Page 142 of Tiny Fractures
“What’s the plan, Frankie?” Ronan’s grandfather, Perry, chimes in. From what I can gather, he’s a man of few words, though when he does speak it’s with authority and conviction. It’s clear Saoirse is the more expressive of the two, whereas Perry is more observant.
“You obviously can’t keep being gone. The boys need their father. They’ve needed you for a long time, but now more than ever,” Perry says.
He makes a great point, one I hadn’t even thought about before. What will happen when Ronan wakes up? What will happen with his mother? No way she would be allowed around him again, right?
“I’m in the process of working all that out right now, Dad,” Frank tells his parents and Steve. “I’m not going anywhere; no more being away from you guys,” he adds, looking at Steve. “I’m already talking with my superiors about a transfer. I’m on leave now until Ran…” He trails off momentarily. “I’m not leaving you guys again,” Frank says, and I can see relief and a small smile cross Steve’s face.
A while later, Frank takes his parents to the house to allow them to get some rest, but returns to the hospital as soon as he’s able with the intent to spend another night by Ronan’s bedside.
Shane, Tori, Zack, Summer, and Vada stop by in the late afternoon, bringing bread and pasta. They hang out for a couple of hours but leave when Jessica, the night nurse, comes in to change Ronan’s IV.
“I’m sorry guys, but they’re pretty strict with the number of people. We just want to make sure Ronan gets plenty of rest,” she says sympathetically, and our friends scurry out with promises to visit again tomorrow.
***
It’s almost 10:30 and I stretch my arms overhead, accidentally hitting Steve in the head. Frank took my seat by Ronan’s side about an hour ago, and has been reading to him like he does every evening. I finished my English homework a few minutes ago and took my spot on the small sofa, leaning against Steve, who lets me rest my head on his chest while he watches TV. I closed my eyes at first and listened to Steve’s heartbeat, pretending it was Ronan’s warmth, his heartbeat. God, although I’ve been in the same room with Ronan the majority of the past few days, I miss him terribly. Even though his body is just a few feet away from me, it’s as though his mind, his soul, his energy are somewhere else entirely, and I can’t wait for him to find his way back to us, to me.
“Shit!” Frank says, his voice constricted.
“What’s wrong, Dad?” Steve asks.
My eyes instantly find Ronan’s face, then move to the monitors and machines. His oxygen saturation is normal, but his pulse has increased. And then I notice the number in the lower right-hand corner of the monitor: 103.6. Ronan has spiked a fever. “He’s burning up!” I say.
Frank is already pushing the red button, calling the nurse.
She instantly appears at the door. “Is everything okay?” Jessica asks as she steps into the room.
“He’s running a fever,” Frank says, his voice tight.
Jessica looks at the monitor, and apparently unable to believe her eyes, touches her hand to Ronan’s forehead and cheek. “Yes, he is. I’m going to page the doctor on call right now. I’ll be right back.”
“What the hell?” Steve asks, stepping closer to his little brother.
“I was done reading and went to take his hand, and I noticed how damn hot he was. It startled me because he’s been feeling so cool. I looked on the monitor and… Jesus!”
It’s obvious how frantic Frank is, and anxiety claws at my throat. I feel completely out of control, and the fear of losing Ronan threatens to take over again, like it has at night when I’m alone in my room, taking in Ronan’s scent lingering on the pillow.
Jessica and a young doctor dressed in navy-blue scrubs and a white coat with an ID attached to it walk hastily into the room. The doctor doesn’t introduce himself as he examines the monitor, then touches Ronan’s forehead and cheek like Jessica did.
“What’s going on, Doctor?” Frank asks.
The nameless doctor pauses briefly to look at Frank. “I’m Doctor Casteen,” the young doctor says, his face unmoved. He turns to Jessica, asking her questions about Ronan’s vitals and her regular checks on him. “Okay,” he finally says, returning his gaze to Frank.
It’s clear that this doctor, experienced as he may be, hasn’t learned much about bedside manners. My mom always tells me how important good bedside manners are; that sometimes they can be the difference between a patient going home earlier and staying longer. This doctor’s face is serious, void of any compassion as he rattles off information.
“Fevers are indicators of infection. We’ll take a quick blood sample and have the lab check Ronan’s white count. A high count will tell us if there’s anything going on. In the meantime, I’m going to check the incision sites to rule out anything external.”
Blood is drawn and sent to the lab, and Doctor Casteen uncovers Ronan’s lower body that had been concealed by a blanket. Ronan is wearing what look like sweatpants but in reality are blue hospital pants. The right pant leg is cut open, and for the first time I see the contraption that holds Ronan’s right leg and knee in place. It’s not a cast, and I take in his knee; it’s bandaged with white cloth and ice has been packed around it, presumably to decrease the swelling. My eyes pass over Ronan’s entire body, head to toe. Bruises, dark and menacing, stain his sun-kissed skin and I want so badly to touch him, to make it all go away.
“The incisions look fine,” the doctor says, uncovering each surgical site and inspecting the wounds for obvious signs of infection. “This has to be internal,” he says again, more to himself than anyone else. He takes the stethoscope hanging leisurely around his neck and places it against Ronan’s chest. It becomes still in the room as Doctor Casteen listens intently. He takes his time, moving the instrument to various parts of Ronan’s battered chest, his ribs.
Finally, Doctor Casteen removes the stethoscope from his ears. “I’m going to take X-rays just to confirm, but this is pneumonia we’re talking about,” he says, and Frank takes a sharp breath in. “This is not uncommon,” Doctor Casteen continues quickly. “Ronan has been intubated for a few days, both his lungs were damaged, his spleen has been removed, and he’s not moving. This is the perfect storm as far as pneumonia goes. He’s completely unable to clear his lungs of any fluids, so they build up, and his body is too weak to fight the infection right now. I’m going to put him on some targeted antibiotics. But more importantly”—Doctor Casteen waves Jessica over—“let’s take the tube out and give him a breathing trial. I would much prefer if we can assist Ronan with a mask. Hopefully he’s strong enough to breathe for us; that would really allow his lungs to get some rest.”
Jessica nods and heads out through the sliding glass doors. I watch as she heads around a long counter and picks up the phone. Her mouth moves briefly before she hangs up and returns to the room. “Davis will be up to remove the ventilator.”
Doctor Casteen nods and checks the monitors again.
A few moments later, a short man with a receding hairline walks in. He’s dressed in a white coat and gives us all a warm smile. “Evening y’all,” he says in a thick Southern accent that makes me smile and takes some pressure off my heart.