Chapter 92

I spent the next four days in bed.

A couple of weeks earlier, when Liz could have joined me throughout the day, that might not have been such a bad idea. But she had plans and decisions to make. She spent as much time with me as she could but she couldn’t put her entire life on hold to watch me convalesce.

But Liz didn’t even spend the nights with me. She would come in to cuddle with me after my last round of pills and then slip away to a different room to sleep.

That bothered me more than I cared to admit. But she was still racing around all day so I didn’t bring it up to her.

My mother and a host of visitors were constantly coming and going. If it wasn’t Rick, Ryan, Brian or Dom, it was Melissa or Skye or Jill. My mother was the constant, however. She flitted about throughout the day, often joining the nurse that Liz had hired to ensure that my every comfort was confirmed.

I made a conscious decision on Wednesday morning. I cut back on the pain pills.

It took a couple more days to get my head to stop feeling fuzzy. I was still in a bit of pain but I didn’t hurt as badly as I thought I should.

On Friday morning I managed to get out of bed by myself, get hooked into the harness that kept my arm in the position the doctors wanted it to be in, get a limited shower, brush my teeth without putting an eye out and pull on a pair of underwear and basketball shorts with only a minimum of cursing and sputtering.

The pain medicine made me sleepy and it had usually been almost 11 a.m. before I awakened. Thus, everyone was surprised when I slowly made my way down the circular staircase – holding the rail because my balance was still a bit uncertain.

“Do you need something?” Liz asked, jumping to her feet as soon as she saw me.

“Just a hug,” I said, smiling at her. Jill, Skye and Rick were sitting with her around a makeshift table with papers scattered about.

I didn’t get a hug. Instead, I got an inquisition.

“What are you doing out of bed?” she asked first.

The next questions came in such quick succession that I couldn’t answer one before the next was out of her mouth.

“How did you get dressed?” Liz continued. “Are you feeling OK?”

I held up my left hand like a traffic cop but it did little good. Liz was fretting and stewing as she made her way over to me.

“I’m OK!” I said loudly enough to break through the constant stream of inquiries. “I just couldn’t stay in bed any longer.”

“You need to be in bed,” Liz insisted.

“No,” I replied, shaking my head firmly. “I don’t need to be in bed.”

Liz stopped a few feet from me and crossed her arms.

“I’ve been in bed for half a month,” I stated. “I’m tired of being in bed. My brain is starting to rot.”

“We can get you some books or something,” Liz told me.

“I’m flat on my fucking back!” I said. “Books, TV, whatever, it’s not going to work. I want to be up and about. I want to move around. I’m not a fucking cripple!”

Liz sighed as the others in the room made a strategic withdrawal.

“I know,” she said.

“No,” I said, shaking my head again. “You don’t know. I got up all by myself this morning. I took a shower and got dressed without anybody’s help.”

“You took a shower?” Liz cut in urgently. “You didn’t get your arm wet, did you?”

“No!” I replied. “Liz, I’ve done this before. I know what I can and can’t do. I was careful in the shower. I got a little water on the floor but I mopped it up with a towel. Drying off was a bit of a chore but I managed.”

Liz rubbed her eyes ... then her forehead before sweeping her hand over the top of her head and massaging her scalp.

“I’m OK,” I said.

“You’re not OK,” she replied. Her hand moved back down her face until she could pinch the bridge of her nose. “Let’s get you back upstairs and then we’ll talk.”

“I’m not going back upstairs,” I retorted. “Look, you have a lot going on. I understand that. I want to help you. It’s my job, after all. Liz, Rick can’t stay here forever. Mom can’t stay here forever. They both have lives they need – and probably want – to get back to. So I need to get up to speed on what I need to do for you. And I need to be able to get around so Mom can do the things she’s got planned this summer. I have a job and they have lives. Everybody has a life and a dinged up arm can’t cause the world to stop.”

“Look, Travis,” Liz said, wiping her eye. “All I want right now is for you to get better. You need to focus your attention on that.”

“Yeah, well, that doesn’t pay very well,” I said. “Hon, the first time this happened, I started doing radio for the team in the playoffs. It was awkward but I managed to do it. That was like six weeks after the surgery. I can still type with my left hand. My voice still works. I can answer the phone and do what you’re paying me to do. OK?”

“No!” Liz said. She sighed heavily. “Look, it isn’t that simple. Listen to me for a minute. Can you do that?”

“Well, running away is pretty much a non-starter,” I replied. “My legs feel like Jell-O just from walking down the stairs.”

Sitting down with the strap around my waist required a great deal of open space. None of the chairs in the area would accommodate the apparatus so I plopped my behind on the corner of the table and she sat down beside me.

She continued to run her hands over her face.

“We really need to wait until you’re a little better before we talk about this,” she said.

“Talk about what?” I wondered. The tone of my voice got the point across that I was ready to discuss things right at that moment.

“I know Rick needs to get back to San Diego,” Liz told me. “Eric is there, first of all, but there are also things he has going on out there that he needs to oversee. We were just talking about bringing in somebody else to handle things here.”

“Wait a damned minute!” I cut in.

“Hear me out,” Liz insisted.

“I don’t want to hear you out,” I said. “I want you to explain why you think it’s necessary to bring in somebody else to do my job!”

“You’re hurt,” Liz told me. “Honey, this isn’t like before. You have to understand that. What happened to you this time is a lot worse. You almost died! Ten days ago you were in surgery for six or seven hours while they did their best to put you back together. You’re going to have therapy for hours at a time once you’re to the point where it can begin. That’s all I want you to focus on.”

I shook my head.

“It’s not just going to be physical therapy,” Liz continued. “You’re going to require occupational therapy, too. I don’t want anything I have happening to interfere with the schedule you’re going to have to set up.”

I locked my jaw and a snort escaped my throat.

“And what am I supposed to do to pay my bills?” I asked.

“What?” Liz asked as though the question was ridiculous.

“I’m not going to have a job with you,” I said. “That leaves me without a source of income. I have bills to pay. You told me I didn’t qualify for short-term disability. I doubt the insurance companies are going to foot the bill for all the therapy you seem to think I’ll require. Even if they do, I’ll have to meet the co-pays and things like that.”

“I’ll pay for that,” Liz said.

“No,” I replied. I was getting good at that word – even if using it seemed like a fruitless endeavor.

“This is why I wanted to wait for a little while to talk about this,” Liz said. “You’re on so many painkillers that you can’t see reason.”

“I’m not on painkillers,” I replied. “I cut back to half on Wednesday and to a third yesterday. I haven’t taken one in ... nine or 10 hours ... and I’m fine.”

“You stopped taking your medication?” Liz asked, lifting off the desk and staring at me like I was a second-grade student that had gotten caught talking in class.

“I cut it back,” I said.

“So you’re a fucking doctor now?” Liz asked. I had seen early on that my surprise appearance had caused her distress. Now her anger bled through.

“I’m a better judge of my body than anybody else,” I countered. “Yeah, my arm hurts some. It’s hurt for almost 10 years. Guess what? It’s always going to hurt. I cut back the medication to a level where I could think for more than five seconds at a time and still keep the pain manageable. I’m not going off of it altogether for a while. But I’m not going to become reliant on medication. I’m not going to become addicted to the stuff.”

“Jesus Christ,” Liz said, shaking her head.

“And I’m not going to become reliant on handouts from you to survive,” I added for good measure. Liz upgraded her expletive accordingly.

“God damn,” she muttered. “Yeah, fine. But you’re the most stubborn son of a...”

She gave a long sigh, unwilling to say anything hurtful about my mother even in that context. She put her palm to her forehead and pressed hard to stem the headache I was causing her. In my defense, I didn’t realize that my appearance would create hardship – or interrupt her plans for my ouster from a job.

“Yeah,” she said. “I should have seen that coming. Everybody else sure as hell did. OK. You’ll be moved to a supervisory capacity for the time being. You can oversee the woman we’re thinking about bringing in. You can deal with interviewing candidates for the jobs we still have left available and setting long-range plans. We’ll put a desk in the office for you. There. You still have a purpose. Now will you please go back to bed? And for Christ’s sake, will you start taking your medication again?”

“I’m not finished talking about this,” I said. “I’m not going back to bed right now. And I’m not going to take any more happy pills. Do you plan to mix them in my applesauce if I refuse?”

“I might just give them to you in an enema!” Liz retorted. She pressed her palm to the bridge of her nose again. “OK, fine. You’re here. I’m here. I’m not going to be able to convince you to do what the doctors want you to do. Let’s deal with something I might be able to accomplish!”

“I’m not trying to be an asshole,” I countered. “Liz ... I’m not just talking about feeling useful. I’m not a sedentary person. I can’t just ... lie around the house. I also don’t want a make-work job. Are Ryan, Dom and Brian being replaced?”

Liz looked at me.

“No,” she said. “Once they’re able to resume their duties, they’ll return to work.”

“Exactly,” I said. “They’ll return to the same jobs they always had. They won’t be moved into a ‘supervisory capacity’ or sit behind a desk making ‘long-range plans.’”

“It’s different,” Liz said.

“I don’t see how,” I interrupted. “I’m capable of returning to work or I will be in a few days. I think the fact that I’m able to have a semi-coherent conversation with you proves that I’m doing OK. I don’t want special treatment ... at least not as an employee. If you think I can’t do the job anymore, then let me go. I’ll find a job somewhere else. If you plan to move me into a job where I don’t really do anything, I’ll quit. I still have the out clause in my contract and I’ll use it. But you’ve set up the supervisors for your marketing and public relations team in San Diego. If you want me to work doing the same job as Susan or Rick or Sarah, that’s fine. That’s your decision to make. But I should be out there with them if we’re doing the same work. San Diego has doctors and therapists. I guess I just want to feel like I’m a part of your life again.”

Moving outside to the pool wasn’t one of my brighter ideas but I had heard phones ringing throughout the house and I knew Liz had a lot of plates in the air. So I walked outside.

The lounge chairs were too low to sit in with my arm at such an awkward angle. In the end, I sat on the edge of the pool and put my feet in the water. The only problem was that I soon wanted to move – but couldn’t.

I was like a turtle on its back.