Author's
Notes: This story was written for the I Want to Believe "Ima
Believer" challenge. It was originally titled "Whoops, I Did It
Again."
For more about Ima, and her great writing, check out
http://www.geocities.com/iwtbxf/ima.htm
This story is dedicated to the Chi-Meet folk...what a weekend!
It's legend around here that Fox Mulder is not a good patient. No, I take that back, it's not legend, it's canon.
It started innocently enough with my request that we clean up the office. I was sick of the piles, of never being able to find what I was looking for, besides, the FBI had come out with a new records management policy the month before and the records manager had sent more than one threatening message our way about our retention schedule. Having seen her treatise on effective filing methods, I didn't think she was going to be very excited to do a site visit.
Anyway, back to Mulder and his "incident." I was plugging away back in what he likes to call "my area" when I heard him call out. By the time I made my way to him, he was sitting on the edge of his desk, a thin sheen of sweat on his face.
"What happened?" I asked, looking him over. He appeared to be intact, with no bruising visible.
"I went left. It didn't."
"What?" I asked, looking him over again. There is was. I could see his knee swelling already. "We'd better get those pants off."
"Huh?" he asked, looking down at his gray felt trousers.
"If I'm not mistaken, that's an Armani and if we leave it on much longer, they're going to have to cut it off."
"Nobody is cutting a thousand dollar suit off my body," Mulder protested.
"Then drop your pants, soldier," I ordered. I pulled open the file drawer where I knew he kept his gym bag and pulled out a pair of shorts. After tossing them to Mulder, I turned to afford him a bit of privacy. "Let me know if you need some help."
I heard Mulder grunt. After a moment he told me I could turn back.
"Nice look," I teased. "Do I need to call Skinner or can we get you to the car by ourselves?"
-----------
"We'll have to do an MRI to make sure, but it looks like a meniscus tear
to me," Dr. Shallot said, looking over Mulder's chart at the two of us.
"What does that mean? How do you treat it?" Mulder asked.
"Well, we can see how things go with a few days on crutches, but if the tear is at all significant, we'll go in with arthroscopic surgery and take it out. At your age I can't really advise anything more radical."
"At my age?" Mulder gasped.
"Over 40 we don't see much additional success with the more extensive surgery."
"I'm 37," Mulder responded.
"All the same," the doctor answered, setting the chart back down. "You'll be fine, Mr. Mulder. Transport will take you to the MRI and then I'll have the nurse set you up with some crutches. Have them schedule you for another appointment tomorrow and then we'll see what we're dealing with. No need to borrow trouble, old boy," he said, slapping Mulder on the shoulder as he left.
"Old boy?" Mulder gasped.
I tried not to laugh.
"I want a second opinion."
------------
Second opinion or not, it was determined that Mulder did have a small tear
in his meniscus. He had gone one way and his knee had gone the other. He might
have torn it slightly before and not realized it. The boy has been rode hard
and put away wet on more than one occasion.
The treatment was arthroscopy. There was more invasive surgery available, but age or not, his tear wasn't really significant enough for that level of surgery. We did find him a Doctor Christenson who, if nothing else, was a little more sensitive about Mulder's age. He also had a very good reputation at knee repair. The last thing I needed was to be nursing him back from a knee replacement in a few years.
He could have the surgery in the same day unit. A little anesthesia, a few incisions, a little snip and we would be out of there and on our way back home. I even offered to provide home nursing service for the first twenty-four hours...provided he would sleep in his bed and not on the couch.
Mulder seemed a little apprehensive about the whole thing. I wasn't sure why. Yeah, I understood that he worried that his body was letting him down, but it seemed worse than that. I tried to get him to fess up, but to no avail.
"Any previous surgery, Mr. Mulder?" the nurse asked. My mind started to wander during the standard pre-op run-down.
"I'm going to go get a cup of coffee, Mulder," I said, standing up, trying to stifle a yawn. We had come in at 6 am and I was not quite awake.
"You had to mention the coffee," Mulder complained.
It was cruel. I had even watched him brush his teeth to make sure he didn't swallow any water. I smiled an apology and left, leaving the nurse to ask him about the regularity of his bowels.
--------------
"Dr. Scully?"
I looked up to find Dr. Christenson standing in front of me.
"Everything went just fine. We've got the knee wrapped up. He seemed to tolerate it all very well. We'll just let the anesthesia clear out and then you can take him home. I think Sally has set up a post-op appointment with me for Thursday and a therapy appointment for tomorrow."
"Thanks, we appreciate it," I replied. After he left I got up and walked toward the recovery room. Maybe I could use my degree to get me in. As I stood by the door trying to catch sight of Mulder a nurse rushed past me with a large emesis basin.
"He's going again!" I heard one of the nurses call, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone being sick. There was something familiar about the sound...
"Mulder!" I called as I rushed in the room. I moved to the bed to find Mulder doubled over spilling his guts into the nurse's bowl. Finally he was done and they laid him back in the bed.
"I'm sorry ma'am, you really shouldn't be in here," the nurse said, trying to move me to the door.
I tried to explain that I was a doctor, and that Mulder was my partner. She explained that I didn't have privileges and I could wait in the waiting room with the other drivers.
--------------
"Really, I'm feeling much better," Mulder said as he hopped on his
crutches to the couch.
"Slow, swinging steps, Mulder," I replied. "Don't hop."
He smiled back at me, well, actually it was more of a smirk. I ignored him and turned back into his kitchen. I knew he had to be hungry. He had been fasting since midnight the night before.
I heated up some soup and carried it out to him on a tray. He had fallen asleep, his leg propped up on the coffee table.
"Hey," I said, shaking his arm. I knew he would want to eat.
"Oh, thanks," he answered, taking a little taste of the soup. He set the bowl back down on the table and laid his head on the back of the couch.
"Is it okay?" I asked, tasting my own soup. Campbell's chicken noodle...there wasn't much you could do to it.
"Yeah," he said, his eyes closed.
"You okay?" I asked again.
He nodded.
"If you're going to sleep, why don't you go in your room," I suggested. "Besides, I want to put some new ice on your knee."
Mulder grudgingly agreed and pulled himself up with his crutches. He started for the bedroom, then stopped. I was halfway back from the kitchen when I saw him waver.
"Mulder!" I called, dropping the ice pack as I moved to catch him.
"Dizzy," he said as he went down, retching what little soup he had managed to eat all over my shirt.
I caught myself on the edge of the chair and tried to move him so he could lie on the floor. Putting my fingers up on his neck, I felt for a pulse. 30 beats. That was much too faint! I tried turning him on his side as he continued to retch. He was unconscious now. Thankfully I had moved the phone where he could reach it. Dialing 911, I asked for an ambulance to come immediately.
---------------
"Well, it's not common, but it's not uncommon," the ER doctor said
when he came to find me in the waiting room. "Hadn't he mentioned he
has trouble with anesthesia?"
I wracked my brain. Did I know about this? The only time he'd been under anesthesia was in North Carolina and I had to admit that I hadn't been around for a lot of the post-op treatment. I shook my head. I had not known.
"Well, we might have tried doing the surgery with an epidural if we'd been apprised of this condition, but he may not have known himself."
"But, he's okay, right?" I asked.
"He'll be fine. His blood pressure is pretty low right now and we'll want to watch him for a few hours, but you can go back," the doctor answered, pointing me in the direction of Mulder's bed in the ward.
"Hey," I said, walking up to his bed. The head of the bed was low, his head directly on the mattress without benefit of a pillow. His knee was elevated and I could see a new ice pack had been placed on his bandage.
He opened his eyes halfway and tried to focus on me. "Yeah."
"You remember what happened?" I asked.
"No, but we must have had chicken noodle soup," he answered.
I was confused until I happened to glance down. Sure enough, there were the noodles and flecks of chicken still on my shirt.
"Well, I got side-tracked," I offered as an excuse. "So, you ever have trouble with anesthesia before?"
Mulder turned his head away from me. It was a nice avoidance technique since he was unable to get out of the bed to get away from me.
"Mulder?"
"Well, maybe once or twice," he said, finally.
"You might want to mention that the next time you go under the knife," I offered, in my usual helpful fashion.
"Thanks, Dr. Scully."
"Well, for that one I'm going to make you come to my apartment for the rest of this convalescence. And you're buying me new clothes."
I clearly had him. After vomiting on me, there would be no more complaints.
"And we're doing a full medical history. I don't need any more of these little surprises popping up," I said.
The fight was out of him. He agreed without argument. Maybe it was his embarrassment. Maybe it was the compazine. Maybe it was my good looks. All that mattered was I had him.
FIN
Feedback gratefully received here.