered again where Don was.
The surgeon sat down. "I understand you're an educated man, so I'll not sugarcoat this. Your prognosis is very good. Your hand will never again be as it was, but if you regain 60 percent of its use, that is an excellent recovery; some people can go as far as 80 percent. The further down the arm the injury occurs, the better the return of use, so my plan is for you to be one of the 80s. When an injury like this occurs, and we attempt replantation, the bone is shortened just a tiny amount – 7 millimeters, in your case. This is necessary for tension-free vessel repair. For the next several weeks, your arm will be bandaged, and always kept above your heart. We'll have you on blood thinners, and it's important that you keep your environment at home as warm as your room is here. Both sensory and motor nerves must regenerate. No caffeine, no smoking. That constricts the blood vessels. After several weeks, you'll move to a brace, and begin passive physical therapy; then, in a few more weeks, active. We'll talk about all those details again."
This was past the point where patients usually interrupted, so Dr. Trendell paused. Charlie just blinked at him, and the doctor considered that maybe the hit of Thorazine still had lingering effects. "Do you understand?"
"Yes," Charlie said, his voice quiet.
The surgeon glanced at Alan, then back to Charlie. "I cannot emphasize enough the importance of a positive, 'can-do' attitude. I have seen it make the difference. These first few weeks especially, that is your assignment: Cultivate your attitude."
"Right," Charlie breathed.
Dr. Trendell cleared his throat and continued the usual spiel. "I'm also happy to see that you have a close support system of family and friends. This is the time to let them help you, not the time to work on your stoicism."
Charlie blinked again, thinking about his support system. Don had hardly been able to look at him, had barely spoken to him, since he had awakened that morning. He wasn't even here, now. If his own brother could not stand to be around him, how much hope was there for anyone else? "Absolutely," he whispered, and let his eyes droop.
The doctor stood. "I won't keep you awake any longer now, you need rest. The bandage will not be changed until tomorrow."
"Thank-you," Charlie said, eyes closed now.
Dr. Trendell stared down at him for a moment thoughtfully, then motioned for Alan to follow him out into the hall. "How did that go?", he asked, when the door had shut behind them. "Does he always give one-word answers?"
Alan looked at the floor. "It's not unusual," he answered, then looked at Charlie's surgeon. "Of course, it generally indicates that there is a problem, somewhere."
Trendell sighed. "That's what I was afraid of. It could be from the Thorazine — he won't have as much in his system, tomorrow. But I haven't been kidding, about positive attitude. Watch him closely, and try to keep your own attitude up as well."
"Tomorrow…can I watch? I'll be changing his bandages at home."
"We'll be sure you know how to do that before Charlie is released. It's up to him, about tomorrow. The first time a patient sees a replanted part can be very overwhelming."
Alan nodded silently, gazing over the doctor's shoulder. Overwhelming. Damn good word to describe the last 24 hours.
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Larry was back by 6, insisting that Alan go to dinner while he stayed with Charlie, who was sleeping again. While Alan was gone, Charlie awoke, and Larry smiled at him. "It's good to see you, Charles. How do you feel?"
"I'm all right." Charlie's eyes wandered the room. "Dad?"
"I suggested that he take a break."
Charlie gave a nod, and let his eyes wander again, finally settling on the ceiling. Larry tried to make conversation. "I understand that your father sent Don home to rest, this afternoon. I must say, I was relieved to hear that he was able to accomplish that. The poor man looked like he needed it."
Charlie's eyes found Larry again, and they looked apprehensive. "He's okay? You're not all…covering, not telling me something?"
Larry spoke with characteristic aplomb. "Charles, we've told you that your hand left your body and was surgically reattached. Why would we hide anything else? It would seem rather…secondary, don't you think? Besides, you saw him yourself. He was not injured in the blast, but he is understandably distraught."
Charlie looked at the ceiling, again.
Distraught. Dismayed. Disgusted. Disheartened. Disinegrating, dissected, disabled brother.
Distract. He needed another 'dis' word.
"School?"
"All taken care of, for the rest of the semester," Larry assured him. "You can take your time, concentrate on healing."
Disinterested in your return. You are dismissed and dispatched. Disenfranchised.
Larry frowned at his friend. "Charles? Are you all right?"
Charlie wished he could turn, one way or the other. Flat on his back, he was stuck looking at the ceiling or at whoever was talking to him. He picked the ceiling and sighed. "I'm a little distressed," he answered, and, unexpectedly, laughed; a huffing, loud, snort of a laugh that struck Larry in the chest like a well-placed karate kick.
His hand crept toward his hair, and Larry clutched at an ear on the way. "I can certainly see that you would be," he finally said. They were silent, then, until Alan returned.
He entered the room smiling, saw the look on Larry's face and Charlie staring at the ceiling, and wondered, disconcerted, what he'd missed.
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Small talk was not an option. Alan and Larry sat, and Charlie lay, as if they were mute.
Nothing uncomfortable about this, thought Alan, shifting in his chair.
Charlie's eyes finally left the ceiling and flickered his way. His father needed rest at least as badly as Don. Charlie hadn't spoken in so long, his voice came out raspy. "I'm a little tired," he said. "My head hurts."
Alan looked up from his knees in alarm. "Should I call a nurse?"
Damn. That hadn't come out right. "No. I mean, she'll be here soon enough. It's not an emergency." Charlie was already exhausted, but he managed the rest of the sentence. "I'm just saying, when it's time for the pain meds again, I'll be out for hours…maybe even before then. It's all right if you leave."
Alan and Larry looked at each other. It sounded like Charlie wanted them to leave, Alan thought. He looked back at Charlie, saw the lines of weariness and pain on his face and thought, Yes. He probably does. It's been quite a day for him. He knew how internally Charlie needed to process things that confused or bothered him. Bombings and amputations would probably qualify for that.
So, although it tore at him to do it, Alan stood and kissed his son good-night, wished him well, and led Larry from the room.
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When he entered the house a little before 8, Alan wasn't sure that Don was still there. Exhausted himself, he trudged up the stairs and checked Don's old room, starting to continue on to his own when he didn't find his eldest. Halfway there, without knowing what possessed him to do it, he froze in the middle of the hallway for a moment, then crossed to the side and stopped outside Charlie's room. The door was open, and he leaned against the doorframe and looked toward the bed. He saw Don, lying on his side in Charlie's bed, hugging Charlie's pillow, his sleeping face scrunched tight in worry and despair.
Alan's hand rose to cover his mouth, trying not to make any noise as, for the first time since he had gotten the phone call almost 36 hours ago, he allowed the tears to fall.