He explains a bit about the recovery and my limitations during the upcoming months. I’ll be fitted for a brace I’ll need to wear for a few weeks, and I can’t bend, lift more than ten pounds, or twist for the next three months.
Our discussion wraps up with a mention of the long-term effects of the hardware in my back, such as the potential for future surgery due to the extra wear and tear on the vertebrae on either side of the graft, or the screws shattering or coming loose. I shove those miserable scenarios far from my thoughts.
“You’ll remain here for two more days. We’ll get you up and moving around a bit later today. Your chart indicates you aren’t married. Do you have a partner or roommate at home to assist with your recovery?” He waits for my reply.
“No. I’ll be alone.”
“Well, how about parents or siblings?” He shoots me a pitying look. “Is there somewhere you can stay for the first couple of weeks while you’ll be dependent on help?”
“No parents, no siblings. I’ll be fine. I can manage.”
“Can you secure a home-care worker? If not, you’ll go to a rehabilitation facility for a week or two, until you can safely manage on your own.”
I vigorously shake my head. “Look, Doc, don’t imprison me in some rehab place. I’ll be fine at home. I work from home. I need my things.”
“We recommend avoiding stairs as much as possible for the next few weeks. You might want a cane for a while, and a grabber to help you pick things up off the floor. With all of the limitations I explained, you surely see that it’s unwise to be alone at first. We don’t want you back here again because you haven’t allowed the graft to take.”
I stare at him, unwilling to concede his point, yet unable to dissuade him.
“Let’s see how the next two days progress. Perhaps you can arrange for some help.” He writes a notation on my chart and nods at me before leaving my room.
Panic escalates at the thought of being confined in a rehabilitation center. Damn it, he can’t keep me hostage. I can survive on my own. When I shimmy to sit upright, pain fans out throughout my core and legs, forcing me to privately acknowledge my house will present challenges.
I want my computer, a newspaper, and something decent to eat. Closing my eyes, I draw a few deep breaths. In desperation and anger, I wonder what the hell happened to the driver who fucked up my life.
Lindsey
The flat, gray sky perfectly reflects my current frame of mind as I make my way to the beach. Rob sent another e-mail late last night. He’s trying to make me feel sorry for him now . . . like I’m hurting him by making him wait and wonder how I’m feeling. Amazing! He betrayed me, not the other way around.
I try to slough off my agitation while I stretch before taking off down the beach.
Morning runs here vastly differ from my typical Central Park excursions. Sand instead of pavement, blue water and sky instead of green grass and trees. The briny air and hushed sound of my feet padding in the sand soothe me while I trot along the shore near the waterline.
Today I’m aware of my life, my legs, and my choices. Instead of focusing on Rob during my run, I mull over Levi’s note and accident. Did he survive? If so, how severe are his injuries? Although he’s been bristly, I can’t set aside my concern.
I suspect his polite-but-distant-neighbors attitude has left him without friends who really care about him. His isolation rouses my empathy.
It’s not my nature to ignore someone’s suffering. Jill used to always tease me about the many “wounded soldiers” whose hearts I’ve healed. Afterward, all my hard work usually waltzed off and ended up as some other girl’s reward. Maybe Jill has a point. But I never help anyone in order to advance my own agenda; I just can’t stand to watch someone struggling. If I can help, I do. At my core, it’s who I am.
And of all the places I might have gone, and of all of the rental homes I might have selected, ending up next door to Levi means something. It must.
It can’t be a random coincidence. There are no coincidences. Right? There was that book Jill’s mom loved so many years ago, The Celestine Prophecy: Coincidences are opportunities in disguise to recognize, and exploit, to improve your life—or something along those lines.
Perhaps Levi and I are destined to teach each other something. Oh, God. Now I sound crazy, even in my own head. What valuable wisdom could he possibly impart? He’s completely unpolished, gruff, and arrogant. Qualities I don’t care to emulate. Be that as it may, I’ll never know unless I try.
By the time I return from my run, I’ve resolved to visit Levi at the hospital. I’m certain I’ll not be welcomed with open arms, but I’m not deterred. I’ll bring him a book. A smile creeps across my face for the first time since last night. I know exactly which book to deliver.