Page 67 of Booked for Murder

“You’re fine, Janette,” Bradley said. “If you could stop having panic attacks every damned time you start coming around, I’d really appreciate it. You’re going to give me a panic attack at the rate you’re going.”

Someone snorted, and I recognized the disgruntled sound as coming from my podiatrist, Dr. Mansfield. She always sounded like that when it came to me. “It’s perfectly natural for someone to react like that, Mr. Hampton. She knows what the monitors sound like, and it’s perfectly reasonable for her to have a trauma-based reaction to them. Ignore him, Janette. Try to take some deep breaths. You had a reaction to the mix of painkillers, sedative, and a circulation problem in your foot. It seems you were unconsciously regulating the circulation in your foot, and once you started taking the painkillers, it disrupted your abilities just enough you could no longer do that. That’s why your foot swelled this morning. Unfortunately, the swelling damaged some delicate bones in your foot, so I needed to perform corrective surgery last night. In good news, it was a quiet night, so we had the staff on hand needed for the operation and you have someone paying the bill, so I was able to get a lot of good work done on it. In bad news, every time I’ve tried to bring you out of sedation, you’ve flown straight into a panic, like now. I’ve been putting you under all afternoon because I can’t give you a chill pill right now. So, if you can’t get your heart rate back somewhere safer on your own, I’ll have to sedate you again.”

Okay. I could work with that information. I started with breathing. Breathing helped. It only took a few breaths to confirm I wasn’t intubated, which put me way ahead of the game. If I went through the rest of my life without a tube shoved down my throat, I’d be happy. Trying to talk didn’t end well for me, and I ultimately huffed at my dry tongue and uncooperative mouth.

“Let’s try you on some water,” my doctor suggested, and she held a straw to my mouth. A few sips helped a lot, and I sighed my relief.

“This sucks,” I complained.

Bradley grunted. “I’m sorry.”

“Doc, make him stop.”

“Mr. Hampton, be quiet or wait in the hall. I’ve learned she does not like when people pointlessly apologize to her. You didn’t do anything, so don’t apologize for what you didn’t do. Now, Janette is at fault for not disclosing her abilities, as it would have helped to know why certain symptoms hadn’t occurred which I expected, but I am also not upset, as I fully understand the reasoning for secrecy. Are you ready for the bad news?”

I cracked open an eye, grunted at the hospital room, a sight I never wanted to see again despite my understanding I’d have to spend time in them if I wanted my foot to ever heal right. My foot, elevated in a sling and hidden within a cast, promised misery to come, especially as the cast went right up to my damned knee. “You’re going to make me use a wheelchair, aren’t you?”

“For two weeks, yes. I’m sorry. You can’t put any significant weight on your foot at all until then. At most, you can rest your foot on the floor while seated. In a week, I can start doing the treatments needed to strengthen the bones enough that you can use a boot again. I had to break and realign quite a few bones in your foot, and it will take a great deal of magic to get you out of that cast. Otherwise, you’re looking at eight weeks in the wheelchair.”

“I’m going to stink if I’m stuck in a wheelchair for even two weeks.”

I’d learned the hard way I needed a caretaker when in a wheelchair, as I couldn’t handle everything on my own.

My doctor laughed. “Yes, stinking is a unique peril due to having a leg cast you can’t get wet for two weeks. You can bathe as long as you have help and don’t get it wet. You’ll likely have to cope with sponge baths until you’re out of the cast. Once you’re out of the cast, you’ll find you’ll have better mobility, but you’ll be in a different type of medical boot for six months. It can get wet, but you can’t take it off for a minimum of two months. Yes, I know that’ll be miserable to sleep in, but it’s necessary.”

“Why so long?”

“Your left leg has been carrying so much of your body weight that your spine has suffered as a result. The boot will be weighted to force you out of the habit of leaning all of your weight to your left side and make certain you don’t undo the repairs we did on your spine while we were dealing with your foot last night.”

Crap. They’d done work on my spine? “Is my spine okay? I need that. How weighted are we talking about for the boot?”

Bradley grinned and sat beside me, although he offered no commentary.

“You will be cursing me for the first few weeks, as you’ll be dragging your heavy boot around. Your spine is fine now. It added twenty minutes to the procedure, and we didn’t need to do more than encourage it to realign. We have a surgeon on staff who has a good ability for the operation. You’ll be stiff for a week or so, but that’s it. However, the boot situation gets worse.”

“How could it possibly get worse?” I reached for the cup, and my doctor handed it to me, hovering while waiting to see if I had the coordination to keep a hold on it. While my hands shook, I managed to hold it on my own.

However small, I’d accept the victory.

“Every two weeks, I will be adding weights or replacing the boot as needed.”

“You’re a terrible person, Dr. Mansfield.”

She laughed. “I’m such a terrible person, I know. You’ve had a rough night, although you probably don’t remember most of it. You were pretty out of it the first few times we tried to rouse you. I told Mr. Hampton to let you have your panic attack this time without freaking out.”

“Someone should just add to my medical record that I do that,” I muttered before taking another sip of water. The machine quieted, which made relaxing easier. “How long will I be in here?”

“You have options. You’re out of the danger zone, although I want to observe your vitals for three more hours before authorizing your release. If there are no problems in three hours, and you promise to stay in your wheelchair where you belong or stay seated without putting unnecessary weight on your foot, I’ll let you out today.”

“Please clarify what I can and can’t do with my foot, because I really don’t want to mess this up.”

“Normal sitting with your feet on the floor or on a rest is fine. The cast is designed to keep your foot completely immobile. You just can’t put your full weight on it. In a week, once you’ve had a chance to heal, you’ll be back here for the next phase.”

I wondered how the hell I’d be able to do anything useful while stuck in a wheelchair for a few weeks. “Can I sit on a stool?”

“I see no reason why you can’t, although you would need help getting onto the stool.”

I directed my attention to Bradley. “Did you get my new friends calibrated before I tried to kick the bucket on you?”