"They're going to take out the chest tube tomorrow or the next day, then you'll go to a room."
"Then to rehab." I sighed. "Not looking forward to that."
"Doc Robbins said that with the kind of injury you have a prosthetic will let you do almost anything you want."
Everything except be a whole man again, I thought bitterly. "Great," I said flatly. "Glad to hear it."
"You can probably go back to being a CSI once you finish physical therapy - though it'll take a while." She sighed. "Wendy's going to days. That'll leave the night DNA spot open for you if you want it. Just until, you know, until you finish the PT."
"We'll see. Not sure how long it'll take to get me back on my feet... my foot."
"However long it takes, we're all with you... I'm with you."
I had a lot of morphine in me. "You are, are you?" I squeezed her hand. "What does Grissom think about that?"
She didn't answer, just stood there holding my hand until the blessed morphine fog claimed me again. When I awoke again I was alone. Story of my life.
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When he came in I was up sitting in a chair with what was left of my leg raised on pillows before me.
"So they finally pulled the chest tubes and sprung you from the unit. They'll get the prosthetist in to fit you in a few more days, and then they'll have you up and starting to get used to your temporary within a week, maybe ten days."
"Doctor Robbins! Hi!"
He smiled and plopped into a chair across from me. He gestured toward my leg. "They left you a good-sized stump to work with. You're going to be fine. You'll be walking around before you know it." He leaned forward. "How's the pain?"
I shrugged. "Getting better. Still hurts."
"Mmmm. Once you're in PT, take your pain medicine about a half-hour before each session. That will make the whole process easier."
"Okay. I'll try to remember that."
"So we've talked about your leg." He leaned forward. "How are YOU doing?"
"Okay."
"You're talking to a man who's been through this himself. You aren't okay. You will be, but you aren't yet."
He pinned me with that intense blue gaze, and I squirmed. The man did not let up. Finally I shrugged. "I'm having a hard time with it," I said quietly. "Who wouldn't?"
"Indeed. I was in medical school when I lost my legs. I was 25 - younger than you. We were out on spring break, driving home to visit my parents. I fell asleep at the wheel and ran into a tree. I lost both legs above the knee, almost died. When I first woke up I wished I had." He sighed. "I thought I'd never walk again, never be a doctor, never have a girl marry me. I met Susan two years later. We have four kids and three grandkids. Next anniversary will be our thirtieth." He smiled. "This hasn't closed as many doors as you think it has, Greg Sanders. What you get back will be the direct result of your own attitude. One thing you've never lacked is determination. Hold on to that. "
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Four and a half weeks later I was in rehab trying like hell to walk on a strange metal peg. It hurt, more than I ever would have believed it hurt. "Oh, fuck," I said under my breath as I took my first step, my good hand gripping the bar as if squeezing it could somehow dull the pain.
"I know it hurts." My physical therapist, a giant of a man named Lamarr, held firmly to my waist belt as I took another tentative step. "Remember it's getting a little better each time, but for now if cussing makes it feel better, then cuss. Go for it. I hear it every day."
"Motherfucking. Son of a bitch. Hurts."
"Halfway there. You're doing so well. You're a champ!"
Lamarr let go of the belt, and I collapsed into the wheelchair at the end of the bars. "Lamarr."
"Yeah?"
"I look like a pirate with this damned peg leg, don't I? Maybe I should get a new, bad boy look to go with it, maybe get my ear pierced." I pulled at my left earlobe. "What do you think?"
He gave me a speculative glance. "With that shaggy-ass hair, I can actually see it."
I grinned. I'd been two weeks overdue for a haircut when I got hurt, and I hadn't bothered to shave since I'd arrived at rehab three weeks before. I wouldn't call the bristly stubble covering my face a beard, not yet at least, but it was definitely well on its way to becoming one. "I think I will." I paused. "This is Vegas. There's got to be at least one piercer who goes to the client."
Two days later I idly fingered the thick titanium hoop hanging from my left earlobe. I might not have chosen this path, but I was going to walk it on my own terms, peg leg and all.