His voice trailed off, and he sighed.
“What's wrong with me?” I asked. I went into a coughing fit then, and the doctor held up the water for me to drink. My stomach lurched as it trickled down my throat.
They both looked at each other, and then Dad pulled up another one of those little rolling chairs to sit close to me. Doctor Winchester started listing all my injuries.
“The impact from the vehicle hit you in your shoulders and back,” he started. “There was a rough edge near the bottom of the car, which tore open part of your left side. There was damage to your kidney and spleen, and you collapsed a lung. Your left kidney had to be removed, as well as a portion of your spleen. Your left shoulder blade was shattered, your pelvis cracked, your right arm broken, and there was some trauma to your lower back. Your spinal cord took a lot of shock with the impact.”
“Shit.”
Doctor Winchester chuckled, but my dad's eyes narrowed at my comment.
“Yes,” the doctor continued as he gave me another drink of water, “you were in pretty bad shape.”
“How about now?” I asked, wondering just how much I had mended after six weeks.
“Your bones have healed,” he said, “with the exception of your left scapula, which had to be replaced. You're going to have a nasty scar down your side, but considering the circumstances, I would think you should wear that with pride.”
I looked up at him questioningly.
“From all accounts of the accident, you most certainly saved the Skye girl's life.”
I felt my mouth turn up in a bit of a smile.
Dad's eyes narrowed again.
Doctor Winchester looked over at his clipboard for a minute and then turned back to me.
“I want to talk a bit about your legs, though.”
I felt cold, and the muscles in my shoulders tensed.
“Your right leg got a nasty cut as well,” he said, “though not as bad as the one on your back. You lost a lot of blood there, but it's your spinal cord injury that is of the most concern.”
“He'll be fine,” my dad interrupted. “He's strong.”
“We don't know that yet, Lou.”
They didn't have to say it—I already knew.
“I'm not going to walk, am I?”
“You'll be fine,” Dad repeated.
“Thomas, it's hard to say at this point. I'd like to go through some tests first and see how you're responding now that you are awake. Without those results, it's hard to say for sure, but it's going to be difficult. With extensive physical therapy, you may walk again eventually.”
Eventually.
What the fuck did that mean?
“How long will that take?”
“I want to run some tests—”
“How long?” I asked again, raising my voice a little.
The doctor's eyes softened, and his lips smashed together.
“It will be at least a year,” he finally answered. “Maybe eighteen months, if you really work hard, and there isn't any permanent damage. Even then, you may never have a complete recovery.”