Hard(56)
“With all due respect sir, the issue wasn’t with my blood. I had too much of it spilled.”
“Well, you’re looking solid now.”
“Yes, sir.”
He approached, and I straightened as he gripped my right shoulder. “You seem to be in good shape. Exercising every day?”
“At least, sir.”
“Not overdoing it?”
I grinned. “No such thing.”
He hummed. Squeezed. The shock bit through my shoulder. My nerves set on fire, rampaging down my spine.
“Does that hurt?” He asked.
I’d swallow my tongue. “Uncomfortable.”
“You had an injury to your rotator cuff,” he said. “They opted not to do surgery and wait.”
Probably because they were still stitching my head. “It’s getting better without the surgery.”
“Right.” He had me stand. I gritted my teeth as he moved the gown aside and pressed against my chest. “Broken ribs too?”
“Healed.”
“Right.”
He didn’t fucking believe me? Holy Christ, when I first woke, the ribs and collapsed lung fucked me up more than the head wound.
The doctor had me sit. He examined the scars on my head and exhaled.
“Do you feel you are physically capable of returning to duty?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Yes, sir.”
“Son, you suffered a severe, near-fatal accident only eight months ago. You endured months of intense therapy after weeks of extended hospitalization. Do you understand what that sort of trauma does to a body?”
“I remember it well,” I said. “A lesser man might have fallen.”
“But not you?”
“No, sir. I guarantee, I’m the strongest son of a bitch you’ve ever had the pleasure of examining.”
“That so?”
“Yes, sir. Just wait until I turn my head and cough.”
Finally got a chuckle out of him, but it faded quick. He tapped the chart. “Well, you seem mostly recovered. I’m guessing you’re more physically fit now than you were before the accident which is…impressive, given the SEALs expectations.”
“I’ve definitely had more to work for, sir.”
“Any family?”
In a sense. I shrugged. “I live for the job.”
That wasn’t the answer he wanted.
He pulled a chair over and sat, crossing his legs. His glasses came off, and he rubbed his eyes. He hesitated.
But fucking why?
“Tell me about the headaches, Zach?”
I revealed fucking nothing. “What headaches?”
“Son.”
“Gotta be more specific, doc.”
“You’ve been prescribed oxycodone and fiorcet for migraines by Dr. Gretchen Halley.”
Damn it. Gretchen tried to force the pills down my throat before. I refused her every time. Didn’t stop her from calling a prescription in for me. Son of a bitch.
“I didn’t take them,” I said.
“So you aren’t having headaches?”
I preferred a real mine-field to these questions. “I could handle them.”
“How bad are they?”
“Just a headache.”
“Do you have one now?”
Yeah, and he was making it worse. “It’s not bad. Caused by the travel. Chartered my own jet, but unless I’m strapped in the back of a helo, flying is boring.”
He handed me a plastic tool to hold over my eye. He pointed to the chart on the door.
“Read the fourth line.”
“Look, the headaches are manageable—”
“Son, read the line.”
I couldn’t. The words blurred the more I concentrated. I shrugged.
“R-O-3-A-V.”
He frowned. “Not even close.”
I knew what he was going to say next. I didn’t let him talk.
“I can get LASIK. It’ll correct my vision. That’s not a problem.”
His voice hardened. “It’s not your eyes.”
“They’re blurry. Of course it’s my eyes.”
“Zach, you suffered extensive head trauma. Quite frankly, it’s a goddamned miracle you’re even standing, walking, talking, exercising, and thinking of re-enlisting in the SEALs.”
“Sir—”
“These aren’t tension headaches. This is a clear-cut case of Post-Concussion Syndrome. It’s serious. You shouldn’t be trying to get into the Navy. You need to find a qualified neurologist.”
“But—”
“This types of syndromes can kill you, son. The only thing you should be doing is resting and focusing on getting healthy. These headaches may last a lifetime.”
“I’ll handle them.”
“Not if you’re under enemy fire in hostile territory. It isn’t just your life on the line. Do you want to be the man responsible for killing a member of your squadron?”