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“I didn’t choose for the songs to be stuck in my brain; some songs get in and they don’t leave.”
The road curves as the trees thin slightly closer to the hospital. If I loved you. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I pull the song forward, thinking over the lyrics.
If I loved you, time and again I would try to say all I’d want you to know.
We don’t talk the rest of the way to the hospital, or once we arrive, but he’s a calm presence through everything. He wheels me in and hands me the intake forms. The insurance section increases my heart rate, knowing that clock is ticking.
The ER smells like antiseptic and recycled air. The curtained bay they put me in has a bleakness that is designed to be functional rather than comforting and a single chair in the corner that Jackson takes without being invited.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Ms. Lane. I’m Dr. Zans,” a man in his early forties with salt-and-pepper hair says when he walks in, a crew of interns behind. I peer at the group of three young students. “This is a teaching hospital. Do you consent to allowing the students to observe?”
I nod, knowing how important, albeit annoying, this part of the medical learning process is from my mother’s stories.
“Knock, knock. Sorry, I’m late. A mother was rushed in and delivered in the hallway! It was a mad dash for everyone,” Mack says, flouncing through the space, heading straight toward my bedside in soft pink scrubs.
Dr. Zans straightens, keeping his eyes fixed on Mack. “Oh, hello, Nurse Burke, what are you doing on this floor?”
“Phoenix here is my friend, and I am her medical power of attorney. She wishes for me to be a part of all relevant medical conversations.”
I didn’t explicitly make that statement, but she is my medical proxy. I also have Becca as the executor of my will, and Nessa is named as a potential godmother and guardian.
“Uh, alright, let’s proceed.”
Dr. Zans continues with the energy of delivering the same speech four hundred times today.
“Ms. Lane.” He sets the chart down and looks at the imaging on the wall panel. “You have a displaced fracture of the lateral malleolus.” He taps the screen with one finger. “The fibula, just here at the ankle. Clean break, no ligament involvement, which is the good news.”
“And the less good news?” I deadpan.
He looks at me with mild approval. “Six weeks in a non-weight-bearing cast. After that, we will reassess with imaging, and if healing is on track, you will transition to a walking boot for approximately four weeks.”
“Ten weeks total recovery time?” I put together.
“Give or take.” He tilts his head slightly. “Depending on how well you follow instructions.”
Jackson makes a sound from the wall that is not quite a cough or a laugh. I refuse to give him any notice.
“What does non-weight-bearing mean practically? I think being specific in this situation is important,” Mack asks, making the doctor spell it out.
Dr. Zans glances at her. “No weight on the foot at all. Crutches for mobility. You will need assistance with daily activities initially—stairs, bathing, anything that requires standing for any length of time.” He focuses on me before asking the next question. “Do you have someone at home who can help?”
The innocent question produces a pain in my chest; I thought I did. I look away from the doctor, not able to meet his eyes.
“She has people,” Mack confidently responds.
Dr. Zans nods, already moving on. “We will get you set up with crutches before you leave. Someone will be in shortly to apply the cast.” He picks up the chart. “Keep it elevated, stay ahead of the pain medication, and Ms. Lane”—he stops at the door, looking back briefly—“the fracture is displaced because of the force of the fall. Whatever you were doing, do not do it alone next time.”
With that parting shot, he walks out with his interns, leaving me with Jackson and Mack. Mack is already on her phone.
“Alright, give me a minute—working out a few things. Reece has a soccer tournament this weekend that I need to attend, but I can pick her up after practice and get back to your house. Becca has some late showings, and Nessa has that Re-Earthing retreat she is attending starting tomorrow.” She looks up after the schedule-dump she laid out. “But don’t worry, we will figure this out.”
Before anyone can respond, a small cough sounds from my curtain. “Um, excuse me, Ms. Lane. Sorry to interrupt, but you have a call.”
Looking at my phone, I find I don’t have service. “Who knows I am here that wouldn’t call Mack?”
The intern looks away, heat crawling up his neck, avoiding eye contact. “It’s, um, Dr. Lane … your mom.”
A jolt of anxiety surges through me as I take the intern’s phone. Steeling myself, I reach out and bring it to my ear. “Hello, Mother. How are you today?” I go for polite and formal.
