Sure I concur; what else can I do?

"MARY GRACE? MARY GRACE!"
The nurses here practically scream to get a patients' attention. I hear it up and down the hall. I understand it, but for a person who likes quiet (MG, not me), it has to be jarring.
But she opens her eyes. I call her name - much more softly - and she turns her head, but I don't know if she knows its me or if it's just a new sound that distracts her. The doctors have told me whatever she does this week, she won't remember it next week. In fact, she won't remember much at all from this week, they say.
"DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOU ARE? YOU'RE IN THE HOSPITAL!"
She looks back at the nurse and nods her head.
"DO YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENED?"
Again, she nods her head. She can't speak; she's still got the ventilator blocking her mouth, even though she's breathing on her own. They have her on a four hours on, four hours off schedule -- no, I'm told she's doing so well they are now going six hours on and six hours off -- with the ventilator. The respiratory people tell me she's doing great with her breathing, but they don't want to over-tax her and risk pneumonia.
"YOU WERE IN AN ACCIDENT. DO YOU REMEMBER?"
She nods her head again. And I think to myself, Dear Lord, does she really remember? Or is she just responding out of some instinct?
It makes me cringe. I can't imagine the light turning green, pulling out into the intersection, catching a glimpse of a flash out of the corner of your eye and as you turn to see what it is, a Chevy Tahoe comes hurtling right into your driver's side door.
Again, my mind goes to this image of the front end of a full-size SUV bearing down on me, getting bigger and bigger until the front grill fills the view from the window like giant silver teeth and I throw my arm up to cover my face ...
"CAN YOU LIFT YOUR ARM?"
MG lifts her arm. She's been lifting her arm from time to time all day. Her arms are strapped down with only a little leeway in the straps, to keep her from reaching up and pulling the tubes out of her mouth and various other parts of her body. The nurse tells me I'd be surprised how many patients find ways to get the ventilator out of their mouths even with their hands strapped down.
But I remember having eye surgery. I was supposed to be awake during the surgery, doped up only a little to where I wouldn't feel anything but could still follow instructions. The next thing I remember was waking up and trying to move my arms, but they were strapped down. It was a feeling of panic.
Here's another thing about MG: she's claustrophobic. We kid her - well, not often because she doesn't really think it's funny - but I can wrap my hand around her wrist and when I tell her I've got her wrist, she'll get claustrophobic. A lot of us that know her have seen her suddenly stop and, in a full panic, start untying her shoes because suddenly her feet feel trapped. She always sleeps with her feet sticking out from under the covers because her feet get claustrophobic.
So I can only imagine, if she's aware, what panic must set in when she can't move her hands or legs or feet.
"CAN YOU WIGGLE YOUR TOES?"
She wiggles her toes. I notice these huge bruises at various places on both legs. The bruise on her left hip is frightening. The nurse tells me there are similar bruises all over her body. I've seen the ones on her arms, and the right leg just under the knee where her leg was probably driven into the center console of the car, and the one on her left hip where she took the impact of the door. Tracy tells me the driver's seat on the car has been squeezed down to about half it's normal size.
"CAN YOU SQUEEZE MY HAND?"
MG doesn't squeeze the hand - not the nurse's hand, or my hand. She did this the other night, and did it this morning for the day nurse. They are not overly concerned because she's so responsive to other commands.
Then comes my favorite:
"CAN YOU STICK OUT YOUR TONGUE?"
Her little pink tongue can hardly find its way around the tubes running into her mouth and down her throat. Sunday when I came in, she had her tongue stuck out of the corner of her mouth. I know she'd be mortified to know that, but I couldn't help but think it was kind of cute - a little girlish act of defiance. Although I have no idea what she'd be defiant over.
It's amazing, the thoughts and actions I will project onto her while she's like this.

It was a very difficult day. They turned her pain medication way down in order to wake her up. They were concerned because it seemed to be taking so long for her to come out of the sedation, but I told them we're talking about someone who gets knocked out and for a full day and stays groggy for another full day just from one dose of NyQuil. She has never tolerated medicine well.
But she lay there today, tossing her head back and forth, alternately lifting one arm and then the other, shaking one leg then the other. She stretches her left leg- the one that's in traction, the one that is pulled completely out of her hip socket in order to give the bones in her pelvis a chance to reform naturally as much as possible, and I wince.
Her right leg keeps rolling off the side of the bed. It's like she's trying to get up. In fact, she keeps arching her back like she wants to sit up.
"You can't get up,'' I say. "You're strapped down. Relax."
I stroke her arm, her hair, and think maybe I should sing. The only song I can think of is "Sunny Side of the Street," a song I used to sing to the kids at bedtime. I begin (very low, in her ear, so no one will hear), "Grab your coat, and get your hat. Leave your worries on the doorstep. Just direct your feet to the sunny side of the street. ..."
And I think, fool! She can't walk. She won't be able to walk for three months. She may never walk normally again (worst case scenario; Eeyore again). What kind of idiot are you?

The orthopedic surgeon comes in. It's the first time I've met him. We've spoken on the phone twice, and the first time I was very unhappy with the conversation. More than unhappy. It was the night I was most angry anyway, and he didn't help anything.
He's very apologetic. I made my unhappiness known both to my friend Catherine Brown who works here, and to Dr. Jean Oakes, a good friend and UAB orthopedic surgeon of note who specializes in hands. He asks me how I know Dr. Oakes. I have a feeling she has told him I wasn't happy, that I would have fired him on the spot the other night if I had known of any other orthopedic trauma surgeon.
He's describing the surgery to replace the hip socket. He says they most like will not be able to completely reconstruct using every piece of bone in her pelvis, but they believe there will be enough to use to form a workable socket, and the bone will mend over time.
I ask just how many pieces her pelvis is in. He just says, "a lot."
He describes it like this: "Say you wrap tape and bubble wrap around an egg, then smash the egg with a hammer. It's busted, but the pieces of the shell are mostly still there in the right position."
Very graphic. 
I ask if he thinks she will eventually have to have an artificial hip. He says yes, and the way they're doing the surgery should allow for an artificial hip some day, way down the road.
People have asked, why not just go ahead and get an artificial hip now? First, I don't want that. I know medicine has improved tremendously, but I also know that artificial hips still can wear out, and you can only replace them so many times. Maybe I'm not up on my orthopedic medicine, but it seems to me you put off having artificial replacement parts as long as you can, regardless.
Also, I get the impression there isn't anything right now to attach an artificial hip too.

"We're schedule for Monday. If something unforeseen happens - some serious injury that requires us to be in surgery all day, then I've set aside Tuesday. If not Tuesday, then Wednesday. I expect it to be Monday, but I have two contingency plans,'' the doctor says.
Monday afternoon? I ask, because that's what he told me.
"No,'' he said. "Monday morning, early. Very early."
That's good news. I know it's going to be a long surgery. I feel better about this guy. But then, what choice do I have?

Like a Rockette at Christmas, MG continually kicks her left leg. Up and down, up and down. The doctor says that's good, it means there's no nerve damage. I guess that's right. It's kind of funny - she always talks about how "twitchy" I am when I sleep. My legs twitch, my arms. I don't change places; I can sleep in one spot all night long and hardly move the covers. But I twitch. I wonder if she'll start twitching now, and how we'll fit together in our sleep if we're both twitching.

Her hermatocrats are down a bit. I think I spelled that right. It's amazing how you start to speak the language - I'm reminded of my brother-in-law Sean in his gown and gloves asking, "Do you concur?" - even though you have no idea what you're talking about.
I know it means she's lost some blood. They're giving her another pint. The last time I asked, she'd had 29 pints of blood or blood product. That was Monday, I think. Or Tuesday. The days run together.
The nurse insists the ultra sound didn't reveal any thing that would lead them to believe there is internal bleeding. They have no idea why. But that's what they said Sunday, too, and shortly after they took her back into surgery to find out. I don't want that to happen again.
"Maybe it's the hematoma in her pelvis breaking up,'' the nurse says. I have no idea if this makes any sense, but I accept it.
Or rather, "I concur."