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He shakes his head and pulls out a pen light. “I hope not, but your chart tells me this isn’t your first concussion, so we’re going to watch you for a few more days.” He shines the light in my left eye and then my right. “Squeeze my fingers,” he says, holding out two fingers on each hand. “I need to check your grip.”
I squeeze his fingers, noticing that my left hand feels weaker than the right. If he notices it too, he doesn’t show it. Instead he does a series of movements with both of my arms and moves his way down my body, checking the strength of my legs. Once he’s done, he folds his hands in front of his body.
“Now for the not-so-good news.”
Damn. I had a feeling that was coming. “Okay. I’m listening.”
“The concussion wasn’t your only injury.” Dr. Simpson looks at my family and back at me. “After watching the video, I was concerned about a possible shoulder injury, and it was confirmed by the MRI. You’ve strained the rotator cuff of your left shoulder, and there’s a partial tear. It’s small, but it’s there.”
Closing my eyes, I grimace. A rotator cuff injury can be hell on a bull rider’s career. If surgery is required, it can mean months out of work, and you’re still not guaranteed to come back at full capacity.
I run the fingers of my right hand along my forehead and look up at the doctor. “What does that mean? Will I need surgery? How long will I be out of work?” I try to pull up a mental calendar of the all the events I have left this season.
Dr. Simpson shakes his head. “Don’t get too far ahead of yourself. It’s a small tear, barely visible. My hope is that we can rehab it without surgery.”
“So what does that mean? Physical therapy?”
He nods. “That’s where we’ll start. I’ll give you some medication to help with inflammation and pain, and we’ll get you going with physical therapy. You’re young and healthy, and so I’m hopeful you can get through this without surgery. But I do want you to follow up with Dr. Wong. He’s an orthopedic surgeon, and I’ll let him make the final decision.”
“Okay.” That doesn’t sound so bad. “I can do that. When can I go home?”
He chuckles. “Like I said, I want to keep you for a few more days so we can be sure there’s nothing else wrong neurologically. Maybe we can get Dr. Wong to come in and see you before you’re discharged. Until then, I want you to be thinking about where you’re going to go when you leave here.”
“What do you mean? I’m going home.”
“Do you have a spouse or roommate? Or do you live alone?”
I shake my head. “It’s just me.”
“He can stay with us,” my mom interjects.
Hell no. I love my mom to death, but she’ll drive me up the wall. “No. It’s not necessary. I’ll stay at my house.”
Dr. Simpson frowns. “I highly encourage you not to go home alone—at least for a few weeks. You need to rest your shoulder as much as possible, and since you’re left-hand dominant, that’s going to be difficult. You’re going to want to do things yourself, but it won’t be easy, and if you want this to heal without surgery, you cannot strain it any further.”
Damn. The last thing I want to do is go back to Heaven, but asking my family to commute an hour and a half each way to come help me doesn’t seem fair.
Sighing, I look at my brother, Coop. “Can I stay with you for a few weeks?”
“You don’t even have to ask,” he says.
Shit. My dogs. “What about Duke and Diesel?”
Coop holds up a hand. “Already taken care of. They’re in good hands.”
Dr. Simpson gives me a tight smile. “I also think you need to evaluate your return to bull riding.” I open my mouth to protest, but he holds up a hand. “I’m not saying you can’t return or that you won’t, but look at your history, Rhett. You’ve had several concussions—this one being the worst—and those injuries eventually add up. You have a lot of life left inside of you, son, and it’s my job to make sure you live long enough to enjoy it.”
He pats my leg. “Just some food for thought. I’ve got to get going, but I’ll have the nurses get you something to eat, and we’ll make sure you’re able to shower tonight. Just remember to take it easy. You’re going to be sore.”
“Thank you, Dr. Simpson.”
He nods, gives my family a polite goodbye, and slips out the door.
“Seriously.” I look at Coop’s jacked-up Chevy and lift an eyebrow. “You couldn’t have brought your car?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I was thinking when I saw you get trampled by a bull and rushed to the hospital. Let me go home and get my car in case my gimp brother has to come home with me.”
“Get me out of this damn wheelchair.”
