Page 2 of Loving London

When the man is in my line of vision, I stop my assessment of the room. He looks to be in his forties with kind brown eyes, but if I’m not mistaken, I see pity in them.

Do I?That thought causes bile to rise in my throat.Why is he looking at me that way?

Opening my mouth, I try to question him; nothing but a raspy croak comes out.

The man raises a hand. “Your throat’s going to be dry. Let me get you some water.”

He exits the room, leaving me to myself, as I wade hopelessly through a sea of questions. Closing my eyes, I try to remember what happened. The crazy thing is, I can’t remember much of anything. My mind is so clouded, so saturated, with a heavy mud of nothingness.

The man returns, holding a white Styrofoam cup with a straw. He pushes a button on the side of my bed, and the section behind my back starts to slowly move up.

“Is that okay? It doesn’t hurt?” he asks.

I shake my head, answering his second question.

He continues moving the back of the bed up until I’m in a seated position. He then holds the cup of water in front of my face, and the bent straw presses against my lips. Opening my lips, I take a sip. The water feels like shards of glass sliding down my throat. I take another sip and then indicate with a nod that I’m finished.

The man places the cup on my side table. “I’m Sergeant Hannigan, your current nurse. Though Private Taylor will be replacing me”—his eyes dart to the clock on the wall—“in about an hour, and she’s much sweeter than I am. Everyone loves her. She’s a hell of a lot easier on the eyes, too.” He smiles, amused with himself.

“What…” I try to ask.

“Your throat’s going to be sore for a bit. Try to keep it hydrated as best as you can. You were intubated for a while. Then, you were in a medically induced coma until the swelling in your brain went down and your major injuries healed some. Do you remember what happened?”

I shake my head.

“Well, you’re at Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany,” he says.

Immediately, I recognize that as the military hospital where soldiers injured overseas are sent for medical attention.

He continues, “You were in Afghanistan. On a mission to Sarowbi, you were hit by shrapnel caused by a grenade, and the explosion propelled you into a wall, which you hit pretty hard. You were evacuated and flown here. From what I hear, you’re lucky to be alive.”

“Injuries?” I manage to say.

“You had some head trauma and many lacerations that needed stitches. You took some shrapnel in the side of your abdomen, but luckily, it missed all your major organs.”

I catch him swiftly looking down before his gaze returns to mine.

“A large piece of shrapnel struck your left leg, causing a significant amount of damage. The surgeon had to amputate part of your leg, starting right above the knee.”

My eyes bulge as I take in his words.Amputate?

Warily, I peer down toward the bedding that covers me. Sure enough, the thin white sheet drops down to the mattress where my lower left leg should be.

I lift my arm to move the covers from me but gasp as an acute pain hits, radiating from my rib area. I press my arm below my chest until the ache recedes.

“I’m sorry. I forgot to tell you about your broken ribs. Your body’s still pretty bruised up. It will be a while before you’re healed.”

I nod toward my leg. “Can I see it?” My voice cracks.

“Sure.” Sergeant Hannigan pulls back the sheet.

From beneath the hospital gown I’m wearing, my right leg lays in shades of bruises against the mattress. It’s like a messed up tie-dye of purples, yellows, and browns with some cuts thrown in the mix for variety. It’s almost nauseating in appearance.

Then, I steel the nerve to take in my left leg, and…it’s gone.

Just gone.

My gaze returns to the bruised up appendage and then to the spot beside it where its counterpart should be, and nothing is there. Nothing. No matching mangled up leg is protruding from beneath the thin gown.

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