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Four
Eric
Most of this stuffis coming back to me. The stretches, the exercise, and the therapy in general. I have to tell myself to be patient with the doctors “training” me. Yes, I had only had my license for two years before the day that destroyed lives, but I do remember a lot of it. So much has changed though, that I want to learn it. Unfortunately, I’m now a physical therapy assistant and not a physical therapist since the state won’t renew my license due to my criminal history. Declan, the assistant hospital administrator and one of Carter’s closest friends, seems to think if I pay my dues for a couple of years, and do a good job, along with some volunteer work, I could petition the state to reinstate my license, especially since my crime wasn’t related to my job. He explained that other doctors who’ve been convicted of felonies, such as prescribing narcotics that killed people, will never get their license renewed after serving time. I was just simply at a bar and phone-distracted while on that dark road that horrible night,
“Be prepared for the patient to hiss or wince. After a surgery like that, they are very tender. And made worse by the fact that they’re usually young, active sports players who just want to get back in the game,” Dr. Turner, my supervisor here says. “But we’ll have you on the geriatric floor doing PT for those folks as well, mostly hip replacement patients, things like that.”
“Okay,” I reply, not sure what else to say. I don’t want to work on hip replacement patients, but I have zero say. I’m lucky Declan helped me get a state license to be a PT assistant and then hired me here. If I have to help an old geezer after a hip or knee replacement, I’ll do it and be grateful to have a job.
Before the incident, I had aspirations to work for a major sports team. I didn’t care which one—football, baseball, hockey. We have stellar teams in Denver, and I wanted to be one of their private PT doctors. I dreamed of getting paid to watch a live professional sport while I waited around “in case” someone got hurt, and when they did, I’d rush onto the field, or the ice, and be one of the heroes.
But I’m not a hero. In fact, I’m little more than a zero.
Dr. Turner brings me to another patient as I’m shadowing him during his rounds, and he explains another injury from another young patient. This time, a college kid of only twenty who snapped his wrist during a forceful slide into home plate.
“How ya doin’, buddy?” the doc asks.
The kid eyes me, then looks back at the doctor. “I’m fine. When can I leave? The food here sucks ass.”
We both chuckle. “I hear ya. One more night for observation, then six weeks in the cast.”
“Fuck. I’m out for the season,” he groans.
The doctor nods. “Yes, you are, but if you heal up, you’ll be fine for next year. Might need to wear a wrist brace to protect those delicate bones when you’re sliding home.” The doctor smirks.
“Were you at least safe?” I ask, pointing to his cast and how he got it.
The kid is not amused and scowls at the doctor, then at me. “No.”
I smile at him. “Hang in there, man. Six weeks will go by quicker than you know.”
Which reminds me of Christa. That’s about the amount of time we’ve been together, and I am utterly addicted to the dark-haired beauty.
We leave the room and I continue to make rounds with him, taking notes on things I didn’t know or had forgotten. By the end of the day, I’m exhausted and want out of these scrubs. I’m also starving. Thin crust sounds amazing right now and I can have four slices and stay within my calories.
I pull out my phone and text Christa:Pizza?
After retrieving my backpack from my locker, I head to the elevators when my phone buzzes.
Christa:I’m gonna be as big as a house if I keep hanging out with you!
I chuckle.
Me:Then come to the gym with me! NOT THAT YOU NEED IT.
Hope the caps emphasize my point that I love her just how she is.
Christa:Exercise is bad for you.
