Six Letter Word [Kaylor]

December 2016 (Part 1)

The first nurse to come in was there just to figure out what we were there for, which means the infectious disease warning made her think we were in the wrong bay, since usually patients with crazy diseases don't end up in orthopedics, but once she saw me in the chair, and Karlie on the exam table, it all made sense. The first order of business was to check Karlie for any signs of a concussion, asking questions and checking her pupils. Fortunately, aside from a headache and the obvious bleeding gash, she showed no signs of internal head injury. She remembered exactly what happened, that she'd reached a little too far to try to hang the lights and then she'd gotten surprised by one of the cats and tried to correct it but overbalanced and put her hand out to try to stop the fall, which probably saved her head, but led to the second reason we were currently sitting in the emergency room. Her pupils were equal and reactive, terminology I'd learned from television medical dramas. They reserved the option to send her for a head CT, just in case, but since she hadn't lost consciousness and wasn't showing any symptoms, they let us wait and watch a bit. Once we knew her head was okay, she had to change into a hospital gown. Getting her top off was like a war, making sure she didn't jostle her arm too badly while also avoiding the gauze they'd taped on her head to keep the blood from going everywhere, and really hoping we could avoid having to have her shirt cut off. She joked a bit about how it was usually me in the awesomely too short hospital gowns, and on Karlie the gown was practically obscene, though we weren't in any place to do anything about it. I decided that unless she wanted to show off ALL of Victoria's Secrets, she should probably put her pants back on. These days I'm the only one who gets to see her in sexy lingerie.

It seemed to take forever, getting all the pieces into place. She had to go to another department for x-rays, while I stayed in my bubble of germ-free air. When she got back, they'd wrapped her wrist in a special machine that worked like ice to try to bring down the swelling while we waited for a plastic surgeon to stitch up her forehead, and for the radiology department to process her x-rays and pass them on to an orthopedic specialist, to see if it was broken, though it was pretty clear that it was. They also had to determine how bad the break was, and if they could just set and cast it or if she would need surgery. She was really quiet. I didn't know if it was because she was in pain, or embarrassed to have fallen, or just tired. I got some increasingly anxious texts from security when they got home to find the ladder on the floor, and Meredith lapping daintily at the drops of Karlie's blood that had spilled, and the Highlander missing, and zero communication from me. We damn near burned the house down, because we'd turned on the over. Thank God we hadn't gotten any cookies in it yet, or we probably would have. I'd never even thought about it. All I cared about was if Karlie was okay. I told them where we were, but when they asked if I wanted them to come, I said no. No one knew we were there, and with the protections in place to keep me away from the germs, I was also kept away from anyone in the hospital who might squeal. We could do this ourselves, I thought. I was, however, grateful when they said they would clean up a bit of the mess we'd left behind, leaving in such a hurry.

She met with first one, then another plastic surgeon, trying to ensure the best possible healing process for the cut on her head. It was nearly an inch long and pretty deep, and had refused to stop bleeding no matter how long she held the towel to it. She was fortunate that it was fairly high up on her forehead, and would probably be easily covered with bangs, a must for her line of work. The general consensus was that there was no way to completely avoid a scar. The best they could do would be to minimize it, ensuring straight edges and careful, flat stitches, with special bandages to keep it from drying out at night. It would take longer to heal initially, but hopefully help her avoid needing scar revision surgery later. She hung her head as the second surgeon left, a slump in her shoulders I'd rarely seen. Between dance and modeling, holding herself with confidence is more natural for her than slumping. I slipped onto the table behind her, on her left side to avoid her injured right arm, and rested my chin on her shoulder. "You okay, babe?" I asked softly, taking her left hand in mine and turning it over to trace the lines of her palm, paying special attention to her ring finger, where the two I'd given her mere months before rested.