Long May She Reign by Ellen Emerson White

thinly-padded metal table, when there was a knock on the half-open door, and Dr. Brooks came in. Technically, he was a Navy Admiral, and they were probably supposed to address him that way, but he, and her family, all preferred “Dr. Brooks.” He was such a kindly and sympathetic man that she always made sure not to be surly, or swear in front of him—no matter how much she felt like it.
    He smiled at her in his grandfatherly way. “Edith tells me that you did extremely well today.”
    Yeah, she couldn’t be prouder. Meg nodded. “I lifted five whole pounds.” Or possibly only three.
    â€œProgressing to weights is a very big step,” he said.
    Unh-hunh.
    â€œGetting a little more movement in the hand, too,” he said.
    Unh-hunh. Emphasis on, a little. She nodded politely.
    â€œWe’d like to start weaning you off that, over the next couple of months—” he indicated her cane—“and see how you do with just the brace.”
    Meg looked down at the bulky ice packs. “So, I’ll put my full weight on it?”
    Dr. Brooks nodded. “It’ll improve your mobility, and should accelerate your progress.”
    No point in asking how much it was going to hurt. “Will I always need a brace?” she asked. “Just to walk?”
    â€œWell, the extent of—” He hesitated. “I think you’re coming along very well so far, Meg.”
    None of the medical people ever directly answered her questions, especially when bad news was involved. Meg looked at her ice packs. Hard to believe that tennis and skiing had once been such major parts of her life. Two of her favorite reasons for getting up in the morning. And now, presumably, walking was going to be an achievement. “I, um—I’m having a lot of pain, sir,” she said. “Lately.”
    He frowned. “The ibuprofen isn’t doing anything for you?”
    It probably wasn’t making things worse, but that was about it. She shook her head. “Not really.”
    â€œWell, why don’t we put you back on the Tylenol-3 for a while,” he said. “I’d like to avoid the stronger medications for now, if possible.”
    So much for more Percocet or Vicodin. Ultram, Hydrocodone, Tramadol Hydrochloride, Darvon, Lortab, Dilaudid, Fioricet, Voltaren, Toradol, Anaprox, Lodine, OxyContin. She knew all their damned names, at this point. But, Meg nodded. The last thing she needed was a trip to Hazelden or someplace. Not that she was an addictive type, but Christ, chronic pain was a whole different ballgame.
    Dr. Brooks picked up one of the ice packs, checking for swelling, maybe. He examined her knee, frowned again, and then replaced the ice pack. “Is it unbearable?” he asked, his expression noticeably more concerned.
    Well, it hadn’t killed her yet. Although not, she suspected, for lack of trying. “I guess not,” she said. Doubtfully.
    â€œWell, I think I’ll give you something stronger for the next week or so,” he said, “and we’ll see how you respond, okay?”
    She wanted to nod eagerly, but that seemed too close to the reaction an outright junkie would have.
    â€œI’m also going to have one of the orthopedists come over later today, and give you a look,” he said.
    Christ. That sounded ominous. Meg looked at him nervously. “Is something wrong?”
    Dr. Brooks shook his head. “No. I just think it’s a good idea if we stay on top of things.”
    Which didn’t sound all that good.
    â€œThere’s no need for you to be alarmed, Meg,” he said, with his very kind smile. “You know how careful we like to be around here.”
    And how.
    â€œDo you have any questions?” he asked.
    None that he was going to be able to answer. In all likelihood, she would need a damned theologian, or something, for that . So, she shook her head.
    â€œCan we get anything for you? Some