Free Crash by Carolyn Roy-Bornstein Page B

home, Neil started to stir next to me. In a half-awake state, he instinctively placed both his hands on either side of his coat-splinted leg, shifting position carefully but still wincing with the effort. He then settled back into a fitful sleep, his brow furrowed and sweaty.
    He had taken a Percocet shortly before we were discharged, but that had been almost three hours ago. He would be due for his next pain med right about the time we’d be pulling into the driveway.
    With one hand on the wheel, I fished Neil’s prescriptions out of my purse. Then I dug out my cell phone and tossed it to Dan in the back seat, careful to keep my eyes on the road.
    “Call the drug store at Port Plaza, Dan. Get the pharmacist on the line.”
    Dan sprang into action, getting the phone number from information, then winding his way through the Walgreen’s phone tree, and finally handing me the phone.
    “Hi, Mark. It’s Carolyn Bornstein.”
    “Sorry, no. This is Tina. How can I help you?” a high-pitched Asian voice offered. Crap.
    “Uh, this is Dr. Bornstein,” I began.
    “Oh, yes, Doctor,” her voice picked up and I pictured her sitting up, pen in hand, ready to take dictation. Clearly, she didn’t recognize our name.
    “Well, I’m on my way home with Neil,” I started. The line was silent. No recognition on the other end. “And I’ve got a Percocet prescription here.”
    “Oh, Doctor, you can’t call in a narcotic,” Tina stated, flustered.
    “I know. I know. I’m not calling it in really. You see it’s not my prescription. It’s from Boston. I just thought you could get it ready.” I was stumbling. I suddenly felt like a criminal, or at least a wayward doc trying to call in a favor. But really I just wanted Neil not to be in pain. I wanted him not to have to wait. I looked over at him. He was the color of sand.
    The line momentarily cut out.
    “Hey, Carolyn, Mark here. What’s up?”
    Relieved, I explained the situation, but before I could even finish my request, Mark responded, “I’ll have it ready.”

    As we pulled up in front of the house, Saul was chipping away at the sidewalk with an ice chopper and spreading rock salt on the stairs. Unlike the stubborn January snow, my heart melted for my husband, desperately trying to make his son’s way safe.
    It was 12:15. Trista’s funeral was scheduled to begin in 15 minutes. As I saw it, we had three options. One would be to drive to the funeral home early, giving Neil a chance to settle in. Or we could bring Neil into the house, wait the hour until he was due for the Percocet, and get to the funeral late. The third option seemed the most obvious to me. Neil would skip the event altogether. I roused him.
    “Neil? We’re home. The funeral is in fifteen minutes. What do you want to do?”
    Neil grimaced, keeping his eyes closed.
    “Get me into bed.”
    I sighed with relief.
    Dan carried Neil down the hill in front of our house, down the frozen steps, and in the front door. The house was ice cold. We hadn’t been home in a week. I pulled out the convertible couch and threw on some sheets and pillows while Dan held his brother patiently in his arms. We laid him carefully on the pullout, lifted his leg onto pillows, and piled blankets on top of him. His lips were blue. He shook violently.
    I lit a fire in the wood stove then brought Neil a Percocet and a drink. It wasn’t quite four hours, but he was in pain. I called the Brigham, not knowing what to do. I spoke with the attending who had discharged us. He assured us that, this once, it would be okay. Someone called on the phone. I cut them off. I was scared. What had I done? I should have insisted on a longer stay, or at least that transfer. The agonizingly long stretches of time in the ICU hadn’t prepared me for this leap to action.
    Saul came in from clearing the walk, threw on a jacket and tie. Trista’s funeral was in five minutes. The three of us looked at one another, then at Neil. He was asleep under a