Sam fic: "Bad Step" Part 27, rated PG
It's too nice a day to be in bed... poor Sammie!
Voices floated over him. From a deep
well of sleep, the gentle buzz drew Sam towards the surface. A masculine voice
was speaking, with one or two female voices mixed in. An odd coolness
penetrated Sam's shoulder and various spots on his legs. Too distant to be more
than mildly curious, Sam drifted gradually closer.
"... swelling has gone down
considerably. He's improving far more quickly than I would have expected, given
his condition when we found him yesterday."
"It was you who set his bones
straight when he was so poorly, Doctor."
"And it was you and your
family's constant care that brought him along so quickly after I did. Marigold,
you're doing a wonderful job. I don't expect I'll need to see him again until
tomorrow, unless some difficulty develops."
"Will you stay for lunch, Doctor?"
asked a new voice. "I brought my famous kidney pie."
"Why thank you, Mrs. Cotton. I
would be pleased to stay."
Sam opened his eyes. The sun was
bright outside the open curtains. In the bedroom, Marigold, Dr. Brockhouse, and
Mrs. Cotton stood between Sam's bed and the press, deep in conversation.
Mrs. Cotton noticed Sam's small
movement. A smile creased her kindly face. "Well, look who's awake."
Marigold peeked out from behind the
doctor. Her face broke into a grin. "Ah, you're back with us again, are
you? You slept the morning away."
"It's the best thing for
him." Dr. Brockhouse bent towards Sam. "How are you feeling, Samwise?
You've had quite the trying experience."
Sam opened his mouth.
"Fah..." His voice cracked.
Marigold's face lit up. "Sam!
You're nearly talking. Wait a moment."
She hurriedly fetched a cup from the
press and offered it to him. Sam was hoping for more of the broth-but it was
the bitter willow bark tea instead. He made a face.
"None of that, Sam Gamgee! Make
it quick, and it will soon be over."
Sam did as he was bid; it would be
pointless to do otherwise. He downed several deep swallows, curling his lip as
Marigold finally lifted the cup away.
"That's a good lad." Dr.
Brockhouse leaned over him, then peered into each eye. "Um-hmm. Samwise,
can you speak?"
Sam was still groggy. His left hand
drifted towards the strange coldness on his right shoulder, throbbing dully
within its wrap. "What's this?" he managed in a crackling whisper.
"Ice," said the doctor
promptly. "It will reduce the swelling. When you fell, you knocked your
shoulder out of joint. With the help of your good neighbors, the bone is now back
in place. We've put a sling around your shoulder mostly as a reminder for you
to avoid using it. Avoid any reaching or straining with the arm for three or
four weeks."
Concern flared within Sam at the
length of time mentioned. Before he could speak, the doctor instructed, "Close
your eyes."
Sam did so. He felt the covers over
his right arm being lifted away.
"Now," said the doctor
mysteriously, "tell me if you feel anything. Just nod or make a little sound
for each touch, all right?"
Sam nodded.
"Very good. Here we go."
Sam felt a light prickle on his
right index finger. He nodded.
"Good!"
The examination continued, with Sam
reporting pricks or soft touches on all his of fingers, his palm and wrist, and
on up his arm.
"Excellent! You can open your
eyes now." The doctor sounded pleased. "Well, Samwise, I'm happy to
report the nerve does not seem to have been damaged. That was a concern, considering
the type of injury you suffered, and your arm being out of the socket for so
long. If you notice any numbness or tingling in your arm or hand, please report
it immediately."
Alarmed, Sam nodded. Nerve
damage! That idea would have never crossed his mind in a hundred years. He
was relieved he hadn't thought to worry about it until after the doctor told
him it wasn't an issue.
"I expect you're wondering what
all this is," the doctor continued, calling Sam's attention to the strange
contraption he felt butting against his chest. "What happened was, you
fractured your right leg bone in the fall. It's not too bad as breaks go, but
we didn't want to take any chances with it knitting awry. This brace keeps
traction on the leg-it pulls your foot away from your body, so the bone will
heal straight. Now, I'm just going to touch your toes. As before, let me know
when you feel anything."
The doctor knelt at the end of the
bed, his hands out of Sam's sight. Sam gave a little grunt as the doctor
squeezed each toe, and prodded the sole of his foot. In moments the doctor rose.
"Marvelous, Samwise. You're doing very well. I expect you're still fairly
uncomfortable today, but I expect the worst of the pain will subside before too
long."
Sam whispered, "It's not too
bad."
"Excellent. Now, I know the
splint is awkward. I'm going to speak to Mr. Baggins about constructing a
framework around the bed that will provide the tension we need. It will still restrict
you to the bed, I'm afraid, but it will take pressure off that right shoulder.
I'm sure it will be much more comfortable without a stick prodding against it.
Once we get the straps and tension on the leg set, you should be able to sit up
a little, which will be better for your lungs. We want you to be able to move a
little, to prevent bedsores and other complications, such as pneumonia."
Sam listened to the list with
growing horror. He had never realized it was such a complicated matter to get
well!
"In short," the doctor
continued, "we'll do our best to make you comfortable, but I'm afraid
we'll have to leave the tension on your leg until you're well and truly healed.
That could be as little as a month, or more likely six weeks."
"Six weeks!"
Sam's voice left him on the last word, but his dismay was clearly evident.
"I'm sorry Sam," said the
doctor, and looked it. "It's never an easy thing to be bedridden. But
considering how much worse the damage might have been, a month in bed is a
small price to pay."
Sam subsided, feeling distressed. A
month! And it was planting season. His Gaffer would have Sam's hide for
sitting out the planting season. All the things that needed doing, that Sam would
not be able to do, leapt instantly to his mind.
Dr. Brockhouse didn't seem to
observe Sam's preoccupation. He continued, "For the rest of it, you've
acquired merely scrapes, sprains, and bruises. Your caregivers will ice down
the worst of these every two hours throughout the rest of the day. Starting
tomorrow, they might ice only two or three times a day, depending on the
swelling. Can you take a deep breath for me?"
Sam tried. As he expected, he didn't
get very far before stabbing pains cut the breath short.
"That's good, don't strain. Those
cracked ribs are bound to be tender." The doctor cleared away the cloth
over Sam's chest, then held a listening tube to his ear. "All right, try it
again. Breathe." He moved the cup at the end of the tube from spot to spot
on Sam's chest. "Keep breathing." Sam was beginning to feel lightheaded
when the doctor said, "That will do," and straightened.
"I don't hear any
congestion," he said, putting the listening tube back in his bag.
"For now, try to get as much rest as you can, and eat all that you feel
comfortable doing. I'll look in on you again tomorrow, or sooner if you start
feeling poorly. For now, do you have any questions you'd like to ask?"
Sam asked the only thing that
mattered to him. His question came out in a hoarse whisper. "Do you reckon
it'll take me a whole month to get better?"
The doctor laughed, to Sam's
consternation. Then he patted Sam's good arm in a friendly manner. "With
anyone else, I would say that a month is the soonest they should try to stand.
But given your powers of recuperation, who knows? You might set a record for
the fastest recovery in the Shire!"
Sam felt somewhat comforted by this
speech. A recovery period of three weeks seemed much easier to endure than
something twice that length.
"I'll be staying through
luncheon," the doctor said, "so if you think of anything else you
want to ask me, by all means send for me. And now, I think your sister is impatient
to give you a luncheon of your own."
Marigold nodded eagerly.
"Whatever you want, Sam. Just name it, and I'll bring it for you."
"Eggs," said Sam, without
the least thought. His stomach wasn't entirely easy; he wasn't even certain if
he was hungry.
"Eggs it is!" Marigold hurried
towards the door.
"I make a gruel that would go
well with that," said Mrs. Cotton, walking after her. "His stomach
might need a bit of coaxing after his long fast, poor lamb."
Dr. Brockhouse paused in the act of
picking up his bag. "Should I stay with Sam until you return?"
Mrs. Cotton smiled secretively.
"That depends on Sam, of course. Sam, would you like to rest quietly with
the doctor, or do you feel up to meeting some old friends? They reined in their
patience all morning, but unless I miss my guess, I can hear them on the other
side of the door this minute."
Sam's heart gave a leap. Now that
Mrs. Cotton had called his attention to it, he did hear excited whispering
beyond the closed bedroom door.
Sam wanted to melt. However, he
could hardly turn his friends away, given that they had traveled so far to see
him and had done so much to help around the smial. He saw Marigold giving him a
knowing smirk from behind Mrs. Cotton, and submitted to the unavoidable. He nodded
at Mrs. Cotton. "Let them in."
The farmer's wife swung open the
door. Three curly heads popped up as one; apparently they'd been trying to see
through the keyhole. It made Sam smile, despite his qualms.
"Go on in," said Mrs.
Cotton.
The three of them burst into the
room, pelting towards the bed-Tom, then Jolly, and Rosie in the rear. They
pulled up in an excited group: Tom grinning, Jolly frowning, and Rosie looking
worried.
Dr. Brockhouse smiled. "I'll
leave you to their good care." He walked past the little group, shutting
the door behind him as he left the room.
Continued in Part 28
For a complete list of entries, see the Bad Step chapter listing.
Voices floated over him. From a deep
well of sleep, the gentle buzz drew Sam towards the surface. A masculine voice
was speaking, with one or two female voices mixed in. An odd coolness
penetrated Sam's shoulder and various spots on his legs. Too distant to be more
than mildly curious, Sam drifted gradually closer.
"... swelling has gone down
considerably. He's improving far more quickly than I would have expected, given
his condition when we found him yesterday."
"It was you who set his bones
straight when he was so poorly, Doctor."
"And it was you and your
family's constant care that brought him along so quickly after I did. Marigold,
you're doing a wonderful job. I don't expect I'll need to see him again until
tomorrow, unless some difficulty develops."
"Will you stay for lunch, Doctor?"
asked a new voice. "I brought my famous kidney pie."
"Why thank you, Mrs. Cotton. I
would be pleased to stay."
Sam opened his eyes. The sun was
bright outside the open curtains. In the bedroom, Marigold, Dr. Brockhouse, and
Mrs. Cotton stood between Sam's bed and the press, deep in conversation.
Mrs. Cotton noticed Sam's small
movement. A smile creased her kindly face. "Well, look who's awake."
Marigold peeked out from behind the
doctor. Her face broke into a grin. "Ah, you're back with us again, are
you? You slept the morning away."
"It's the best thing for
him." Dr. Brockhouse bent towards Sam. "How are you feeling, Samwise?
You've had quite the trying experience."
Sam opened his mouth.
"Fah..." His voice cracked.
Marigold's face lit up. "Sam!
You're nearly talking. Wait a moment."
She hurriedly fetched a cup from the
press and offered it to him. Sam was hoping for more of the broth-but it was
the bitter willow bark tea instead. He made a face.
"None of that, Sam Gamgee! Make
it quick, and it will soon be over."
Sam did as he was bid; it would be
pointless to do otherwise. He downed several deep swallows, curling his lip as
Marigold finally lifted the cup away.
"That's a good lad." Dr.
Brockhouse leaned over him, then peered into each eye. "Um-hmm. Samwise,
can you speak?"
Sam was still groggy. His left hand
drifted towards the strange coldness on his right shoulder, throbbing dully
within its wrap. "What's this?" he managed in a crackling whisper.
"Ice," said the doctor
promptly. "It will reduce the swelling. When you fell, you knocked your
shoulder out of joint. With the help of your good neighbors, the bone is now back
in place. We've put a sling around your shoulder mostly as a reminder for you
to avoid using it. Avoid any reaching or straining with the arm for three or
four weeks."
Concern flared within Sam at the
length of time mentioned. Before he could speak, the doctor instructed, "Close
your eyes."
Sam did so. He felt the covers over
his right arm being lifted away.
"Now," said the doctor
mysteriously, "tell me if you feel anything. Just nod or make a little sound
for each touch, all right?"
Sam nodded.
"Very good. Here we go."
Sam felt a light prickle on his
right index finger. He nodded.
"Good!"
The examination continued, with Sam
reporting pricks or soft touches on all his of fingers, his palm and wrist, and
on up his arm.
"Excellent! You can open your
eyes now." The doctor sounded pleased. "Well, Samwise, I'm happy to
report the nerve does not seem to have been damaged. That was a concern, considering
the type of injury you suffered, and your arm being out of the socket for so
long. If you notice any numbness or tingling in your arm or hand, please report
it immediately."
Alarmed, Sam nodded. Nerve
damage! That idea would have never crossed his mind in a hundred years. He
was relieved he hadn't thought to worry about it until after the doctor told
him it wasn't an issue.
"I expect you're wondering what
all this is," the doctor continued, calling Sam's attention to the strange
contraption he felt butting against his chest. "What happened was, you
fractured your right leg bone in the fall. It's not too bad as breaks go, but
we didn't want to take any chances with it knitting awry. This brace keeps
traction on the leg-it pulls your foot away from your body, so the bone will
heal straight. Now, I'm just going to touch your toes. As before, let me know
when you feel anything."
The doctor knelt at the end of the
bed, his hands out of Sam's sight. Sam gave a little grunt as the doctor
squeezed each toe, and prodded the sole of his foot. In moments the doctor rose.
"Marvelous, Samwise. You're doing very well. I expect you're still fairly
uncomfortable today, but I expect the worst of the pain will subside before too
long."
Sam whispered, "It's not too
bad."
"Excellent. Now, I know the
splint is awkward. I'm going to speak to Mr. Baggins about constructing a
framework around the bed that will provide the tension we need. It will still restrict
you to the bed, I'm afraid, but it will take pressure off that right shoulder.
I'm sure it will be much more comfortable without a stick prodding against it.
Once we get the straps and tension on the leg set, you should be able to sit up
a little, which will be better for your lungs. We want you to be able to move a
little, to prevent bedsores and other complications, such as pneumonia."
Sam listened to the list with
growing horror. He had never realized it was such a complicated matter to get
well!
"In short," the doctor
continued, "we'll do our best to make you comfortable, but I'm afraid
we'll have to leave the tension on your leg until you're well and truly healed.
That could be as little as a month, or more likely six weeks."
"Six weeks!"
Sam's voice left him on the last word, but his dismay was clearly evident.
"I'm sorry Sam," said the
doctor, and looked it. "It's never an easy thing to be bedridden. But
considering how much worse the damage might have been, a month in bed is a
small price to pay."
Sam subsided, feeling distressed. A
month! And it was planting season. His Gaffer would have Sam's hide for
sitting out the planting season. All the things that needed doing, that Sam would
not be able to do, leapt instantly to his mind.
Dr. Brockhouse didn't seem to
observe Sam's preoccupation. He continued, "For the rest of it, you've
acquired merely scrapes, sprains, and bruises. Your caregivers will ice down
the worst of these every two hours throughout the rest of the day. Starting
tomorrow, they might ice only two or three times a day, depending on the
swelling. Can you take a deep breath for me?"
Sam tried. As he expected, he didn't
get very far before stabbing pains cut the breath short.
"That's good, don't strain. Those
cracked ribs are bound to be tender." The doctor cleared away the cloth
over Sam's chest, then held a listening tube to his ear. "All right, try it
again. Breathe." He moved the cup at the end of the tube from spot to spot
on Sam's chest. "Keep breathing." Sam was beginning to feel lightheaded
when the doctor said, "That will do," and straightened.
"I don't hear any
congestion," he said, putting the listening tube back in his bag.
"For now, try to get as much rest as you can, and eat all that you feel
comfortable doing. I'll look in on you again tomorrow, or sooner if you start
feeling poorly. For now, do you have any questions you'd like to ask?"
Sam asked the only thing that
mattered to him. His question came out in a hoarse whisper. "Do you reckon
it'll take me a whole month to get better?"
The doctor laughed, to Sam's
consternation. Then he patted Sam's good arm in a friendly manner. "With
anyone else, I would say that a month is the soonest they should try to stand.
But given your powers of recuperation, who knows? You might set a record for
the fastest recovery in the Shire!"
Sam felt somewhat comforted by this
speech. A recovery period of three weeks seemed much easier to endure than
something twice that length.
"I'll be staying through
luncheon," the doctor said, "so if you think of anything else you
want to ask me, by all means send for me. And now, I think your sister is impatient
to give you a luncheon of your own."
Marigold nodded eagerly.
"Whatever you want, Sam. Just name it, and I'll bring it for you."
"Eggs," said Sam, without
the least thought. His stomach wasn't entirely easy; he wasn't even certain if
he was hungry.
"Eggs it is!" Marigold hurried
towards the door.
"I make a gruel that would go
well with that," said Mrs. Cotton, walking after her. "His stomach
might need a bit of coaxing after his long fast, poor lamb."
Dr. Brockhouse paused in the act of
picking up his bag. "Should I stay with Sam until you return?"
Mrs. Cotton smiled secretively.
"That depends on Sam, of course. Sam, would you like to rest quietly with
the doctor, or do you feel up to meeting some old friends? They reined in their
patience all morning, but unless I miss my guess, I can hear them on the other
side of the door this minute."
Sam's heart gave a leap. Now that
Mrs. Cotton had called his attention to it, he did hear excited whispering
beyond the closed bedroom door.
Sam wanted to melt. However, he
could hardly turn his friends away, given that they had traveled so far to see
him and had done so much to help around the smial. He saw Marigold giving him a
knowing smirk from behind Mrs. Cotton, and submitted to the unavoidable. He nodded
at Mrs. Cotton. "Let them in."
The farmer's wife swung open the
door. Three curly heads popped up as one; apparently they'd been trying to see
through the keyhole. It made Sam smile, despite his qualms.
"Go on in," said Mrs.
Cotton.
The three of them burst into the
room, pelting towards the bed-Tom, then Jolly, and Rosie in the rear. They
pulled up in an excited group: Tom grinning, Jolly frowning, and Rosie looking
worried.
Dr. Brockhouse smiled. "I'll
leave you to their good care." He walked past the little group, shutting
the door behind him as he left the room.
Continued in Part 28
For a complete list of entries, see the Bad Step chapter listing.