“You and I both know I’m not going to walk again, don’t we, Doc?” I said, steeling my face. “You know the likelihood, probably down to the exact percentage, of a person ever walking again if they wake up paralyzed from the neck down. So why don’t we cut the ‘therapy and tests’ shit and get me out of this hellhole?”
To the doc’s credit, he didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. “I also know that percentage decreases every single day you stay paralyzed. Would you like me to give you those numbers as well?”
I blew out a sharp breath. “I don’t need to know the numbers to realize I’m fucked.”
Doctor Payton scooted closer to the bed and set his tablet in his lap. “You want to know how many people I’ve treated like you?”
“There’s only one ‘people’ like me,” I said under my breath.
“That’s the answer I get from everyone. You all think you’re invincible right up until you’re not. Then when you’re forced to confront your mortality, you throw in the towel and give up completely.” The doc’s voice filled the room in the same way the sunshine did—way too damn much. “You cross your arms, wave the white flag, and settle into the mentality of being ‘fucked.’” The doc huffed, shaking his head. “If you think your approach is unique, you’re deluding yourself.”
I shook my head when I wanted to rip the room apart, piece by piece. “Okay then, doc. If you can look me in the eye and tell me I’ve got a good chance of walking again, I’ll stay and do whatever tests and therapy you’ve got up your sleeve. You tell me that, then I’ll stay. But if you can’t, then I’m not going to lie to myself and the people I care about while I suffer through tests that tell me what I already know and therapy that won’t do anything but keep my muscles from atrophying.”
Knowing what back injuries did to people was a blessing and a curse. I’d been around the bull riding circuit long enough to hear the stories and watch former competitors turn into vegetables, breathing into wheelchairs to get them to move. Like the doc had said, I’d never thought it would happen to me. I waited for the doctor to look me in the eye, and when he finally did, I knew what he was going to say.
“My job isn’t to lie to you, Garth. My job is to be straightforward with you and work on a treatment plan to help. You’re right—it’s more likely you’ll never walk again than you will, but that doesn’t mean you won’t walk again. It isn’t a guarantee.”
My gaze drifted back to the ceiling before my eyes closed. Reality? Fuck off. “Then if you don’t mind showing me the door, I’ll be on my merry quadriplegic way.”
The doc stood, shaking his head the entire way to the door. “Sure, I’ll get right on it. Let me see if I can find a taxi to drive you all the way home to Montana.”
The doctor had barely left the room before a couple other people surged through it.
“Where’s Joze?” I asked before I caught myself.
“Nice to see you too, cupcake. Thanks for the warm welcome.” Rowen clomped into the room looking like she was prepared to wrestle a bear. She plopped into the same chair the doc had just been in, and Jesse came in behind her, waving at me as he came around the side of my bed.
“Shit, Jess, and I thought I was in bad shape.” I looked at my friend, trying not to resent him for being able to stand and rest his hands on the shoulders of the woman he loved. It wasn’t him I was mad it—it was my spine and the bull who should have known when he was beat and the circumstance I was neck-deep in. Literally.
Jesse rubbed his face, where the stubble was long enough to be noticeable. But it wasn’t just his lack of shaving that stood out. He had dark rings below his bloodshot eyes and rumpled clothing. From the look of it, he’d slept in those clothes. During the whole ten minutes it looked like he’d slept.
“I didn’t sleep well last night,” he said with a shrug, looking away. “Hotel beds suck.”
I knew the real reason he hadn’t slept, and it wasn’t because the bed at whatever hotel they’d stayed in had been a little too soft or hard. Jess was like me—we could sleep anywhere, anytime, even on a slab of granite if it was the only flat surface around. Cowboys slept when they could, where they could, and they sure as hell didn’t whine about some plush hotel bed.
“Yeah, hospital beds suck too,” I replied, not begrudging my friend for lying to me. Had our roles been reversed, I wouldn’t have been able to sleep either. “So where’s Joze?” Apparently I couldn’t catch myself the second time either.
Rowen was in the middle of chugging a monster-sized cup of coffee, but she stopped mid-gulp to answer my question. “Josie is talking with someone about wheelchairs—”
My head whipping her direction paired with the look in my eyes was somehow enough to get someone I’d thought un-shut-up-able to shut up. Mid-sentence. At least I hadn’t underestimated my ability to be intimidating.
“And moving on . . .” She glanced at Jesse with a raised brow before looking back at me. “How’s the food? Five-star-worthy?”
I blinked. “Gee, I don’t know. Since I can’t lift a fork or a spoon or a damn French fry, unless they position a trough two inches in front of my face, I won’t be eating.” Rowen’s face fell, and I felt like a prick for making her feel bad, but I couldn’t shut my mouth. All of my anger and frustration was boiling out in the form of cruel words. “Ought to be a great way to lose weight, don’t you think? I think I’ll patent it and market it as the ‘Paralyzed from the Neck Down’ diet.”