Nursing The Doctor by Bobby Hutchinson

Frannie was a social worker. Her office was in the rehab section, and she worked with many of the patients there. “If you come by the hospital tomorrow, page me and maybe we can have a coffee together after you’ve visited your doc.”
    “I’ll do that.” Lily picked up her spoon and began to eat, but the chowder seemed to have lost its flavor. All she could see in her mind’s eye was Greg Brulotte’s broken body in a hospital bed.
     
     
    “That...hurts...god...damn it, that...hurts.” Greg barely recognized his own voice. It was that of a stranger, hoarse and very weak. And it was painful just to talk.
    He knew his face was bruised and battered, and his broken ribs sent excruciating pain shooting through his chest with every cautious breath. Every part of his body registered varying degrees of torment, depending on the injury it had sustained.
    He’d thought his chest was the worst, but now the nurse was swabbing at the surgical site on his right leg, changing the dressings on the wound with what he considered all the finesse of a ham-handed gorilla.
    They’d taken out the chest tube yesterday morning, and it felt as if burning coals were heaped under his breastbone. They’d also taken away the morphine, even though his broken ribs were agonizingly painful. Even the shallow breathing he’d more or less perfected caused him intense discomfort.
    Today a barrage of specialists had paraded past his bed all day long, poking and prodding and questioning, and finally one of them, a specialist Bellamy had called in from God knows where for a consult, had told Greg in a doleful tone that he might just have a paraparesis, a partial paralysis affecting his lower limbs.
    Not for certain, just a possibility, the wizened little man assured Greg. He wasn’t to get upset by the fact that he could move his toes sometimes and not others. That might just be due to the swelling of the spinal cord.
    Time would tell.
    So now, added to the physical pain was a tight knot of apprehension in Greg’s gut. And this last half hour before the medications came was excruciating; at least the powerful drugs dulled his senses for a time.
    The added aggravation of this clumsy nurse with her dressings enraged him. He flinched and clenched his teeth to prevent a moan as she did something that sent a shudder of agony through him.
    “Sorry, Dr. Brulotte, sorry. I know it’s painful, but it’s necessary. I’ll be done in a moment.”
    She stabbed at the wound again, and he couldn’t bear any more. He let out a roar and used his left arm to sweep across the bedside table, sending swabs and antiseptic smashing to the floor.
    “Get the hell... away...from me. Get...away, you hear me? It’s...obvious you’ve never done this ... procedure before. Get ... away. You’re not...practicing on me...you, you...sadist.”
    The tall, middle aged nurse drew herself to her full height and looked down at him with a narrow-eyed, scathing glare. “Dr. Brulotte, there’s no need for this kind of behavior. My name is Polly Gibbs, and I’m not a sadist, I’m a nurse. And I assure you, I’m no newcomer to the job. I’ve been working here for seven years. I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m attempting to give you the best nursing care available and cause you the least amount of pain I can, and you’re making it difficult. Things would be much easier if you’d cooperate, you must know that. After all, you are a doctor, you ought to understand the procedures.” Calmly she opened another sterile package and resumed her prodding.
    Greg tried and failed to curb the anguished moan that escaped his throat. He despised his own weakness, he abhorred his helplessness. He cursed, low and guttural and foul, and the frustration and panic that threatened to drive him mad battered at his brain like the wings of a raven, black and ominous.
    He’d never been immobile in his life. He’d never even been sick to speak of, apart from a mild case of measles and several