“We need to make sure you’re not having any problems, Jackson,” the nurse tried to reassure me as she took my pulse.
There was a machine on my finger that monitored it, so why did they need to take it at the same time?
“Problems? Apparently, I’ve got a colostomy bag that you guys fitted in here instead of in a sterile operating room.”
Not giving them a chance to reply, I croaked, “My friend in high school had Crohn's disease, and he had a bag fitted after he’d had surgery. We were all well aware of what bag changing time consisted of and how sterile everything had to be, so why’d you do it in here?
“And I’ve got a bag collecting urine, too. What did I miss? He punched me in the head, not in the intestines.”
Then, realizing how dry my mouth was, I pointed weakly at a pitcher of water near the bed. “Man, I’m thirsty. Could I have that whole pitcher with a straw in it?”
Reaching into her bag, Sasha pulled out a straw and tore the wrapper off it.
Why was she carrying around straws?
Well, I was grateful she was at this moment, but for any other situation, it didn’t make sense.
Ah, hell, who fucking cared.
“I’d start by taking small sips of it, Jackson,” the doctor advised, changing from using my full name to just my first one.
Thank Christ for that. I hated being called by my full name, it was just weird.
Resting the pitcher against the side of the bed, Sasha angled the straw toward my mouth, and I took a large gulp of the water. It wasn’t cold, but holy shit, it was the best thing I’d ever tasted.
“I’ll stay here with it, don’t worry, but let’s see how you go with that,” she said softly, pulling the straw out from between the teeth I had clamped down on it.
“As for the colostomy bag.” The doctor cleared his throat, looking amused. “You don’t have one of those, that I can assure you. You’ve got a catheter in to collect your urine as you were unable to get out of bed, so you may feel a bit of tugging if you move around.”
Not saying a word, I looked slowly at each occupant, then lifted the sheet that was over me to look at the region in question. “What the hell?”
“It’s not permanent, and we can remove it as soon as you feel well enough, but it’s been collecting your urine since the night you were brought in. Miss Adams-DeWitt here went to collect some items for you from your home, and while she was away, we placed a tube in your urethra that filters your urine into a bag.”
Reaching under the bed, he picked up a metal frame with a bag of fluid in it. “See?”
I might have been embarrassed, but… Ah fuck it, I was embarrassed. That was my urine being wiggled around for everyone to see, and it looked kind of dark to me.
Almost like he was reading my mind, the doctor nodded. “It’s darker in color than we’d like because you’re so dehydrated. With the nausea under control and you drinking water, it’ll go back to normal quickly.”
When he continued to hold it in the air, I begged, “Could you please hide it away somewhere? Are there any bags that aren’t transparent?”
One side of his mouth kicked up in a smile. “Unfortunately, no and no. However, if you drink some more water and feel up to it, I can have the catheter removed.”
“I have a question,” Sasha said. “What’s a colostomy, then? I thought they were the same thing.”
“Uh, no,” the doctor snickered. “If Jackson had a colostomy fitted, we’d have taken him into surgery, cut into his large intestine, and he’d have a hole in his abdomen with a stomer—a bag—that would collect his feces.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Damn, those poor people who need that done.”
“Indeed. The people who go through life with them attached, even temporarily, are heroes, in my opinion.”
Then, focusing on me, he asked me how I was, and I explained the difference in pain levels.
Looking thoughtfully at me, he thought over how I’d explained it. “That’s a very thorough visual of the effects of a concussion. I appreciate that because it helps me determine how much you’ve recovered and if you can go home.”
“I’ll look after him,” Sasha offered. “We’ve got a lot of disability aids from when I had a broken arm and leg after he hit me with his truck.”
When the nurse and doctor looked at me in alarm—bearing in mind I’d just been punched by a big guy with road rage—she added, “It was an accident, I promise. I was wearing all black, and I had the flu, I’d punched him in the balls…”
Waving her arm around, she snickered, “It was a whole thing. Anyway, we’ve got a lot of stuff that’d be helpful for him, so it won’t be a problem.”