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PT sessions had stirred tingling in his hips and thighs over the past couple weeks. However small, it was the first actual progress he had in a long time.
And then today.
A nurse came by earlier for a quick update: his surgery was pushed again. Two weeks out. Some multi-car pileup threw the schedule off.
He understood. Of course he did. The system was doing exactly what it was designed to do.
They apologized and left.
Two more weeks isn’t the end of the world.
The infection in the ICU had already cost him a month. That delay made sense. This one did too. He couldn’t resent the hospital for prioritizing people in need.
But he did.
He hated himself for thinking it at all. He hated the brace, the waiting. Hated how every setback was another reminder of how much he’d lost, and how little control he still had.
They’re just doing their job.
Matt pictured the accident. He should’ve been there, pulling the victims out, getting them home.
Instead, he was here. Trapped by the same four walls, down to one working limb, waiting for someone else to decide when he got to move forward.
You’d make the same call.
He’d carried worse. Seen worse. Left someone under a slab and called it necessary.
Except he was the one sidelined now.
Matt closed his eyes. Whatever progress he’d made was already slipping.
One step at a—
The smell of coffee reached him first.
“Hey,” Lucy said. “You look like someone rescheduled your whole week without asking.”
“Something like that.”
“Bad news?”
“OR shuffle.”
“Timing really knows how to mess with you.”
Nothing more came. Matt went back to the wall.
You’re supposed to be better than this.
He twisted the blanket.
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