***
I hurt all over with no freakin’ idea what happened, or where the hell I am.
“He’s conscious.” A muffled voice speaks from what seems to be a great distance.
“Push more morphine.”
My eyes are open, but I can’t see a damn thing. When I try to speak, there’s something in my throat, choking me.
My arms don’t move. My legs don’t either. Panic surges through me, then fades away as my body floats on a morphine high and consciousness fades away.
“Will he survive?”
“I don’t know. The burns are extensive. They cover the entire left side of his body with second and third-degree burns. With luck… we’ll see.”
***
Unrelenting pain consumes me, morning, noon, and night. It’s the worst during the debriding sessions, when they scrape off dead tissue.
Hydrotherapy is a curse word in my world right about now. It’s where they remove all the devitalized tissue. I’ve taught many of the newer nurses creative and colorful curse words.
Fucking worst pain of my life.
The days blend into one another, but I’ve got the best burn doctors working on me. At least that’s what I remember in my brain fog and morphine fueled dreams. I float in a morphine fog most days, letting unconsciousness take me when things are their worst.
I’ve lost count of the number of surgeries. Evidently, early excision and grafting of burns is vital to recovery. I say, they’ve tortured me through a few too many of those.
“How are you doing today?” Margaret is my nurse, and I meet her cheery smile with a growl and a scowl.
“Fuck you.”
“I see.” She ignores my mood and goes about her fucking business like she’s not about to torture me until I pass out. “Let’s look at what we’ve got.”
“How about we not?”
“A comedian today.” Margaret begins the laborious process of unwrapping the bandages which cover the burns. “Looking good. No signs of infection.”
“Yippie ki yay.” I’m falling off the sharp cliff of my narcotic high. “How about some juice before my daily dose of torture?”
“I’ve already given you some.”
“What?” I missed her injecting it into my medline. “Well, fuck me sideways and don’t hold back. Can’t we up the dose?” I’m becoming a freaking addict.
“Pain is good.”
“Have you ever had your skin slough off?”
“No.”
“Then don’t fucking tell me pain is good.” I close my eyes and go to my happy place as pain sinks into every fucking breath.
Debridement.
I hate it, but the docs say it’s necessary.
Dermal preservation.
That’s the goal. To achieve that goal, they remove the burned tissue layer by layer until reaching viable tissue. Early excision of my burns is supposed to decrease healing time, reduce my discomfort, and prevent infection. It’s supposed to improve my overall outcome.
It fucking hurts like a living motherfucker on a skyway to Hell.
“How’s he doing today?” The soft voice of Dr. Skye Summers interrupts my living hell.
“He’s a ball of warm fuzziness today.” Margaret continues her task.
“That bad?”
“Yes. Says the morphine isn’t touching him.”
“He’s on a really high dose.”
“Hey, I may be the patient, but I’m right fucking here. Don’t talk over me.”
“Sorry, Brady.” Skye comes to stand closer to the side of my bed. “I spoke with your doctors.”
“Thought you were my doc.”
“I’m an emergency and trauma doc. I deal with burns on the front end, but this requires a level of expertise far outside my wheelhouse.”
“Well, what do the fucking experts have to say?”
“That your vocabulary needs a major overhaul.”
“I’m entitled to be grumpy.”
“There’s grumpy and then there’s you.”
“So?”
“I know this sucks, Brady. I really do, but you’re doing incredibly well. So far, we’ve avoided infection setting in. The debriding is going well. The grafting looks good. All in all, you should recover near full mobility.”
“You telling me I’m going to live?”
I remember a dream fog where there was some debate whether I’d survive.
“Don’t lie to me, doc. When you say functional, what does that mean? Will I be an invalid?”
“Not an invalid. I know things look bad. This is the worst of what you’re going to face.”
“The worst of it was having that container blow up in my face.” I remember nothing of the explosion. Well, not nothing. There was a flash, intense heat, then nothing. I blacked out.
“Touché.” Skye covers the irritation in her voice poorly, but she takes my bad attitude in stride. “You will have scarring. There’s no way around that, but things look good for rehabilitation.”
“Rehabilitation? What kind of rehab are we talking?”
Will I be able to operate? If I can’t be a Guardian, life’s not worth living.
That is the only question that matters, but I’m not strong enough to ask it. I’m too afraid of the answer.
“Months at least.”
“Months?”
“Maybe longer.”
“Longer?” My heart can’t take that. “So… you’re basically telling me I’m screwed? I’m done.”
“That’s not what I’m saying at all. Look, the road to recovery is going to be long and hard. You’re in for the hardest fight of your life. I sugarcoated nothing for you. You’ll have scars, but with proper burn care, grafting, and fingers-crossed, no infections to complicate healing, you’ll be out of here within a month.”
“A month?”
“Two at most?”
“Two?”
“I’m sorry. It is what it is and I—”
“I know, you’ll tell me the truth.” I grimace as Margaret exposes my burned skin to the air. “You sure I can’t have more morphine?”
“I’ll up the dose a bit.” She turns to Margaret and rattles off another dose of morphine. “You’ve got this Brady. You’re one of the strongest men I know. Tenacious as shit and bull-headed in the extreme, but you’ve got this.”
“But I’m out of the Guardians?” I mean to say it as a statement of fact. I’d rather hear the bad news coming out of my mouth than out of hers. If she says it, I’m done.
“Out of the Guardians? Why would you think that?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because I’m going to do everything in my power to get you back as Bravo One.”
A flood of adrenaline? Relief? I don’t know what that floaty feeling is, but Doc Summers gives me hope. Or maybe I’m just riding another morphine high.
“You wouldn’t shit me, would you?”
“No, Brady. I wouldn’t lie about this.”
Whatever else she says fades away. My lids grow heavy and all I want is to disappear.