Who: McCoy and Oliver Wood When: Saturday morning, 5 January 2013. After Cadence's visit. Where: Oliver’s Hospital Room What: Bad News Rating: Low, warnings for medical ickiness. Status: Complete!
Leonard McCoy preferred when bodies could heal themselves. That was a strange way for a surgeon to feel about things, but there you have it. He would much rather have a patient not need surgery than have to cut them open. At the same time, he knew that sometimes it was inevitable. Along that vein, he would prefer it if patients would heal up after the first surgery, and not need more than one.
Enter Oliver Wood. McCoy had worked on him for several hours when the kid first entered the hospital. He’d done everything he could do to repair the hole in his lung and stop the internal bleeding, but the leg was a mess. McCoy had expertly put the thing back together, and, not to toot his own horn, or anything, saved quite a bit more muscle, connective tissue and bone matter than any other surgeon would have done. He was good at his job, and really good at putting people back together. But the infection that came after the surgery had been thriving in Wood’s leg for two weeks now, and it wasn’t dying off. In fact, it was spreading.
With a heavy heart, McCoy headed to Oliver’s door and knocked on it, unhappy about relaying the bad news. It was too late for Oliver’s leg. If they didn’t remove it now, it was likely to kill him. --Which, McCoy had to remind himself, was Oliver’s wish. He didn’t want to live without the leg. That was his choice, and as much as McCoy disagreed with it, he wouldn’t argue. That wasn’t his place.
Someone should have argued the decision, though. Oliver's life didn't need to end simply because his leg was rubbish. That was a cause of death better left to earth's history before the invention of modern medicine. But Oliver was a footballer, and far too passionate and stubborn to see himself as anything beyond an athlete, despite the fact that he hadn't stepped foot on the pitch in over a year. For him, life had always been all or nothing. Better to die with both legs than live a life where he couldn't play football, couldn't dance with a girl, or couldn't chase his kids around the garden. Oliver was not the sort of spirit to stay confined to a wheelchair the rest of his life.
Calling out, Oliver answered the knock to the door with approval to enter. Not that he needed to; doctors and nurses would enter no matter his response. He smiled a little when he saw McCoy enter the room.
'Hullo.'
That’s what friends and family were for. McCoy didn’t have the right to argue that there were joys in life beyond standing. It wasn’t his place. He could simply give the options, his best medical opinion, and let Oliver make his own decisions. He would stress, though, that now was a good time for him, for Oliver, to discuss things with his friends and family. If he was going to say his goodbyes, now would be a good time to do it. That way, hopefully someone would talk some sense into him.
The smile was good to see, even though McCoy knew it would be short lived. He stepped into the room, his stethoscope around his neck, his white jacket especially white today, holding his clipboard in one hand. “Hello, Mr. Wood.” He said. The poor kid looked really green today. “How are you feeling?”
Oliver's response was automatic, a clear sign he was hiding the truth with what little strength remained to him. 'I'm alright. Nae about to get up and dance but...' But what?
'How are you?' he asked, turning the question back on McCoy who reminded Oliver a lot of a brick wall.
He was a bitter, grumpy, jaded old man, even though he was only forty. He turned his emotions off when he entered the hospital, as it was the only way he could survive the bad news he had to dish out on a day to day basis. Like today.“I’ve been better.” McCoy said, quite honestly. “I’ve got bad news.” He added, moving to the bed and pulling his stethoscope down off of his neck so he could listen to Oliver’s heart and lungs. “I hate being the bearer of bad news, but it’s part of the job.”
Shifting up, Oliver leaned forward as best he could in the bed to allow McCoy access to his back but he needed help. Over the last few days, Oliver had lost a lot of strength and dexterity; he winced as he moved, every last joint hollow with fever, his body achy from the surgeries.
McCoy didn’t need to say anything else for Oliver to know where things were heading. In fact, he had probably been the first to realise what was happening to him days ago, so why not spare the doctor the pain?
‘Donnae bother then,’ Oliver said. But then he paused. He hadn’t said this part aloud yet, for it was the most frightening thing he’d ever had to face. When he finally spoke, his voice wavered against his will.
‘I’m dying.’
“Yup.” McCoy said, frowning considerably. He helped Oliver back down against the pillows after listening to his heart and his lungs, then slung his stethoscope around his neck. “We’ve gone past the point of no return.”
He turned to jot a couple of things down on his clipboard. “Your wishes will be respected, Mister Wood. You made the decision how you wanted to be treated.” He nodded once. “It’s probably a good idea for you to call your friends and family in here to start saying goodbye.”
Though it had been difficult to voice the eventuality, everything McCoy said was true and Oliver did not regret his decision at all. The only thing he was truly having trouble accepting in that moment was that the drunk driver who had cause the accident had somehow escaped with only minor scratches and a concussion. It hardly seemed fair, but then again, that was life.
And death.
Having verbalised the situation to a neutral party, however, helped to lighten the burden of his choices enough for Oliver to ask weakly, ‘How long will it take?’
“A matter of days. Probably not many.” McCoy said, honestly. He shook his head a bit. “Like I said, start telling your family and friends that you love them.” Perhaps one of them could talk some sense into him. “The best we can do is keep up the anti-biotics, hope for a miracle, and up your painkillers to keep your comfortable.” He added, setting the clipboard down once more.
Silently, Oliver nodded as he came to terms with the worst case scenario. It wasn’t as difficult as he'd thought it would be to learn that the end was only days away. In fact, he felt mostly numb, emotionally, at least, and neither cried not pleased. He just sat there, accepting the situation with as much grace as anyone could.
Or perhaps Oliver was too stupid to be afraid.
Physically, Oliver's nerves were on edge and more medication sounded brilliant. Anything to take away the pain and the idea of having to say goodbye to anyone. 'Alright. Thank you, doctor...' There was nothing more to say.
“Would you like me to send up a hospice representative to speak with you?” McCoy asked. He could send someone in to help Oliver with the last of his paperwork, to get together his will and testament, settle his finances and emotional status, all those other things that hospice did that McCoy stayed away from under normal circumstances.
'No,' Oliver replied, shaking his head. The very thought made him sick to his stomach. A career entirely centered around helping people die; that was more unsettling to him than his own impending death. How could the living ever understand enough to help? He thought he'd understood when he made the decision to keep his leg or die trying. Now that he was dying Oliver realised how unprepared he had been.
But his will was done and in it his burial requests. He'd prepared a press release as well to be faxed to his agent and the only thing left was to tell his friends and family. And for that only one thing was going to be of aid.
'Could do with a nice ale, though. Or a bottle of 50 year scotch if you could just write me a script for that.'
“That I can do.” McCoy said with a chuckle. “I’ve got a bottle in my office. I’ll have the nurse bring you a flask.” He gave one last wave, and headed out the door.
Once he was alone, Oliver laid back on the pillows and stared at the ceiling wondering if God was up there somewhere waiting for him.