When Dreams Collide (16 page)

The dog whined and crept a foot closer. Susan flipped onto her side and met the animal’s eyes. “I don’t know if he’s ever going to walk again, Buster, and the thought scares me so much. Not for myself. I’ll love him regardless. But if Dusty can’t walk, can’t run his ranch...” Another sob escaped her lips, and she buried her face in the dog’s soft fur and cried herself to sleep.

****

“No change.”

The ICU nurse delivered the news Susan and Brock expected. But hearing it spoken aloud dampened their spirits even further. Jeremy and David joined them in their vigil shortly after ten o’clock.  Jeremy and David insisted on a tour of Dusty’s new ranch, and Brock beamed with pleasure at the prospect of showing off the property. The three guys disappeared around noon, leaving Susan alone.

At one o’clock, the attendant in charge of the ICU allowed Susan a ten minute visit with Dusty, and she spent the entire time talking to him non-stop. She assured him everyone was cheering for his speedy recovery, Brock was caring for Buster and occupying her spare room, and Jeremy and David were wearing out the flooring in the ICU waiting room. She didn’t mention they were touring his ranch, believing he might be upset that he hadn’t been able to show off his new prize purchase himself. She informed him that Catherine and Amanda remained at home and received updates on his condition by phone. She ended the visit with another kiss and instructions to enjoy his sleep and keep healing. When she returned to the waiting room, another crying jag followed her visit. She hadn’t believed it possible for one person to generate so many tears.

She awoke several hours later, covered by a blanket, with Brock seated across from her reading the daily newspaper.

“Thank you for your kindness,’ she said, lifting an edge of the blanket. “Has there been news about Dusty?”

Brock peeked over his eyeglasses and shook his head. Susan closed her eyes and dropped off to sleep again while Brock returned to his reading.

This daily routine continued for another ten days until the doctors discontinued the coma-inducing drug cocktail. Everyone waited for Dusty to awaken. He was transferred from the ICU to a private room, and the Branigan boys hired two private nurses—Mrs. Flanagan and Ms. Walters came highly recommended—rotating on a twelve hour schedule in addition to the hospital staff to oversee Dusty’s care. He wasn’t to be left alone for a second.

Susan spent every minute of the day and most of the evenings at the hospital, hoping she would be present when Dusty came to, praying it would be her face he saw when he first awoke.

Of course, Murphy’s Law dictated that what a person wished for the most never happened.

Finally, Dusty woke up a few days later at four o’clock in the morning with no one in attendance but his private nurse.

*

“Where...” croaked Dusty. His eyes opened for him this time but, feeling as heavy as steel, soon closed again.

A few minutes later, or maybe hours for all he knew, he awoke again and glanced over at the nurse.

“So, you’re awake are you, young man?” asked the mature woman dressed in a nurse’s floral print uniform.

“Where...”

“My name is Mrs. Flanagan. I’m a private nurse specially hired for you, and you’re in St. Peter’s Hospital in Helena.” The nurse fussed with his pillow.

“My...throat...”

“I don’t doubt it’s still a little sore from the breathing tube while you were in surgery and during the days following. The doctors ordered a drug-induced coma for pain management to speed the healing process.” The nurse reached for his hand, taking his pulse.

Dusty blinked his eyes, forcing himself to remain conscious. He wished the nurse would continue her explanation. He remembered the accident, but he wasn’t aware he’d had surgery. And he’d been in a coma? He recalled sleepiness and intermittent bouts of excruciating pain and then blessed relief. He still felt like he’d been run over by a truck. No, not a truck...a motor home.

He’d managed a word or two, and the nurse understood him so his speech worked. He’d attempted to move his arms, and although they rose a couple inches off the sheet his upper limbs felt lead-weighted. But all attempts to move his legs proved useless.

“How...long...”

“It’s very early in the morning. Today is August 16. You’ve been in the hospital for two weeks, Mr. MacFarland.” The nurse patted his arm and smiled down at hm. “I must say it’s lovely to see those beautiful brown eyes of yours open finally.”

“Can’t...feel...” Dusty wasn’t experiencing much pain, so he suspected he was still pumped up on some pretty strong stuff. He seldom took a pill for a headache, and he could only imagine the narcotics they’d been pushing into him the past week.

“Don’t try to talk too much.” The nurse reached for a glass of ice water and helped him maneuver the straw between his lips.  During his initial attempt at suction, more water dripped out the side of his mouth and trickled under his chin than reached his parched throat.

“Not...good...” Dusty grimaced.

“Don’t worry about it. Your lip was cut and it’s still a bit swollen. You’re getting fluids by IV so now that you’re awake we’ll let you suck on ice chips if that seems easier for you. But I’d like the doctor to examine you first.”

“O...kay.” Dusty attempted a smile, but his face hurt with the slightest change of expression. He almost requested a mirror to examine the damage but decided in favor of ignorance. He didn’t feel like himself, and he suspected he might not even recognize himself either.

Suddenly, overpowering exhaustion swept over him like a tsunami, and despite his best efforts, his eyes refused to stay open. Dusty decided to stop fighting it. He closed his eyes, relaxed his shoulders and arms, and drifted back into oblivion.

****

“Dusty.”

The lilting voice of an angel called to him. He’d died after all, and he’d arrived in heaven.

“Dusty.”

Same soft, soothing voice.

“Dusty, wake up.”

He was eager to greet this lovely angel and discover what heaven really looked like. A vision of white clouds drifting about his pain-free body while sweet-smelling flowers scented the air popped into his head. Heaven. He struggled to open his eyes, and a familiar female image greeted him. What was Susan doing in heaven, he wondered?

And then he remembered. He had the ‘h’ part right. But instead of heaven, hospital.

“Susan...” he whispered, his mouth dry as dust again. When he took a deep breath, a sharp pain radiated through his chest and he grimaced. Of course, that bit of movement in turn hurt his facial muscles. “Ouch.”

“Are you in a lot of pain?” Susan asked, patting his arm. “We were so worried about you. I can’t tell you how happy I am you’re awake.”

“Sleeping...”

“Yes, darling. I know you were sleeping. And the doctors are hopeful that you’ve made remarkable progress since the surgery.” Susan reached for his hand, and he felt her lips brush his knuckles.

“Where...”

“Where are you? You’re in the hospital...”

Dusty attempted to shake his head with the tiniest of movements. “Brock...”

“Where’s Brock? He’s in the waiting room, and Jeremy and David, too. They’ve been here since the day you were hurt, insisting the Lazy B’s hired help can handle things at the ranch.” Susan sighed. “I don’t know what I would have done without their support, Dusty. You scared the crap out of me.”

“Can’t...move...”

“Just lie still, young man,” ordered the private nurse he’d spoken with briefly before. “The surgeon is on his way here to examine you, and he won’t tolerate you moving around before he sees you.”

Dusty nodded, almost imperceptibly, that he understood. He couldn’t tell which hurt worse, attempting to talk or head and facial movements.

Just then, Dr. Carter strode into the room and handed Dusty’s chart to his nurse. “So, you decided to join the party. I’m Dr. Carter and I operated on you. I’m delighted to see you’re finally awake. Mind you, you haven’t missed much while you were sleeping. No political scandals and no celebrities were arrested. Other than a couple of exceptionally exciting baseball games, it’s been a pretty boring two weeks.”

Dusty attempted to smile at the doctor’s humor, but pain raced through his upper body. The pain meds must have been discontinued to enable a more thorough and informative examination.

“Ms. Sanders, would you please step into the hallway while I examine my patient? I’ll have the nurse call you back in when my tests are completed,” requested the physician without looking her way.

*

“Sure, Dr. Carter.” Susan turned and met Dusty’s eyes. “I’ll be back soon. See you in a little while.”

She slipped out of the hospital room and settled herself in a nearby chair. “Thank you, God, for answering my prayers. All that was required was a little faith. Dusty will be fine, and he’ll walk out of the hospital on two good legs in a few weeks,” she spoke, looking heavenward.

Susan leaned back against the sofa cushions and smiled. Yes! Dusty would be coming home as good as new in no time. She was certain of it.

Chapter 12

“How would you rate the pain on a scale of one to ten, Dusty?” asked Dr. Carter having completed his initial examination.

“Eleven.” Dusty grimaced as the doctor poked the side of his stomach not far from the surgical incision.

Dr. Carter chuckled. “That sounds about right. Once I’m finished, we’ll continue with the morphine drip for another couple of days.” The surgeon scribbled notes on the chart for a full minute before he handed it back to the nurse.

The doctor pulled the blanket back and tugged the bottom of the bed sheet out exposing Dusty’s legs. “Let me know if you feel anything,” he instructed.

Dusty watched as the doctor poked the bottom of his left foot and then the right. “You can do it harder, I didn’t feel it yet.”

“What about here?” Dr. Carter jabbed at Dusty’s left calf and then the right.

“Nothing there either.” Dusty frowned. “What does this mean if I can’t feel you poking my legs? Is there something wrong? That instrument looks pretty sharp. I should be able to feel it jabbing me, right?”

“We’ve known there has been paralysis in your lower limbs since the accident. A portion of the swelling has subsided, but there’s still a significant amount remaining. We’re unable to estimate the degree of trauma to your spine until it totally dissipates and we can perform a proper evaluation.” Dr. Carter stood hands on hips. “I’d hoped by now you would feel a tiny prick or something, but it appears there’s been no change in your condition at all.”

“If...no change…” Dusty swallowed hard. “Never...walk?”

“No, no, not at all. At this point we’re not certain of anything. This could be a moot point once the swelling goes down. We could discover there’s been absolutely no damage, or minimal damage that repairs itself over time. Of course, there could be a problem, but let’s not worry about that until or if the times comes.” Dr. Carter touched Dusty’s arm.

Dusty closed his eyes for a minute while the doctor’s evaluation sunk in. If there was permanent damage that the doctors couldn’t repair or that doesn’t repair itself, then he wouldn’t walk out of here. His permanent mode of transport would be a damn wheelchair for the rest of my life. Dusty silently seethed with anger. He hadn’t signed up for this. “How...operate a horse ranch...in a wheelchair?”

“Lots of men operate businesses and do all...”

Dusty turned his face to the wall. “You...leave.  Tired.”

“I’ll be by again tomorrow to see you. Hang in there, Dusty. There’s no need to think worst case scenario yet.”

“Yeah...sure,” growled Dusty. Easy for you to say, he thought.

He heard the doctor and nurse’s whispered exchange and then the door to his hospital room opened. “See you tomorrow,” called the doctor on his way out.

Suddenly, Dusty felt the pain subsiding significantly, and he realized the nurse had administered another dose of medication through his IV tube. He glanced over at her and muttered, “Thank you. What...giving...?”

“A bit of morphine and some Demerol, too. We’ll wean you off the morphine in another day or two and then maybe try Tylenol. You’re healing remarkably quickly due to your age and being in peak physical fitness at the time of the accident. But we’re unable to hurry your recovery along, I’m afraid. Just allow your body to heal at its own pace.” The nurse smiled at him and offered him the glass of ice water.

Dusty shook his head and lay back against the pillows again. “No...patience,” he whispered, and then scowled at the nurse.

“Here try to sip some of this water,” the nurse held the straw for him. “Limited talking and fluids are best for helping to heal your tender throat. And it shouldn’t take but a couple or three days. Now, about patience. When God is making rough and tumble cowboys, every one of them skips getting in line for their portion of patience.” She smiled at her disgruntled patient. “Think positive thoughts. You look the type who copes with whatever life tosses your way, and without complaining much about it either.”

Dusty swatted the glass of water off his bedside tray.

“Oh, my. Temper, temper,” whispered the nurse as she bent down to retrieve the plastic glass that bounced clear across the room. “Fortunately, that glass was only half full or you would have made a worse mess on the floor. Notice I said half full. You’d better start thinking about your life as half full and not half empty. There are a lot of fellows survive traffic accidents and lose the use of their arms or their legs or both. They can’t feed themselves. They can’t hold their own heads up. There are worse things in life than losing the use of your legs, Dusty. And nobody has irrefutable proof that you’ve lost the use of yours yet.”

“Damn...big...yet,” scoffed Dusty. His throat hurt like hell, and he regretted sending the water flying. He could do with another sip.

“Well, there’s also IF, young man. And I wouldn’t be worrying about something that might not even happen. There’ll be plenty of time to form a game plan, IF the time comes. Meanwhile, get some sleep and wait for that swelling in your spine to subside. If you promise to be good and stop throwing things on the floor, I’ll fetch you a popsicle to soothe your throat when you wake up.” The nurse busied herself with his chart. He grimaced inwardly; she was probably recording his temper tantrum. Dusty closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.