DAY THIRTY SIX

Samantha Keys felt pretty good as she rolled to the edge of the bed and extended her legs over the side.  She sat up and looked at her leg.  It was still encased in the immobilizer.  Her crutches stood next to the bed.  Although she might be able to walk on her leg the doctor had proclaimed dire outcomes if she even tried.  She was frustrated by the days of inactivity.  She missed her daily run.  It was an essential part of her mental therapy.  Eight days without running was an eternity.  After all, her leg felt really good.  The pain had been severe for the first couple of days but had tapered off in recent days.  Yesterday she took two ibuphrophin for pain before going to bed.  She laughed as she thought about it.  She took more than that if she took a fall or pulled a muscle during a run.  Her leg could not be as bad as the doctor thought.

The MRI taken the morning after the shooting showed the muscle was not damaged quite as badly as had first been feared.  After two days with no infection and bleeding the doctor sent her home.  She was euphoric when she left the hospital, now she was in the pits.  She desperately needed a shower.  Her hair was crummy.  She felt crummy all over.  These basin baths were for the birds.  She grinned at the thought, a bird bath.  She got her towel, wash cloth and underwear.  Her husband left for work about an hour ago.  He would not be home till evening.  She would get her shower and nobody would know at least till it was too late for them to restrain her.  “It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission,” she said to herself.   She crutched to the bathroom and slid the chair from the dressing table to the opening of the shower.  She checked out the inside of the shower.  There were two solid bars on the wall.  She could press herself in and out, just like she was on crutches.  The wound was pretty well healed.  The doctor took out the stitches the day before yesterday.  He told her then in two days she could wash over the wound.