by Witt, L. A.
“At least when I lay perfectly still and flat, it’s better,” he said. “Not much, but better. But every time I get up . . .”
“Would turning off the rest of the lights help?”
“Doubt it. I’ve been in the bedroom all day with the lights off, and it hasn’t done much.”
“Maybe we should take you to the emergency room. Just to make sure it’s nothing serious.”
I expected him to fight it. The Alex I’d known the last couple of years had to be dragged kicking and screaming to the doctor, never mind the ER. This Alex just released a breath and gave a subtle nod. Either this was a sign that the man in front of me wasn’t really Alex, or this headache was bad enough to make even Alex think something was wrong. Neither option loosened the knots in my gut.
“Let’s go then,” I said softly. “Can you make it out to the car?”
“Yeah, I think so.” He started to get up but groaned and lay back again.
“I can call an ambulance. That might—”
“No. I can make it. Just . . .” He swallowed. “Just let me lay here for a minute.”
He was right, he made it. By the time he got from the couch to the car, he was near tears from pain, and I wondered a few times if an ambulance was a better idea after all. As he stretched across the backseat, though, it occurred to me that waiting for an ambulance would mean waiting. By the time the paramedics got here, we could have been halfway to the ER. That, and he was in the car now. No sense dragging him back into the house.
No paramedics, then. I turned on the engine and backed out of Alex’s driveway. I drove as fast as I could without jarring him, cringing on his behalf whenever I had to make a turn or slow to a stop.
The whole way to the emergency room, neither of us spoke. Aside from the occasional groan, Alex was completely silent. A few times, I thought he might ask me to pull over so he could puke again, but he didn’t.
In between worrying about him and watching the road, I tried to comprehend this whole situation.
A shifter? Alex? All this time, I’d assumed she was a woman. And she was. A woman and a man. It wasn’t that I’d never known a shifter, or that I assumed every shifter was out in the open about it, but after two years together, I didn’t know?
Part of me wanted to be pissed that she’d lied to me about it. Part of me felt guilty, wondering why she hadn’t thought she could tell me. And the rest of me just didn’t have a fucking clue what to think, what to feel, or what to do. Tonight was simple enough: get him to the emergency room and make sure he was physically okay.
But was he okay emotionally?
Could we be okay?
I shook my head and exhaled. All of that could wait. It had to. I glanced in the rearview, which I’d tilted down slightly. The passing streetlights flickered across him like an old black and white film, illuminating at split second intervals the hand draped over his stomach. The other hand was probably over his eyes, shielding them from the shards of light that threatened to worsen his pain.
I turned my attention back to the road. The headache was worrying in its own right. Alex was prone to the occasional migraine, including one or two that had knocked her on her ass for days. Never like this, though. Coming so close on the heels of some medical procedure with which I wasn’t at all familiar, and putting her—him—in enough pain to warrant going to the ER without a fight, this one scared me.
This whole situation scared me.
Lying on the hard bed in the emergency room, I breathed as slowly and deeply as I could. The lights were off and I was alone, and with every breath, the nausea and headache receded ever so slightly.
This wasn’t a migraine. The pain was similar—a couple of white-hot blades digging in behind my eyes and trying to pry off the top of my skull while a steel band wrapped tighter and tighter around my head—but I’d never experienced anything so intense. Light, noise, movement, everything made it worse. Sitting up? Agony. Standing up? Kill me.
For the moment, at least, everything was still and quiet. The triage nurse had taken me back to a room immediately once Damon told her what was wrong. Thank God. Another minute in the waiting area with all its lights and sounds would have had me on my knees and begging for death.
Meanwhile, Damon had gone to park the car. I cringed, and not from the pain this time. He must have been appalled. Disgusted. I tried to tell myself he’d understand. Eventually, somehow, he’d understand. The fact that he hadn’t turned tail and run after learning the truth said something. Then again, Damon was the type who’d take a stranger to the hospital if he thought they needed help. That didn’t mean he’d stick around once the danger had passed. He could walk away without worrying he’d abandoned me to a life-threatening injury.
Fuck. Why hadn’t I told him? All this time. All those opportunities. Maybe if I’d told him sooner, he’d have been gone sooner. Months ago. A year ago. Long before I’d had a chance to fall for him like I had.
I blew out a breath. Go, me. The queen of making things difficult for myself.
A light tap on the door sent pain ricocheting off the insides of my skull. The door opened, spilling blinding fluorescent light into the room for a few seconds before once again shutting me into darkness.
“Sorry I took so long.” Damon’s voice was soft, and the relief it sent through me would have made me shiver if my body had dared move enough to allow it. “Couldn’t find a place to park.”
“Don’t worry about it.” My own voice echoed painfully inside my head.
“You doing okay?”
“Don’t know yet,” I murmured.
Something rustled softly. “They want you to put this on?”
I didn’t look up. “The hospital gown?”
“Yeah.”
“Probably. And when I can move without wanting to die, I’ll gladly put it on. For now, no.”
He didn’t push the issue. A chair creaked and his jacket whispered as he got comfortable. Neither of us spoke. It was easily one of the most awkward silences that had ever fallen between us. So many questions, so many answers to which he was very much entitled regardless of whether or not I could find the words. The silence soothed my head to a more bearable throb, but it didn’t do much for settling my nerves.
Another knock on the door made me flinch. Then the door opened again, letting in some of the light and sounds from the hallway before clicking shut and restoring the room to a tolerable noise level. Shoes tapped on the hard floor. Paper hissed across paper.
“Mr. Nichols?” The male voice was mercifully quiet.
I licked my dry lips. “Yes?”
“I’m Dr. Erickson,” he said. “I understand you have a severe headache after an intraspinal implant?”
“Severe headache doesn’t quite describe it, but yes.”
“Can you sit up? I’d like to have a look at the implant site.”
I groaned. “Would now be a bad time to mention that sitting up makes it hurt like hell?”
“That doesn’t surprise me if it is what I think it is.” He paused. “Can you shift onto your stomach?”
Shift. Now there was something I’d have been thrilled to do. I nearly rolled my eyes at my own thought. The throbbing in my head suggested that wasn’t such a hot idea, so I concentrated on changing position.
I managed to get partway up, but the room listed violently, and when I grabbed the edge of the gurney for balance, more pain shot up into my skull.
“Easy,” Dr. Erickson said. “Here, I’ll check it as quickly as I can, then you can lie back again. Can you sit up a little more?”
Bracing against the pain, I did as he asked. The room spun and tilted and jerked, and I held my breath as the back of my head threatened to cleave right open. Something clicked. A handheld light, I guessed. I was distantly aware of him peeling away the bandage. There may have been some gentle pressure from his fingers, but the only pressure I was acutely aware of was above my neck and increasing by the second.
God, please, hurry up, pl
ease, please, this hurts so bad I can’t fucking breathe. Please—
“Okay, go ahead and lie down again.” He kept a hand on my shoulder and guided me back onto the gurney. “You all right?”
“Peachy,” I muttered. “That’s why I’m here.”
He patted my arm gently. “Still have your sense of humor, I see.”
I just breathed while the pain receded to a more bearable level.
Dr. Erickson cleared his throat. “Anyway, the incision looks fine. No immediate signs of infection, which is a good thing. As for the pain, you have what’s commonly called a spinal headache. During the insertion procedure, the dura mater around your spinal cord was punctured, and it’s leaking cerebrospinal fluid. The decrease in pressure from the loss of fluid around your brain creates a severe headache.”
My eyes flew open for a split second before a flash from his penlight forced me to close them. “Come again?”
“It’s fairly common after lumbar punctures and spinal anesthesia, and I’ve seen it on occasion with recipients of these implants.”
“Can anything be done about it?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Dr. Erickson said. “There’s a procedure called a blood patch. We’ll take a small amount of your own blood and inject it into the same site. The clot will stop the leak, and the pain should stop shortly after, once the cerebrospinal fluid around your brain returns to its normal pressure.”
On so many levels, that made my skin crawl.
Forcing back a fresh wave of nausea, I said, “It’s not . . . dangerous?”
“The procedure?” he asked. “Or the headache?”
“Either, now that you mention it.”
“No, the blood patch is a very simple procedure, and while the headache is extremely painful, it isn’t life threatening.”
I exhaled. “I swear, I thought it was going to kill me.” Something in my chest sank a little. Jesus, was I disappointed that this thing wouldn’t kill me?
Oblivious to the inner workings of my twisted mind, the doctor went on. “A lot of people feel like they’re going to die with something like this, but you’ll be fine. Once we get that blood patch in place and make sure you’re in the clear as far as infection goes, you’ll recover quickly.”
“What about taking the implant out?” I asked.
“You just had it put in. Once the fluid leak is taken care of, you shouldn’t experience any further discomfort. This is a side effect of the insertion procedure itself, so there’s no need to remove the device.”
“It’s not that. I don’t want it. I want it out.”
He cleared his throat. “Well, it’s not unusual to experience some regret after an elective procedure, but—”
“It wasn’t an elective procedure,” I growled through clenched teeth. “I wasn’t given a choice, and I want. It. Out.”
“You were forced to get the implant?”
“Yes.”
He pulled in a breath. “That could be a problem.”
“How so?”
“If whoever performed it was willing to do so without consent, then there’s a good chance it wasn’t done under sterile conditions. Back alley procedures usually aren’t, so the risk of developing an infection, even if it looks clean at this point, is markedly higher than if it had been performed in a proper surgical environment. That, and there’s a significant possibility the implant is one of the unsafe black market devices.”
Ice water filled my veins. It hadn’t even occurred to me that the implant itself could be dangerous. “So, how do I get it removed?”
“This isn’t my area of expertise, but I can recommend a few neurosurgeons in the area. They’d know better than I would what the procedure involves.” He paused. “Where was the surgery performed?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even remember leaving my parents’ house.”
Fingers tapped on a hard surface, echoing painfully along my nerve endings, but it was Dr. Erickson’s words that made my breath catch. “You may not have left their house.”
“What?”
“There are a few black market, back alley ‘surgeons’ performing these procedures anywhere with a flat surface. I’ve had a few of their patients come in with complications, including what you’re experiencing.” Something made a quiet scratching sound, so I guessed he was writing. “If it was performed without your consent, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it was done under such conditions. With that in mind, I think we’d be wise to admit you overnight.”
“Great,” I muttered.
“It’s just a precaution. There are no signs of a problem at this point, but I’d rather err on the side of caution. And as long as you’re admitted, we can also see if IV analgesics will help with the pain. Then we can get you that blood patch first thing in the morning.”
“How long will I need to stay?”
“Assuming no infection develops or any other complications,” he said, “you’ll most likely be discharged tomorrow afternoon with a prescription for antibiotics.”
“Even after having something put into his spine?” Damon asked.
“The insertion itself is a minor procedure. Alex should be back to normal within twenty-four hours or so.”
“Aside from the part where I can’t shift, right?” I asked dryly.
“Right. Aside from that.” He muffled a cough. “Anyway, I’ll have a nurse come down and take you up to your room. For now, just hang tight in here.”
“Don’t think I’m going anywhere.”
After the doctor left, Damon’s chair squeaked softly. “Your parents seriously drugged you, put this thing in your back, and then dumped you off at home?”
I shrugged in the near-darkness. “I guess. I vaguely remember coming around at my folks’ house. Next thing I knew, I was at home. My mom was still there. She said she was supposed to stay with me for twenty-four hours to make sure I was all right.”
“But she didn’t?”
“I kicked her out.”
“You kicked her out? Alex, what if something had happened while you were alone?”
Another pointless shrug. “Then maybe I’d be dead.”
He didn’t say anything. He’d seen me through a few depressive phases that had me teetering on a suicidal edge, and maybe he thought this could drive me over that edge. Maybe it would.
After a while, he asked, “I just don’t understand why they would do this to you. I mean, if it’s so painful . . .”
“I told you. I’m an abomination. They hate what I am. They’re part of one of those crazy denominations that think shifters, gays, transgendered people—anyone who isn’t heterosexual and static male or female—is hell-bound.”
“What a lovely thing to think about your own child,” he muttered.
“Tell me about it. They’ve spent the last ten years or so trying to save me from myself.” I rubbed my forehead to soothe the relentless throbbing. “Remember how I told you I ran away from home a few times and tried to get my aunt in Los Angeles to let me live with her?”
“Yeah.”
“This is why.” I swallowed. “She’s the most devout Catholic you’d ever know, has a picture of the Pope in three different rooms, but she’s never said an ill word about ‘my kind.’ As far as she’s concerned, God doesn’t make mistakes.”
“And your parents’ sect believes differently?”
“Quite. They believe this was caused by sin. It’s not God’s mistake, it’s ours. Or some bullshit like that.” I scowled into the darkness. “On the bright side, at least they were considerate enough to do it on a Friday. Mom wanted to make sure I was recovered enough to go back to work on Monday.”
“You really think you’ll be up for that?”
“I have to eat.”
“You have sick time.”
“Which I should probably save up until I know how long I’ll be down after getting the stupid thing out.”
“True,” he said quietly.
Silence fell. Fortunately, it didn’t last l
ong because a nurse came in to take me up to my room.
Though I kept my eyes closed the entire way out of the emergency room and up to the other floor, the trip was anything but pleasant. Worse than the drive in. Every sound—and, Christ, there were plenty of them—made the pain worse. Clattering wheels, beeping monitors, ringing phones, slamming file drawers, voices talking over voices. Quieter sounds I never would have noticed before added to the unbearable cacophony: clicking pens, shuffling papers, scraping chair legs, crinkling wrappers, rattling pill bottles. Fuck, I was in hell.
At some point, the noise faded. Then a door closed with a heavy thud and cut off every sound except the gurney’s rattling and squeaking. A moment later, that too stopped. Something clicked, and a steady, quiet beep penetrated the stillness.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
On and on, while the nurse adjusted this or that machine, hooked me up to God only knew what, the beeping persisted.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
So this is what Chinese water torture feels like.
I took a few long, deep breaths to settle my stomach, and the headache slowly receded to something a little closer to tolerable.
“Alex?” A high female voice met my ear like the sharp end of an ice pick. “I just need to—” She stopped abruptly. Damon said something I couldn’t hear. Then, almost whispering, the nurse said, “Oh, sorry, hon. Listen, I just need to hook up an IV and go over a few things with you about the blood patch procedure.”
I nodded.
“Is there any way we could turn the lights down?” Damon asked softly. “I think he’s still sensitive to light.”
“Sure, sure, let me take care of that,” the woman said. Footsteps tapped on the floor. Something clicked. Then her footsteps returned. “Is that better?”
Cautiously, I opened my eyes. The room was dim. Not dark, but not excruciatingly bright. It was long past nightfall, so no blinding beams of sunlight poured in through the windows.
“Does that help?” she asked.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Beep. Beep. Beep.
“I don’t suppose there’s any way to turn that off?” I asked.
“What?” she said. “The monitor?”