III. Confronting Reality
Darren rose to consciousness aware of the numbing pain in his left leg and in his head. His eyes fluttered open and were greeted by swirling lights and green garbed figures surrounding his prone form.
"Mr. Jansen?. . . . . Mr. Jansen, I'm Dr. Stenberg. . . . . You've had an accident. . . . . You're in the hospital. . . . . Do you remember what happened?"
Images and movement began to flood his brain along with the substantial pain. He tried to sit up. He was gently restrained. The concerned face nearest his repeated, "Do you remember what happened?"
Vaguely he saw the building and the toppling scaffold. His dry mouth formed, "The scaffold. . . . . falling. . . . ." Pain shot through his body, he winced and gasped. His body twisted as if to avoid the agony.
"Take it easy. . . . . we're going to give you something for the pain," the doctor said. He felt an injection and within seconds, merciful dullness.
He was aware of probing hands, his clothes being stripped, or rather cut from his body and a cool sensation as his head was cleansed of the blood and dirt. He was also aware of voices, some insistent other matter-of-fact in tenor.
After many minutes, "Mr. Jansen." He opened his eyes and slowly focused on Dr. Stenberg's face. "Mr. Jansen, we're sending you to x-ray. . . . . I'll see you gain in about twenty minutes. . . ."
Darren merely nodded. He could feel himself being lifted onto another surface and then wheeled, quickly away. He was suspended in a miasma of dulled sensations. . . . somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. He was aware of the x-ray machine, the minutes spent under this sci-fi looking machine, the lead shield laid over his groin and then being wheeled out of the room.
Some time later, he didn't know how long, he felt a hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him.
"Mr. Jansen." It was Dr. Stenberg.
He opened his eyes slowly. "Hi," Darren replied, thickly.
"How are you feeling now?" he asked.
"Not so good."
"Mr. Jansen. . . . . are you married?. . . . . or. . . . . do you have family here. . . . . in the Twin Cities?"
Darren focused on the question. It's apparent implication shocked his analytical brain into a relatively lucid state.
"Why?. . . . . Am I going to die?" he asked as clearly as he could.
"No. No, you're not going to die. . . . . But, you've sustained a serious injury. . . . . A nasty contusion to your head and a concussion. . . . . Your left leg has sustained a crushing injury. The femur is fractured. . . . . the tibia and fibula have sustained multiple fractures. . . . . There is muscle damage and we suspect nerve damage as well in the lower leg. . . . ."
He understood everything the doctor was saying, and asked, "Are you saying that you're going to amputate?"
"No, I didn't say that. It's serious, quite serious. I've called in an orthopedic surgeon," and then as an afterthought, "A bone specialist. . ."
"I know what an orthopedic surgeon is. . . . doctor," Darren said a bit annoyed at being patronized, or so he thought.
"Yes, I'm sorry. Is there anyone we can call for you."
Darren , quite naturally was in a state of mild shock. He thought and said carefully, "You can contact Justine Bradley. . . . . she's in the phone book."
"She's a friend?"
"Yes, a friend," Darren whispered, annoyed, "My fiancé."
An hour later, still groggy from the sedative, Darren heard someone come into his cubicle. He opened his eyes and focused on the concerned face of Justine.
"Darren. . . ."
"Hi. . . ."
"I came as quickly as I could," she uttered, breathlessly, and then added, "How do you feel?"
"Awful," he stated matter of fact manner.
She bent over him and placed a light kiss on his cheek. At that moment, Dr. Stenberg entered the cubicle followed by a rather mature woman in a white coat.
"Mr. Jansen, this is Dr. Soderberg. She'd like to look at your leg," he declared, then glanced at Justine and said, "You must be Mr. Jansen's fiancé."
"Yes, I'm Dr. Jansen's fiancé," she corrected, arching an eyebrow and added, "Justine Bradley." Justine was a stickler for 'correctness. '
Darren had received his Ph. D., two years before after spending six years in Boston in the process. He had gone directly into a doctoral program after obtaining his Master's from Wisconsin. His research was on the cutting edge and Darren had had several articles published in prestigious journals. He also had read two papers at major conferences during his preparation.
Dr. Stenberg, suitably rebuked, nodded his head slightly and quietly asked, "Ms. Bradley, would you mind stepping out for a few minutes? Dr. Soderberg would like to examine Dr. Jansen." He then added, politely, "There's a comfortable waiting room to the right where you can get a cup of coffee. . . . . It will be a few minutes."
Justine gently placed her hand on Darren's and lightly squeezed it, saying, "I'll be back darling." She quickly left the cubicle.
Dr. Jane Soderberg came to the edge of the gurney upon which he rested, "Dr. Jansen, I'm Dr. Soderberg," she stated quietly, paused as if trying to remember something. "Are you the Jansen who wrote the article on the "Fragile 'X?'"
"Yes," he said simply.
"Very interesting," came her impressed reply. Then clinically, "I'd like to examine your leg. It may be a bit uncomfortable in the process," she stated. She threw back the sheet that had covered his injured leg and carefully began to examine and probe the mass of flesh and bones. Darren tried to steel himself. Once or twice the discomfort was more than he could bear and he groaned, deeply.
"Sorry." she replied each time.
After a few minutes, she replaced the sheet, went to the sink, stripped the rubber gloves, washed her hands carefully dried them and returned to where Darren could easily see her.
"I must be perfectly honest, Dr. Jansen," she began quietly and seriously, "you have sustained a massive injury to your left leg. The femur is fractured, but that doesn't concern me. It's the lower leg that's a problem. I've examined the x-rays, and quite frankly, it doesn't look good," she stated in a clinical manner. "There's extensive tissue damage and multiple fractures. There appears to be some nerve and vascular involvement which may jeopardize. . . . the. . . . . retention of your lower leg. . . . . I emphasize 'may. ' I won't know until I can get in and then make a final, on-the-spot evaluation." She paused, "Dr. Jansen, I must be frank. . . . you might loose part or all of your lower left leg. . . . . ."
She stopped, gazed at him in an evaluative manner and added, "Do you understand me?"
"Yes," he stated as clearly as he could. "It's not what I wanted to hear. . . ."
"Nor what I wanted, either," came her solicitous reply. Her face was gentle, understanding as she delivered these grave words. "Of course, you may ask for a second opinion, But, frankly, I am positive that the diagnosis will be the same." Then she quickly added, "Whatever decision you make, should be made quickly. I don't mean to pressure you, but if there is any chance to save the leg, we must act quickly."
"I understand. . . ." he muttered, "A second opinion won't be necessary."
"Fine then, "she said as she patted his hand lightly, understanding the momentous decision in which they were involved. "I'll see you later."
Glancing over to Dr. Stenberg on the opposite side of the gurney, she stated, "He'll need to sign the appropriate papers and prepped immediately." Dr. Stenberg nodded. She turned and left the cubicle.
A number of hours later Darren slowly rose to consciousness, sluggishly as if from a dark, bad dream, a dream from which he could not shake off the dark miasma of foreboding. With the considerable will that he possessed, he forced his eyes open. Pastel forms swirled unconnected, out-of-focus, before him, some vaguely recognizable others not. Slowly, ever so slowly he willed these objects to come into focus. As they did, Darren also became aware of the low-level sounds that accompanied the washed-out forms. Strange, unrecognizable odors permeated his post-dream state and he suddenly became aware of an itching feeling on the sole of his left foot.
"Mr. Jansen. . . Mr. Jansen, how are you feeling?"
"Okay," he mumbled, "Alive. . . . . I think."
"Good. . . . I'm Mrs. Anderson, the recovery room nurse. You'll be in here a short time, then we'll transfer you to your room." Then she added quietly, "I'm going to ask you to cough, please."
"What?" he asked. "I don't need to cough!"
"This is stupid," he said to himself.
"Please, try to cough, it helps clear your lungs. . . ."
He coughed lightly.
"Again, please."
He coughed again, and then added, "I'm thirsty."
"Sorry, Mr. Jansen, we can't give you anything to drink just yet."
"But, I'm thirsty!" he insisted.
"They can give you a sip when you get to your room."
"My foot itches, my left foot itches. . . . ."
She smiled weakly and left his side. He fell asleep, still under the influence of the retreating anesthetic. He drifted in an out of sleep, being aware of the constant ministering--blood pressure reading, the checking of his pulse, breathing, etc.
He was transferred to his room. He remembered Justine's tear stained face. . . a sip of lukewarm water. . . and more, fitful sleep.
An hour after he had been transferred to his room he awoke as Drs. Stenberg and Soderberg entered his room. Justine was not there.
"Dr. Jansen, how are you feeling," Dr. Soderberg asked quietly.
"Okay, I guess," he answered groggily, "thirsty, sleepy and my foot won't stop itching."
"I see," she answered.
"How was the surgery?" Darren asked.
"The surgery went well," she answered, softly and slowly.
"That's not what I meant."
"I know," she acknowledged, knowingly. She took a breath and carefully began to speak, "Dr. Jansen, I'm afraid that the injury was too extensive. . . . I wasn't able to save your leg. . . . I had to remove all but ten centimeters of your lower leg. . . ." She observed him and waited 'til the full implication of her statement had registered on Darren's brain.
He gazed intently at her.
"Was this a dream?" he screamed to himself. "Is she joking?" he speculated silently. "Is this. . . . . some. . . . . obscene joke?" stumbled, audibly from his throat.
"I'm sorry I did. . . we did every thing that was humanly possible. . . . but. . . . we couldn't save the whole leg."
He weighed what she said. The implications were too monumental.
"Christ!" he blurted and turned away from her.
"I know how you feel. . . ." she started.
His head snapped back. His eyes flashed, his face was drawn tight.
"How in God's name could you know how. . . I. . . feel?" he blurted out from his grogginess with the rapidity of a machine gun. . . . punctuating the last three words.
"Well. . . of course I don't. . ." she began to admit, somewhat stunned by his reaction, then stopped to reconsider her response. "You have been through a serious trauma. You've lost part of your leg."
Darren took a deep breath as if to verbally assail her logic, "You. . . ."
"Dr. Jansen!" she snapped rather firmly, "Please let me finish!"
He was cut off in mid sentence. He closed his mouth as he continued to glare at her.
"Little of what I say will be of any solace to you right now. Hundreds, no, thousands have found themselves in a similar situation. You were not lucky. . ."
He snorted.
". . . But luckier than many. You are not paralyzed. Your right leg is unaffected. Your left leg will be functional. . . to a point. There is enough of your lower leg to allow for a good, functional prosthetic appliance that should allow you near normal mobility."
"Sure! Thanks. I'll take up tap dancing!" and he again turned away.
The two doctors glanced at each other. His reaction was not abnormal, albeit more vehement than most. They had said all that they could. . . at this point.
"Dr. Jansen," Dr. Stenberg began, "I'll be in tomorrow and so will Dr. Soderberg."
No response.
Then he added, "You try to get some rest now."
No response.
"We'll see you tomorrow."
No response. The two doctors quietly left the room.
Stenberg turned to his colleague and flatly stated, "I think he may be a difficult patient." Dr. Soderberg nodded her agreement.
The next day Justine slipped into his room. She was impeccably, beautifully dressed, as she always was.
Darren had chided her once, saying, "If you slipped into a mud hole, you'd come out looking like a 'Vogue' photograph."
Half in jest, half in truth, she had answered, "Darling, I would never 'slip!'"
Justine Bradley was very attractive, not classically beautiful, but very, very attractive. Tall and willowy, she carried herself with unstudied elegance. She wore little make-up, just enough to accentuate her beautiful eyes and sensuous mouth. Her hair fell in loose, golden waves to her shoulders, always looking natural even when wind blown. Above all, she was correct!
Justine's family background was not unlike Darren's, except possibly that her family was even less advantaged--economically. Her emotional relationship with her family, however, was unlike Darren's in that it was strained, flawed. At a young age she had promised herself that she would raise above the squalor that she perceived about her.
Like Darren, Justine was intelligent and received a scholarship at La Crosse State College where she majored in Marketing. She obtained a position after graduation with Dayton's, a major department store in Minneapolis and quickly worked her way up to be a buyer and then manager for its prestigious, high-end, exclusive 'Oval Room. '
Justine and Darren had met two years before, right after he had moved to the Twin Cities. He was immediately enamored with her elegance and wit. He would, from time to time, become annoyed with her passion, her need to be 'correct. ' It was only in bed that she 'let her hair down,' and there her passion, her desire met Darren's. They began to date regularly and little by little Darren had realized that he was falling in love with her. They were engaged two months before the accident, but had not set a date for the wedding.
He was sleeping when she entered. She sat quietly beside his bed. Her hands were folded, white knuckled in her lap. Her face was drawn taunt. Her normally sparkling blue eyes were dull as she gazed at Darren's sleeping face, and then down to the tented area below which his mutilated leg lay. A tear formed and she quickly dabbed it away and willed no more.
Darren stirred. She glanced up to his face, slack with sedation and then up more to the dripping, 'I-V' bottle with its long plastic tube which transported the strong pain suppressant to his arm. His eyes fluttered open. He forced himself to focus.
"Hi," came thickly from his lips.
"Hello, darling," she answered, placing her hand hesitantly on his.
"I'm thirsty. . . . can you give me some water," he asked, nodding to the glass with its drinking straw on the bed-side table.
She held the glass and uncomfortably positioned the straw so that he could sip from it.
"Thanks. . . ." he said weakly.
"How do you feel?" she didn't know what else to ask.
"Okay, I guess," then he added, "Tired. . . . . sore. . . . . fuzzy." His eyes filled with tears.
Justine turned away. At that moment a nurse entered Darren's room.
"The doctor will be right in," she announced.
"I'll wait outside," Justine breathed, somewhat relieved, rose, planted a perfunctory kiss on his cheek and left. She met Dr. Soderberg in the hall. "You're Dr. Soderberg, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"How's Darren. . . . . Dr. Jansen," she corrected herself, ". . . . . going to be?"
Dr. Soderberg studied Justine's face a brief moment and then answered, "He should be fine. . . in time. The surgery went well, but the loss of a limb is traumatic. He'll need physiotherapy and after six months or so he can be fitted for a prostheses. . . ." She paused, continued to read Justine's face, Justine's impassive face and thought, "What a cool bitch!."
Then she continued, "A prostheses. . . . . an artificial limb. It should create no real problem. Dr. Jansen's healthy, young and he should be able to adapt."
"I see," replied Justine coolly.
"The only real problem could be emotional. It's not easy losing part of your body. . . . . Sometimes therapy, group therapy is necessary. . . ."
"I see," Justine replied again, then continued, "Dr. Soderberg, thank you," and added, "would you please tell Dr. Jansen, that I have to leave. I have an important meeting this morning, an I'm already a trifle late."
"Of course," came the answer.
Even with the strongest, there are vulnerable islands, areas of the psyche when assaulted or exposed become susceptible to collapse or disintegration, reactions that may be difficult to understand. Darren Jansen, was usually a relatively content, intelligent, well rounded person. One might even say comparatively well adjusted.
But, after he had read the note that came with Justine's flowers that afternoon, he appeared to the staff and the doctors to inexplicably slipped into a depression that could only be described as profoundly black. He ate, he drank, he responded in monosyllables, he eliminated--little else. It seemed that he had lost the will to recover, to deal logically with what had happened to him. Darren appeared to be borderline catatonic.
When his parents visited him the next day, they were devastated, not at what they saw--a severely injured son--but by what they didn't see. Other than physical resemblance, he did not act or react like the son that they had known these thirty-two years. He acknowledged them, little else, as he stared blankly into space.
That evening, Dr. Soderberg asked the head, station nurse, "Has Mr. Jansen's fiancé been in today?"
The nurse shook her head.
"The bitch!" Dr. Soderberg said under her breath.
Four days after the surgery, Darren's physical body was healing, as would normally be expected. The 'I-V' pain suppressant was discontinued, replaced by oral capsules every four hours. But Darren's 'depression' continued, unabated.
That afternoon, Doctors Stenberg and Soderberg talked to Darren's mother who had stayed behind while her husband returned to his job.
"Mrs. Jansen," Dr. Soderberg began, "We are quite satisfied with your son's physical progress. However, quite frankly, his mental, his emotional state gives us great concern."
"I know. He's never been like this. . . ." his mother blurted, and tears welled up in her eyes. "Never."
"He's been through a substantial trauma, the concussion, although not severe, coupled with the loss of a limb might be expected to trigger his condition."
Darren's mother nodded her understanding.
"But I must say," she continued, "I do not believe that the physical trauma is all together responsible for his condition." She hesitated briefly and then continued, "Ms. Bradley has not been in to see him since the morning after the surgery. . . . ."
"I know, I don't understand," came the plaintive reply. "I've tried to call her, but she hasn't returned my calls."
"I see. . . . . Has Darren said anything about her to you?"
"No, nothing."
After a brief period of concentration, the doctor continued, "Mrs. Jansen, Dr. Stenberg and I feel that we should call in a specialist. . . . immediately."
"Specialist?" Darren's mother queried.
"A psychologist, a grief therapist. . . . They are often employed. . . . but. . . . generally we like to wait a bit longer. . . . . . However, in your son's case. . . . . we think it would be beneficial to have one visit him as soon as possible."
"What ever you think, doctor," she replied quietly, then added, "I can only stay a couple more days. . . . . Will my leaving be a problem?"
"No," she replied softly with a smile, "your presence has already been very important, beneficial to Darren. He'll understand."
The psychologist, Dr. Barbra Lewin, had seen Darren every day. Progress was extremely slow.
"He's a tough nut!" she had said. "It may take some time, Jane," she added to her colleague, and friend.
Dr. Soderberg knitted her brows in concern. "Under these conditions, sometimes these bright ones are more difficult," she observed.
Dr. Lewin nodded in assent. She considered her options. "Well, we'll see. I hope that we won't have to be too aggressive," she declared.
Since the fifth day after the surgery Darren had been wheeled to the 'tub room' by George Nolan, the head orderly of the hospital and the one who had been assigned to the surgery floor. George had carefully helped Darren lower his hundred-eighty pound bulk into the warm soothing tub.
"Here's a wash cloth and soap," he said cheerily the first time, then added, "I'll be back in ten minutes."
When George returned, Darren appeared to have moved little. The wash cloth and soap had not been touched.
"Here, let me help you," George had said as he began to wash his placid charge. Stopping short of his genitals, he asked, "Do you want to finish yourself?"
Darren merely glanced blankly at George, but did not move.
"Okay," George breathed as he washed Darren's substantial cock and balls, under the water. The texture of the terry-cloth wash rag as it moved across his dick and ball-sack sent a tingle through Darren. Imperceptibly his cock swelled slightly and lengthened a bit. The reaction did not go unnoticed.
Ten days after the surgery, the dressings that had protected the remaining portion of his left leg was removed.
"You'll began physiotherapy this morning, and this afternoon you'll go to physical therapy," he had been told.
Later George burst into his room, enthusiastically. "Good morning, Darren," George said informally. Ever since their first meeting George called him by his first name--as he did with all the patients. "Time for your bath. . . . . Gotta get you looking handsome for your physiotherapy," he chattered.
George was one of those people who did not stand on tradition. He treated each and everyone with unabashed familiarity, a familiarity which seemed to put everyone he met at ease. He was six-two, lanky, but not thin; pleasant, even a handsome face; brilliant, wide smile with beautiful eyes that flashed against his dark brown, mahogany colored skin. He rolled the wheel chair to the edge of the bed.
"Come on, Darren. . . . help me," he pleaded as he strained to bring Darren to a sitting position. For the first time since Darren strained to sit up, pushed with his hands. He found himself incredibly weak.
"That's it. . . . !" George said, "you can do it." There was an excitement in George's voice. An excitement at seeing his charge, for the first time try to take the initiative. "I knew you could do it," he continued, his infectious reply brought a slight smile to Darren's face.
"A smile?. . . . . Do I see a smile?" he bubbled.
Darren's face sank back into an emotionless mask.
In the tub-room, George removed Darren's robe and gown and said, "Swing your leg into the tub." Darren sat motionless. "Come on Darren, I can't do all the work. . . ." then said brightly, "Get your tired ass in gear and help me."
Slowly Darren tried to swing his leg over the edge of the tub. He had never been aware of how heavy his leg was. His heel caught the edge of the tub and could raise it no higher.
"Here, let me help," George said as he lifted and guided the leg over the edge. "Pretty weak, huh. . ." he stated. "Now come on, give me a hand," he said as he placed his hands around Darren's chest to lift his torso into the water. Darren complied as much as his body was able. Ten days of inactivity plus the effects of general anesthesia had weakened him considerably.
"Here's a wash cloth and soap," he said cheerily as he had every day. "I'll be back in ten minutes."
George went to the nurse's station. "Guess what?" he said to the charge nurse, "Darren tried to sit up when I took him to the tub-room and he helped me as I lifted him into the tub."
The nurse arched her eyebrow. "Really?" and added, "It's about time." She reached for Darren's chart and noted George's remarks.
"And besides, I think he smiled a little"
The nurse glanced up and said, "Are you sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure."
When George returned, Darren had moved little, his head rested against the back of the tub he seemed to be dozing. The wash cloth and soap had not been touched as they had not been since the beginning of this ritual.
"Not washed yet?" he asked, then chided him saying, "I thought you had decided to join the living again." Then he continued, with a snort, "But, I guess you like the way I wash you. . . . ."
Darren merely looked at George. George thought he observed the beginning of a smile. . . surely the eyes seemed more alive. He knelt beside the tub and began to wash Darren.
"Do you want to finish yourself?" he asked as he always had. Darren made no motion, but gazed into George's eyes. "Okay," George sighed, "I guess I'm the lucky one. . . . ." He soaped the terry-cloth and began to wash Darren's cock and balls. He spent a little longer than usual, was a little more active than usual cleansing that flaccid tube. George quickly became aware of a swelling and lengthening beneath the cloth. More than before, much more.
George glanced into Darren's eyes. They were not as blank as before.
"He's gettin a hard-on," George said to himself. He allowed the cloth to slip away and encircled that swelling cock with his fingers. He squeezed that burgeoning rod, lightly and it answered with a jerk. He looked down at that cock which he had admired since the first time he had seen it. Then he turned to face Darren. Darren's was smiling, ever so slightly.
George's face broke into a broad, beaming smile. He dropped the hard cock and said, "You've got to be in physiotherapy in ten minutes." Darren's face clouded. George saw the reaction and laughed brightly and knowingly.
Late, that afternoon after his first, exhausting session in physical therapy, George wheeled Darren back down to his room.
"I bet you're tired," George said, "It's been a long day for you," he continued and strained as he lifted Darren up, onto the bed. He did not see Darren nod his assent.
"I bet you'd like a good back-rub?"
Darren nodded his head.
George cocked his head and smiled broadly in mock surprise at Darren's action. "Roll over then."
Darren did, with a little hesitation. It was difficult for him.
"See, I knew you weren't helpless," George stated as he parted the gown, dribbled lotion on his back and began to knead Darren's muscular back. Minutes later he pulled the sheet down to the bottom of the bed and poured some lotion on Darren's right leg. His half-left-leg was exposed and Darren tensed slightly at the realization and embarrassment.
"Am I too rough?" George asked, not realizing the reason for the reaction, but glancing at the reddened, freshly scarred stump.
Darren shook his head and forced himself to relax. George began to massage the calf and then moved up to the thigh. The sensations triggered a visual, a sensual relict which flashed into Darren's mind. A relict of Pete Anderson. His cock which was laying beneath his balls, pointing toward the foot of the bed, began to react. It started to swell and lengthen. It spasmed once, twice as it lengthened even more.
This movement, this motion, this change did not go unnoticed to George. He smiled knowingly and patted Darren's bare ass as he said, "Okay, roll over." Darren did not move, could not move. He had a raging hard-on by now and even with the familiarity in the tub-room, Darren was embarrassed.
"Come on, Darren," he insisted, "roll your tired ass over!" George reached over Darren's half nude form, inserted his hands under his torso and forced him on his back. Darren's cock whipped up, sky-ward, standing pole-like, hard and stiff.
"My, my. . . . what do we have here?" George asked mockingly.
Darren weakly tried to cover his upstanding cock, but George easily restrained him. "Relax, I've seen these before. . . ." and added, "although, not all as big as this one. . . . Damn!"
Saying that he quickly encircled Darren's swollen cock-head with his lotioned hand and ran it down the whole length from it's reddish-lavender head to its hairy base.
Darren groaned lightly. As he felt his cock being expertly manipulated. Slowly George's warm hand slid up and down his stiff shaft. The feeling was wonderful, phenomenal, filling him with sensations and warmth quickly remembered. Within a very short time George could sense Darren's whole body tensing. Darren gasped, his hand-held cock swelled even more and then copious amounts of pearly cum shot forth, jetted out, arched high in the air and splattered against his chest, gown and sheet. Four. . . . . five. . . . . six times his lustral cum exploded from that spasming slit. Then stopped and Darren's whole being relaxed in natural satiation.
"Wow, what a load," George stated admiringly. "I'll have to change your gown and sheet. . . . They're soaked with cum."
After George had cleaned Darren, changed his soiled hospital-gown and sheet, he laid his hand on Darren's chest and said, "See you tomorrow." He turned to leave the room.
"Thanks," came the weak reply from Darren mouth.
George turned, wide eyed. "He can talk!. . . . . the dummy can talk!"
Darren merely smiled, a real smile, not a big smile, but a smile, nonetheless.
"If I had known this was the medicine you needed I'd have done it days ago," then solicitously added, "You sleep Darren. . . . you need to get better."
Darren nodded. George turned and left the room, whistling softly.
"I don't think I'll report this to the head nurse," he smiled to himself.
From that point on, Darren's recovery bordered on the phenomenal. Or, at least that's what the hospital staff thought. The nurses, psychologist and doctors marveled, "The body is a wonderful organism," they said, clinically. "It heals itself at its own pace, in its own time." This is true. But, no one knew. . . knew what, not to mention who, generated this marvelous recovery. . . who, what or how Darren's recovery was initiated remained a mystery. That is not to say that this type of "therapy" has any real validity. . . . certainly not for all. But for Darren, it was right, it was the trigger, the fuse that caused him, helped him to confront reality again.
Darren worked hard for the next week in physical therapy. He quickly mastered the crutches that assured some semblance of mobility. He learned how to dress himself, how to balance on one leg, haltingly, and he learned how to get in and out of a tub, although at home he preferred a shower. He began exercising the half-leg although the stump was still excruciatingly tender. He was told, in time it would become less sensitive and toughen up. He was given an ointment to massage the scarred, reddened stump. Although at first he was loath to look at it, much less touch it.
His parents visited him, regularly on the weekends, heartened at his recovery. They suggested that he return home for his convalescence. He condescended that he would for a few days only, but needed to learn to function on his own.
He was sitting on a chair in his room, with his mother, fully dressed when George came through the door pushing a wheel chair.
"Hi Darren, what's up?" he asked cheerily and gave Darren a little wink.
"Not much," was the answer followed by a little smile.
"Hi, Mrs. Jansen, ready to take your little boy home," he said, turning to Darren's mother.
"We sure are," was her answer.
Darren returned to work four weeks after the accident, although his superior stated that he could take more time, if he wanted. Dr. Soderberg said that he should not push too hard. The truth was Darren was becoming weary with the inactivity of convalescence.
He had quickly mastered the use of the crutches. As a matter of fact, the physical therapist was startled when Darren discarded the right crutch.
"I'm only missing one leg, not two," he said in the process.
He returned to the hospital twice a week for physical therapy. Several times he saw his nurses and George Nolan. The latter would chat briefly with Darren, inquiring about his progress, his work and his health.
Three weeks after Darren had returned to work, he stopped by at 'Ashbee's,' a corner bar near where he lived. It had been a tiring day. . . . no, it had been a shitty day! One of those days which happen from time to time--a day in which nothing goes right. It all began when when he dropped a rack of sterile test-tubes. The noise filled the lab.
"Damn!" exploded from his mouth.
"Are you all right, Dr. Jansen," asked his lab assistant as she quickly came to his aid.
"Yeah, I'm okay, Janice," he said, "Just too clumsy, I guess."
She stooped down to retrieve the rack and began to pick up the broken glass. She had been quite solicitous, almost protective of him after he had returned. Too much so, for Darren's liking. But, she had good intentions.
"Leave that, Janice," he ordered softly, "I'll get Alan to sweep it up."
Then one of the experiments, one of his ideas, came to a dead end, abruptly. He had not calculated properly. It was one of those days.
He was sitting at the bar slowly sipping a beer and trying to recount where he had gone wrong in his calculations.
Darren was suddenly brought back by a resonant voice close to his right ear, "Can I have this dance?"
He turned to see George's bright smile. "What are you doing here?" he asked.
"Oh, I stop in sometimes on my way home," came the reply, then the addenda, "I live about a block from here. . . . and. . . . what are you doing here, may I ask?" and then, turning to the bartender, he asked, "Ollie, can I have a draft?"
"I needed a beer too. . . . had a crappy day. . ." and then he too added, "I live just down the block."
"Do you come here often?"
"No, not really. . . ."
"A bad day, huh. Have you had many?"
"No. . . . No more than usual."
"Drink much?"
"No."
"Well, you shouldn't drink too much. . . . Like drinking and driving, alcohol affects those," he said nodding to Darren's crutch leaning against the bar and smiled.
Darren realized he was being 'grilled. ' He was mildly annoyed.
"George, I'm all right. I can take care of myself," then he added, suspiciously and emphatically, "Did you follow me here?"
"No man," came the reply, "I told you I come here from time to time on my way home from work."
"Kind of late, isn't it? I thought your shift was over at 4:30."
"It is, but the evening shift was short today and they asked me to fill in 'til after dinner was served."
"Oh, I see," came the mollified reply, and then, "You live near here?"
"Yeah, about a block from here, I told you."
They chatted a while--about just things. Then George asked, concerned, "How's it really going?"
Darren hesitated, then answered, "Okay, I guess. There are bad days, dark days. I get mad easy. . . . but not as much as before." He paused. "Some times I wake up in the middle of the night for nothing. . . . . and sometimes it feels like my left foot is itching." He stopped.
George nodding in understanding, "That happens a lot. . . . your reactions are pretty normal," he admitted.
Darren gazed at George and said quietly, "Were you sent here. . . . to check up. . . . on me?"
"No, Maannn. . . I told you. . . . I. . ."
"Sorry," Darren said, and as if to emphasize his apology, placed his hand on George's forearm. "I guess I've gotten a little paranoid. . ."
"That's okay. . . . . I understand."
Darren finished his beer, set the pilsner down and said, "I've got to get home and get myself something to eat." Then, as an afterthought, "Have you eaten?"
"No, not yet."
"Then come on over, I'll fix you something to eat. I whip up a mean pasta. . . . do you like pasta?"
"Yeah, sure," came the surprised answer, then, brightening with a touch of sarcasm, "Can you cook. . . ." and ended with, "Dr. Jansen?"
"Of course I can, pretty damned good too. . . . And, what's with the Dr. Jansen crap? You've always used my first name."
"Yeah, well that's when you were a patient. . . . You're not now."
"It's Darren, George, Okay?"
"Okay."
"Good, let's go then," he said as he grabbed his crutch, swung off the stool and went to the door. George followed.