Plaster

I get a text from my mother in the middle of the day saying that my aunt’s husband Richard just died. Richard had been deep in the throes of dementia for some time, and I didn't know him well, but he's another bit player gone from the production, and I feel a little sad. 

When I get to my appointment, I find there is another new nurse. His name is also Sean. He is handsome in a predictable kind of way. His muscular arms are covered with tattoos. He’s probably driving KC nuts. I immediately dislike him. 

Aaron walks him through instructions for cutting off my cast. “Oh yeah we used these saws in the ER,” Sean says. 

Kim, no longer the new kid, stands to the side and watches. “The pupil has become the teacher,” I say to her. A few seconds later Sean tears into the cast like he’s chain-sawing a log. The saw grinds and squeals unhappily.

“There’s no hurry,” Aaron says. I’ve never heard him sound nervous before. “Okay, no see now you’re… I love the enthusiasm, but it’s not really… here, maybe I should... you know what, let’s turn it off for just a minute.” 

“This isn’t anything like the saw we used in the ER,” grumbles Hot Sean. 

“No, they’re kind of different,” Aaron says. Kim doesn’t say a word. 

After three complete passes, Sean has finally gotten the hang of the saw and pries my cast off then leaves for the day.

Dr. Ronda looks at the wound on the left foot and pronounces it officially healed. “This will be your last cast,” she announces. Then she looks at the wound on the right foot. “This looks pretty good as well.” She scrapes away at it. “Hmm.” She scrapes some more. “This is pretty deep.”  She’s quiet for a moment. “I’m going to order you an MRI. I see bone.”

“Oh shit,” I say.

“I know. You might have to go back in the chamber. We’ll give it a week, see if the antibiotics help.”

It’s not so much that the specter of the chamber is so terrible –I know that it works, and that the only other option will be amputation- but there’s no way I’ll be able to keep working; sessions in the chamber take up three to four hours a day including travel time. All I can do is hope the antibiotics work, and that by next week things are starting to heal up. But if the wound is that deep, it will be a while before I’m back to any sort of normal. 

I’m beyond tears, beyond being upset. I chat and joke around with the nurses like usual, and when Dr. Ronda comes back I compliment her on her new footwear. She’s wearing a post-op boot on her left foot. 

“I thought it was just sprained but it’s broken,” she says. I wait for her to tell me how it happened, but she doesn’t. 

“Maybe you need to put it in a cast,” I say. “I mean, these things are really comfortable. As well as stylish.”

“I thought about it,” she says, wrapping my foot in its final cast. “You know, this stuff smells a little funky.” 

I catch a whiff of it through my mask; medicinal and rubbery. “It does smell funky.”

“I’ve never had this happen before. It’s always odorless.” She knocks my shin, my calf. “Seems normal.” She knocks again and again. She looks into the bucket, where the unused cores of the casting float around, and says, “What the hell?”

Aaron gingerly picks one up. “I’ve never seen them this color before.” 

“Me neither,” says the doctor. “I wonder if we got a bad batch. I think it’ll be okay, but if you have any issues, go right to the emergency room.”

In the elevator, a man gets in, holding a disk of plaster with a large handprint in the middle of it. Without thinking, I joke, “Nice art project!”

“Thanks,” he says his voice a husk. “It’s for my sister.” 

Oh shit, I think. That's the imression of a dying person's hand. 

I feel like I should apologize, but the doors open and we both go our separate ways, him deeper into the building and me wheeling out onto the street, gripping the handlebars tight.