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I hate hospitals. Yeah, I know that they're necessary and all, but I still hate 'em. I hate these butt numbing hard plastic seats and I hate the ugly-as-sin linoleum that I've been staring at for the last two hours. I even hate the shade of green paint they've got on the walls in the waiting room. Somebody probably told hospital administration that it was "soothing mint" or "ocean mist" or some shit, but it's not. Trust me on this one.
People at the PD think I hate hospitals because I'm so into alternative remedies that I don't believe in western medicine any more. They're wrong. Sure, I'm open to alternatives, because I understand that plants and herbs are the foundation of all medicines, modern or otherwise. Sometimes it's better to go to the source, the natural version, than put that synthesized crap in your body. At least, that's how I see it.
Doesn't mean that I dismiss modern medicine as wrong or irrelevant. Far from it. I'm thankful that there's a competent surgeon in there right now to extract that bullet from Jim's shoulder. And I'm relieved that we've found a doctor who's open to finding medicines that actually work for Jim and don't mess up his senses too badly. I just hate that it's necessary in the first place.
Most of all, I hate waiting for the friggin' doctor to come tell us that Jim came through the surgery just fine and everything will be okay. I already know that that's gonna be the verdict; nothing else is acceptable in my book. I've been here too many times in the last nine months not to be familiar with the way things work. I hate that, too. I hate being so familiar with hospital rules that I know that Jim will be in recovery for awhile and that they won't let me see him until he's been moved to his room. I really hate the thought that Jim might wake up alone in the hospital, senses out of whack, when I could be there for him.
The double doors that lead back to the surgical rooms whoosh open softly and I look up from my perusal of the linoleum. Jim's doctor sweeps the surgical cap off his head and nods at me as I rise from my chair.
"He's going to be fine, Blair."
My knees wobble a bit, but I lock them together and stay on my feet. "Thank you." I'm surprised that I manage to get the words out past the sudden lump in my throat.
His smile is genuine, if tired. "I know it's against hospital policy, but I thought you might like to sit with him in recovery. I happen to believe that rules are made to be broken and I've seen how having you nearby seems to help him. How's that sound?"
"Sounds great to me, Doc." I feel a warm hand clasp my shoulder and I glance up to see Simon's relieved expression.
"Go on back to Jim. I'll get all the details on the surgery." Simon squeezes my shoulder and then drops his hand and turns his attention to the doctor.
I don't need to hear that offer again. I've been in the recovery room a time or two myself in the last nine months, so I have no problem finding it. Jim's the only patient there at the moment and I pull up a chair next to his bed. I reach out and lightly clasp his wrist, wanting that reassuring contact. His face is a bit pale and he's far too still for my liking, but he's gonna be okay.
I still hate hospitals, but I'm more grateful than I can say that they exist.