Page 3 of Keep You Close

“Do I have a concussion?” I asked, thinking of how solidly I’d blacked out, the last thing I remember being colliding with the mogul.

“You should wait to speak to your doctor,” she told me, and something about the way she said it gave me all the answers I needed.

But, eventually, the doctor came in and confirmed my concerns. A compound fracture in my leg with pins to keep it in place. A few fractures in my fingers, including Skiers Thumb—a tear of the UCL—that happen when you try to brace a fall while holding ski poles. Then there was a rotator cuff strain, bruised ribs, a herniated disc in my neck, and a concussion.

In short, I was a fucking mess.

“It is good you were wearing a helmet,” he told me, nodding. “It could have been much worse.”

Looking down at myself, I wasn’t sure how that was possible.

For someone who thrived on movement, being laid up was the ultimate punishment.

The worst part was, well, I was in fucking Switzerland. With literally nowhere to go. Since I needed to be out of my hotel room in the morning.

Unsure what other options I had, I worked with a patient advocate for the next few days to figure out how the hell to get me home, how I would navigate the airport in the shape I was in, then how I might get home from the airport.

The second part was easy.

A ride share to my house would be no big deal.

From there, I could get anything I might need. One of those scooter things to use or a wheelchair until my shoulder and hands recovered enough for me to use crutches.

Suddenly, I was thankful that my family had bullied me into getting my own house. Their motivations had been selfish, originally. They were all getting sick of me shipping my clothes, gear, and souvenirs to their houses to have them hold onto them for me, since I didn’t have anywhere else to send them.

Did I still believe that the house was really just a waste of money? Yeah. I only stayed there maybe a week or two a year. Meanwhile, I had to keep the heat on, the water, gas, taxes, all that shit.

But it was convenient that I had it now. And that it was a ranch. Easy to move around in when I was down.

Decision made, I lucked out that medical transport was willing to help me to the hotel, so I could grab my travel documents and phone that the hotel had put in the safe for me, then bring me to the airport.

It was the most miserable I’d ever been, with my pain medicine barely doing anything to ease the screaming in my leg, neck, shoulder, and ribs. My fingers ached, but it was the least of my worries as I finally slid into my first-class seat that would give me more room to stretch out.

It wasn’t the worst flight in the world at just under eleven hours and without any major turbulence, but I’d never been so close to fucking crying in pain as I was by the time I made it to my house.

It wasn’t much to write home about.

A simple ranch-style ‘starter house’ with white siding and a brick façade on the lower section.

It was fall in New Jersey, and the trees had dumped piles of red, orange, and yellow leaves all over the front yard and walkways.

“Man, how you gonna get in there?” the ride share driver asked, looking hesitantly from me to the house.

“Through the garage,” I said.

“Yeah, but how? You can barely move.”

He wasn’t wrong.

With a sigh, I reached for my phone, adding a hefty tip on the app.

“What’s that for?”

“Going into my house and getting me the rolling office chair out of the spare room,” I told him, handing him my keys.

I could scoot. It might actually work even better than a wheelchair would.

“Alright,” he said, shrugging it off before making his way up the front path, unlocking the door with the keys I’d handed him, then letting himself inside.

---