What luck.
In the movies, bleeding out through the stomach is a favorite way to dramatically kill a character. It leaves the viewer without a doubt that death is imminent while keeping the victim's head and face intact so that all the agony he feels can be brutally painted with contorted lips and spasming eyes.
In reality, it's less cartoonish but an equally cruel way to die. They tell him he's lucky the bullet lacerated his liver. A inch or two to the right and it would have punctured his gut directly, almost guaranteeing to kill him before he made it to the operating room. They assume his attacker must have little experience with a gun and they assume it was a random attack. Clarke knows better on both counts but sees no reason to correct them.
Gut surgery, they tell him, is messy. He's starting to loose patience with the continued emphasis on how lucky he is but he's patient and listens anyway. They know he's in pain but It could be a lot worse. His incision (which must be cleaned and re-bandaged every six hours) could be larger. It could require more complicated care. He could be laid up for months. They're hesitant to discharge him as soon as they but as long as he's got someone taking care of him and as long as he comes to his appointment in three weeks (and immediately comes back should any complications arise) he'll be okay. He's not going to be back to 100 percent for a few months and it's going to even longer before he's running or jumping or lifting anything. They want him to do physical therapy eventually but they aren't even ready to discuss it before his incision heals.
He needs help getting out of the bed but bathes and dresses on his own. The doctor shows him one final time how to clean and re-bandage his incision. He buttons his shirt and left alone to pack while his discharge forms are prepared. Everything fits into a plastic bag - toothbrush, comb, some clothes, some underwear, deodorant, a copy of the last Harry Potter novel, a clipboard some work documents, and a half eaten bag of Goldfish characters.
He moves slowly to the lobby. Air swooshes through automatic doors, giving him a chill starting at his damp hair. He's cold but happy, it's a reminder of how close he is to getting out. It takes only a few minutes to fill out his forms and a only a few minutes longer to get outside. He waits under the awning, plastic bag in hand, feeling excitement to leave this part of the experience behind.
In reality, it's less cartoonish but an equally cruel way to die. They tell him he's lucky the bullet lacerated his liver. A inch or two to the right and it would have punctured his gut directly, almost guaranteeing to kill him before he made it to the operating room. They assume his attacker must have little experience with a gun and they assume it was a random attack. Clarke knows better on both counts but sees no reason to correct them.
Gut surgery, they tell him, is messy. He's starting to loose patience with the continued emphasis on how lucky he is but he's patient and listens anyway. They know he's in pain but It could be a lot worse. His incision (which must be cleaned and re-bandaged every six hours) could be larger. It could require more complicated care. He could be laid up for months. They're hesitant to discharge him as soon as they but as long as he's got someone taking care of him and as long as he comes to his appointment in three weeks (and immediately comes back should any complications arise) he'll be okay. He's not going to be back to 100 percent for a few months and it's going to even longer before he's running or jumping or lifting anything. They want him to do physical therapy eventually but they aren't even ready to discuss it before his incision heals.
He needs help getting out of the bed but bathes and dresses on his own. The doctor shows him one final time how to clean and re-bandage his incision. He buttons his shirt and left alone to pack while his discharge forms are prepared. Everything fits into a plastic bag - toothbrush, comb, some clothes, some underwear, deodorant, a copy of the last Harry Potter novel, a clipboard some work documents, and a half eaten bag of Goldfish characters.
He moves slowly to the lobby. Air swooshes through automatic doors, giving him a chill starting at his damp hair. He's cold but happy, it's a reminder of how close he is to getting out. It takes only a few minutes to fill out his forms and a only a few minutes longer to get outside. He waits under the awning, plastic bag in hand, feeling excitement to leave this part of the experience behind.