I hate looking at the ceiling in Sickbay. I hate lying here. I feel completely useless and uneasy. Being a patient in the same place that you work feels like a violation of something sacred.

It's frustrating to see my colleagues go about their work – perfectly healthy- while I lay here essentially paralyzed. I don't know how long it's been since Jean Luc left. His visit made me feel uncomfortable and I can't figure out why. I could tell right away that there was something he wasn't telling me just before he left. I've known him too long not to know when something is wrong. Luckily Selar comes over before I can start he tedious process of trying to pinpoint Jean Luc's subtle disquiet.

"Dr. Crusher," she begins. I crane my neck to look at her. I think she picks up on the subtle cue and comes round to the back of the bed to where the control panel is, "I am just going to raise the head of your bed and then we will talk."

The bed raises and brings me into a semi-sitting position. I'm eager to hear what she has to say and her silence is beginning to worry me.

"What is it, Selar?"

Vulcans are not known for their warmth – Selar especially. She is a good Doctor – in fact she's absolutely brilliant. What I like about working with her is that she is horribly direct and won't sugar coat any diagnosis, like Dr. Hill and I are tempted to do.

"I assume that Nurse Ogawa has briefed you on your injuries."

"Yes. She told me that there was massive hemorrhaging, broken femur, humerus, and scapula as well as crush injuries to L4 and L5 and spinal shock."

"Yes."

"Selar. What is it?"

"As you know, you have sustained heavy injury. I assume that you know that you are going to be off your feet for a while."

"Yes. But since the spine was not transected I can expect a full recovery of motor function."

"Yes, but it is going to take a while."

I'm getting frustrated, "I know, Selar. Is that everything?"

"We had to catheterize you. We'll take the fluid lines out in a couple of days. In the meantime, however, you will have to remain in Sickbay."

I know it's not rational, but I just hate being a patient here and I just have to know, "When can I be released to my quarters?"

"I can't answer that precisely. Currently, you have no feeling in your groin and legs. If I were to discharge you now, as you know, you would need constant supervision which none of the staff are able to provide. We've had to send most of them down the planet to help with the relief effort. I'm sorry, Doctor, but you'll have to remain here until we can take the catheter out and you've regained at least some of your mobility."

I cringe inwardly. Having to have surgery in the same place that you yourself operate is bad enough. But having to be catheterized by your colleagues is worse. Don't get me wrong: I'm no prude. However, I've had to catheterize many patients and it's a very personally violating procedure even if the patient is not awake to experience it.

"Very well, Selar, thank you."

"Before I leave you I am going to check over your wounds. May I?" It's professional courtesy to ask before you touch the patient – even if you're going to do whatever it is you're going to do regardless.

I nod, "of course." I'm interested to see myself.

As Selar pulls down the blanket that's covering my lower body, I see firsthand the size of the scar – it's quite impressive. The dermal regenerator is excellent at erasing minor scrapes and burns. However with deeper cuts, like those made during surgery, the patient is still left with a residual scar until the wound heals completely.

Selar looks a pleased as a Vulcan can with what she sees. So do I; she's done a good job. The lines that she cut are smooth and straight – impressive for an emergency situation. With Selar, though, I would have expected no less. She replaces the sheet and moves to my upper body. She notes no irregularities or infection.

She addresses my question before I ask it, "you'll be able to move your arms within the next couple of days. Because the bones were crushed so completely, the osteo-regenerator could only do so much. The rest of the healing you will have to do yourself. I want to get you eating today. Before you woke we took out the feeding tube. You are already, quite thin, Doctor. Your injuries are going to require a lot of energy to heal. I am prescribing a diet high in protein. Do you have any requests?"

I sigh, I'm not hungry but I know where Selar is coming from, "anything is fine, Selar. Thank you."

"As you wish. I'm going to get back to my work. Please rest. I can't stress how important it is, as you know."

"Yes. Thank you." She replaces the bed to how it was before she leaves, leaving me to stare at the ceiling again. This was going to be a long recovery…

/

I don't know how long I've been asleep, but when I wake up I see Deanna patiently sitting by my bed. She smiles, it's good to see her.

"Good morning, Beverly!"

"It's hardly morning, is it?"

"No. It's 1800 hours. How are you feeling?"

"You tell me." I smile. Sometimes with Deanna's telepathic abilities, she's better able to figure out my emotions that I am. I think that's why she makes an excellent ship's counselor. She is able to see through the carefully constructed emotional barriers that we set up for ourselves. But the wonderful thing about Deanna is that she'll never tell outright what you're feeling or that you're not telling her the whole truth – instead she'll gently allow you to come to her on your own.

She genuinely returns my smile and leans into me, "I don't need to read your mind to know that you're frustrated."

"You're right." I concede.

"What else?"

I look around to see if anyone could be listening. There's no one. Sickbay is desolate and I am in a private room near my office. I turn back to Deanna, "It's Jean Luc."

Deanna's face drops a little, "he was worried about you."

"That's what Alyssa said. He came in to see me earlier and he seemed almost uneasy."

"I think he's still a little shaken, that's all."

"Why?"

She looks a little perplexed, "no one told you?"

"No. Deanna, what's going on?"

"He was frantic on the planet when he couldn't find you buried under the debris. Will said he'd never seen him like that."

"It's not like Jean Luc to be frantic," I add.

"He was the one who dug you out – with Will and Jorin's help."

"Jorin?"

"The man who met you on the planet."

"What about the injured?"

"They didn't survive, Beverly. You did, though, because the body of a young girl shielded you."

My face drops and my heart starts to pound. Sweat begins to pool in the creases of my palms. Sadness and panic overtake me. I remember that young girl. She couldn't have been more than 20 years old. She looked so scared.

"What happened to her?" I ask – but I know the answer.

"She died."

The guilt suddenly overcomes me. I can't breath.

"Beverly, Beverly," Deanna says my name as a mantra as she moves to sit next to me on the bed. I can't look her. I feel so ashamed. "Beverly!" I look up at Deanna. I can feel hot tears streaming down my face, but my arms are so weak and I'm afraid to move them to wipe away the tears. In truth, I don't want to wipe them away.

"It's not your fault." I can only nod my head. If it's not my fault why do I feel so guilty? "There's nothing you could have done." Her consolation is trite. It's what you're supposed to say to people at times like this. None of it's helping. I think realizes that, and so she just lets me cry.