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Wilbur’s been feeling especially bad the last few days. He always feels bad- that’s just life, with spina bifida- but he’s exhausted, his head hurts, he feels kind of sick but he hasn’t puked or anything.
…it’s probably fine. He probably just isn’t fully over the last surgery yet. He had another one just three weeks ago, and he’s home now, but usually he feels better than this by the time they send him home.
He tries to transfer from his chair to the couch, something he’s done at least a hundred times. His arms shake, and he can feel his hip slip out of its socket as he moves.
Wilbur collapses back into his wheelchair with a sob. “M-Mom,” he calls, voice cracking. “Mom-”
It hurts, it hurts so bad. Wilbur grabs his hip, breaths hitching, fighting back the tears. He can’t- he can’t-
“Wil?” Kristin hurries in, kneeling beside him. “What’s wrong?”
“M-my hip,” he whimpers. “Dislocated-”
“Oh, baby, I’m sorry.” She sighs, gently moving his hands to brace his hip herself. “How bad is it?”
“J-jus’ hurts,” he whimpers. Tears run down his face.
“Okay. Okay, can you sit here for a minute, while I get your hospital bag and call Dad?”
Wilbur nods, chest hitching with a sob. His mom grabs a couple of pillows off the pile, slipping them in to help steady his hip. She pauses before moving away, cupping his face.
“I’m sorry, I know it must be frustrating to be going back to the hospital so soon.”
Wilbur doesn’t complain. He never complains, because he knows he needs the surgeries and the treatments to get better- to live. To make his life easier and better.
But he hates going to the hospital. He hates being in the hospital, stuck in bed; he hates surgeries and recovery and all the time he has to spend with monitors connected to him, with supplemental oxygen or a feeding tube or a long-term catheter. Sometimes, all of them.
But there’s nothing he can do to change it. He has to go to the ER now, and he’ll be stuck in there for hours and hours, and there’s nothing to do but try to be patient.
His mom gets him into the car and drives him to the hospital.
He lays on the uncomfortable bed, clutching his sheep stuffie, trying hard not to cry. Kristin’s still sitting beside him, running her fingers through his hair, while they wait for the results of the X-ray.
Wilbur’s head hurts so bad.
His stomach lurches, and he clamps one hand over his mouth. “M-mum-”
“Oh Wil-” She pulls out one of the plastic barf bags they keep packed in Wilbur’s hospital bag, holding his head up and holding the bag under his chin so he doesn’t puke all over himself.
By the time he’s done, he can’t stop crying, between the pain and the nausea and his head spinning. “Mom m-my head hurts,” he whimpers. “I c- can’ see- an’ m’dizzy-”
She freezes for a second. “How long has your head been hurting? Wilbur, how long?”
“C-couple days.” He sobs. “Sorry, I didn’ wanna bother you- m’sorry-”
Kristin leans away, and after a minute the curtain rattles open and a nurse comes in. “What can I do for you?” she asks.
“My son, he’s got a headache and he’s dizzy- he has chronic hydrocephalus and a shunt system and-”
“I’ll get someone to take him up for a CT scan right away,” the nurse says.
“Wilbur, Wilbur, you should’ve told me, baby.” Kristin takes Friend away, holds his hands. “Oh, sweetheart, you know the warning signs-”
“I’m sorry,” he sobs. It hurts. It hurts so much. “I’m sorry I didn’t think- I didn’t think-”
“It’s okay, you’re gonna be okay.” She leans over him to kiss his forehead. “They’re gonna take you for a CT scan, they’ll be able to fix this, it’s going to be okay.”
~~~
Phil gets to the hospital to find Kristin in the ER waiting room, clutching Wilbur’s blue hospital duffel in her lap.
She’s not with Wilbur, so-
“Kris, what- where is he?” Phil hurries over to her, kneeling in front of her to take her hands.
“He had to go to surgery,” she whispers, gripping his hands. “His hip is subluxed and they were going to do that bedside under partial sedation, but then he threw up and told me he’s had a headache for a few days- couldn’t see- they did an emergency CT and his shunt needs to be revised again so- so they took him to do that now, and he’s getting admitted- they wanted to take me to a waiting room but I knew you were coming so I waited here.”
“Okay.” Phil’s reeling, trying to process that. He pulls her up, into a hug, staring at the ceiling and taking slow, steadying breaths. “Okay, he- he’s in good hands now. He’ll be okay, he- he’s strong. He’ll be okay.”
“He’s twelve.” She presses her face into his shoulder. “He’s in surgery again- he’s twelve. He’s so young.”
Phil nods, swaying her side-to-side gently. “He’ll be okay,” he repeats quietly. “He’s a fighter. He’s gonna be okay.”
After two hours, they’re brought to the PACU to be with Wilbur while he comes around from the anesthesia.
He’s little and pale in that bed, hooked up to familiar monitoring equipment, head bandaged. They’ve been in this position so many times- even when he was a baby, sitting beside him in this quiet ward, waiting for him to wake up.
“He didn’t tell us anything was wrong,” Kristin whispers, delicately stroking back Wilbur’s hair. “He said he’d felt bad for days, and he knows the warning signs, and he didn’t say anything.”
“He probably didn’t want us to worry,” Phil murmurs. Wilbur’s hand in his is so small, so thin. “He’s just- well, you know what he’s like.”
“Yeah.” Kristin sighs, continuing to stroke Wilbur’s hair. Gently running one finger down the side of his face, tracing his ear. “Oh, Wilbur.”
It usually takes twenty minutes or so for Wilbur to start coming around. He’s quiet, when he does; but tears roll down his cheeks, and his fingers twitch weakly like he’s trying to hold their hands.
“Hi, sweet boy,” Kristin murmurs, kissing his forehead. “You’re okay, baby.”
“We’re right here, Wil,” Phil murmurs. “Dad and Mom are right here, you just had surgery. You’re okay.”
Wilbur just keeps crying, gaze slowly going back and forth between them. This is the usual reaction they get from him though, just crying and crying for a few minutes.
It’s- fine. He’s okay, he’s always okay.
~~~
Wilbur wakes up in a hospital room, tucked under his fluffy hospital blanket, something hard around his waist and thigh. His head vaguely aches.
“Hey, baby.” Phil’s there. He’s holding Wilbur’s hand. “How’re you feelin’?”
“Tired.” It’s hard to keep his eyes open. “Wh’re’s Friend?”
“Right here,” his dad murmurs. He reaches away for a second, setting Friend in Wilbur’s other arm. “Better?”
“Uh-huh.” He sighs, sinking his fingers into the soft fluffy fabric.
“You just had surgery,” Phil says. “They replaced your shunt, and the orthopedic surgeon popped in before you went to PACU and fixed your hip. They’ve got you in a brace for that now.”
Wilbur hums, squeezing his dad’s hand. “’kay.”
“Oh, buddy.” Phil sighs, squeezing his hand. “You should’ve let us know as soon as you had a headache. We could’ve gotten that taken care of quicker.”
Wilbur blinks back tears. “H’ve headaches a lot,” he whispers. “Thought it was okay.”
“Okay. Well, next time, you tell us, okay?” Phil leans over, kissing his forehead. “Even if it’s just a little bit worse than usual. You tell us, so we can fix it.”
“’kay,” he sniffles. “C’n’I go back to sleep now?”
“Yeah, mate. You go back to sleep.” His dad squeezes his hand. “I’ll be right here.”