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"Get on with it." Easton barks.
The doctor twitches.
I'd smirk if the pit of my stomach wasn't bubbling with the hot acid of dread. I feel like I'm already prepared to hear the words that I'll have tubes and wires and constant hassles for the rest of my life. But to actually hear it's true, I just don't know if I'll be able to live like this.
"Let me take a look at you, and then we'll go over everything, okay?"
I blink at him, and he gives me a nervous look as he removes his stethoscope from around his neck to listen to my heart. He checks my eyes, asks me to squeeze his fingers—nope.
Next, he does a poking test down my leg. "Feel this? Or this?" He looks hopeful, and my blank stare gives away my answer.
I feel nothing.
He frowns, walking back over to his computer and typing in notes on what I'm assuming is the fact that I'm permanently damaged.
I glance over at Easton, and he's staring at the doctor in such irritation that I almost feel bad for the guy. I know Easton wants to wring his neck and demand he find a cure. Help solve the puzzle that's missing a piece.
There's no answer, Easton. There's no cure for this.
"Okay. So, after reviewing your test results with our staff, I'm happy to report that nerve response was detected with one of our tests-"
"What does that mean?" Easton nearly shouts.
The doctor takes a deep, shaky breath. "It means that the area that responded, mainly, the upper half of his body, has a good chance of regaining some or all sensations."
"When is that supposed to happen?" Easton steps forward, eyes wide with hope that I don't even feel an inkling of.
The doctor shrugs. Shrugs. "We never know. Could be tomorrow, next month, a year from now."
"What about my legs." I grumble, surprising the doctor and Easton.
"Your legs, well, uh, they didn't have as hopeful results as we were initially hoping for."
My nostrils flare.
"But," The doctor emphasizes, "that doesn't mean anything. Your legs could gain back just as much sensation as your arms do. We just don't know. That's the tricky thing with spine damage and nerve disorders, there's really no cure and hard to tell what the outlook is."
"So, I'm fucked." Really, that's what he's trying to say. If I'm never going to walk again, there's really no point in much else.
"No, that's not true. We're going to work very hard with you, Jackson. We're going to do more tests, get you set up on therapy appointments, get you the best equipment—"
"I don't fucking want therapy appointments or handicap equipment. I want my fucking legs to work and I want to get the fuck out of this hospital room." I growl.
The doctor takes a step back. For what? I can't move. "We'll take it at your pace, Jackson. Hopefully within the next couple days, we can get some things in order to get you out of here. Sound good?"
I stare at the doctor.
"You do what you need to do to get him walking." Easton steps aside, indicating for the doctor to leave.
The doctor looks between me and Easton, eventually giving us a nod and stepping towards the door. "I'll leave you both to it then. Jackson, I'll check in with you later." He gives Easton another nod before walking out.
Easton stares at me, and I stare at him.
"Well, it wasn't all bad news." Easton starts.
Blink.
"I can shoot you in the arm and see if you feel anything."
