g-great, Melba,” with enough sarcasm to melt a steel O.R. table.
When the soap slipped from his fingers, Jack automatically leaned forward. Pete stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Whoa, Doc. I’ll get that.”
A teenage volunteer with a wide-eyed expression joined Melba at the open door, clutching a stack of magazines to her chest. Now Jack really felt like a circus act. At one time he’d thought to encourage Katie to volunteer at the hospital when she got older. A bad idea.
His anger threatened to combust. This was totally dehumanizing. But hadn’t he treated his own patients the same way? How many times had he invaded someone’s privacy for the sake of his schedule? How many people had he reduced to utter humiliation by holding a conversation while they sat on a bedpan? He swore if he ever got out of this mess, if he ever recovered enough to resume his career—and that was a big if—he’d never let it happen again.
Jack clenched his jaw and hissed, “Sh-shut the d-damn door, Pete.”
Pete blinked as though he’d just woken up to reality. “Sure, Doc. Sorry.” He closed the door with a hangdog look and studied the toilet while Jack finished washing.
“I’m done,” Jack pronounced, realizing how much truth rang out in his words.
Pete helped him dry off, replaced the hospital gown with a clean one and rolled him back into the room. He maneuvered Jack out of the chair and into bed, readjusted all the equipment and monitors, then raised the side rails, leaving him feeling like a caged animal. Couldn’t they see he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon? Except maybe home alone to wallow in his pity with a stranger attending to his needs. Unless he decided to take Annie up on her offer. Nope. Couldn’t do that. He couldn’t tolerate her sympathy on a daily basis. They’d both be miserable.
The loud reverberation of activity at the adjacent nurses’ station traveled into the room. Jack would normally welcome the sound, but right now it clanked in his head.
He brought his attention back to Pete, who was finishing cleanup. “When you leave, sh-shut the door. Can’t sleep with all the noise.”
Pete gave him a quick salute. “Yes, sir.” Then he left Jack alone to study the ceiling and wonder how in the hell he would ever survive this mess. How he would deal with the inability to take care of himself in very basic ways. Like now. He had to pee, which had become a major ordeal since they’d removed his catheter that morning. Fortunately some of the equipment still worked, or at least the plumbing. He shot a glance at the bedside table, determined to get the damn plastic urinal and do it himself. But the table was on his right side, out of his reach.
He tried to maneuver himself enough to retrieve it, skirting all sorts of tubes and lines, but to no avail. His body was too dead and the table was too far away. He pressed the button on the bed’s metal arm with his good hand to summon the nurse, but it didn’t work. Raising his head as far as he could, he noticed the cord curled on the floor like a hangman’s noose, detached from outlet.
Goddammit! Trapped like a prisoner with no way to communicate. He considered yelling, screaming at the top of his lungs about the injustice, their incompetence. Rant like a madman who had totally lost his mind along with his ability to function normally.
He had lost everything. His dignity. His pride. So what good would shouting do? It wouldn’t take away the pain, the loneliness. The loss. And he felt it all as sharp as a razor’s edge.
But instead of shouting, he did the one thing no one would expect, not even him.
He wept.
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