What Is A Legacy?

Chapter Twenty-Three

The next few days moved slowly, much to Thomas' delight. Here at the hospital, he was taken care of very well, and he suspected Washington had a part in that. The nurses slowly brought back his appetite with thick broth and soft foods that was the best he'd ever tasted in eight months. He'd taken a long hot shower shortly after he'd arrived, and it felt good to wash all the grime and dried blood off his body.

The doctor confirmed that he'd need minor surgery to remove the shrapnel, and that it'd need to happen once Thomas regained his strength. He was happy to say that his leg wound was healing very well, and that it'd only just be a scar when it was healed. He also didn't allow Thomas to leave the bed for a while, not until he had rested.

So while confined to his bed, he wrote. To Madison, to Eliza, to Philip. He realized that he never wrote to Madison in the Bastille, and felt guilty for neglecting his old friend. So he wrote, telling him of what happened. He purposefully avoided detailing the events of the Bastille, and even so, his hand shook as he wrote the line,

In the course of no less than an hour, my friends were the only reason I escaped alive. It hurts to write that they themselves did not.

After he'd written to Madison, he felt like the events of his return were stained with the thought that Isabelle and Byron should have, too. Even though he knew he could have done nothing to protect Isabelle, he was angry at letting himself to get as weak as he had.

And Byron, he could have helped him.

You're an idiot, a voice said in the back of his head. It wasn't your fault that they died.

But wasn't it? He could have knocked the gun out of the soldier's hand, maybe shoved Isabelle out of the way.

And then what would have happened? You could be the one dead.

Maybe that's what should have happened. Isabelle and Byron had kids. Four of them.

And him? He had no family. He had friends, sure, but his sons and daughters and wife were gone. He had no one anymore. And if he had been the one to die, maybe he'd be holding his son right now. Hugging Martha.

And Philip had his parents. Eliza had her husband and children. Even if he had been the one to die in the Bastille, they'd at least have each other. And his friends would still be alive.

Stop, he told himself. You can't do this to yourself. Not when you've come this far.

He forced himself to stop thinking, to get all those things out of his head. He thought back to the window in his cell, how when you looked out of it, he'd see the rooftop of buildings and cobblestone streets that would glow in the moonlight.

He didn't get the chance to get further than that before a nurse came in.

"Mr. Jefferson, the surgeon's ready for you."

Thomas put on a brave face, and forced a smile. "Great." He kept reminding himself that after this, he'd be done. The next step to recovering, to going back home.

"We'll get you to the room, and give you painkillers." The nurse looked apologetic as she said, "We'll have a piece of leather for you to bite down on, and the surgeon will do the best he can."

Thomas just nodded, the nerves making him queasy. "How long will it take?"

"The doctor says there isn't a lot of shrapnel. He'll remove it, and deep clean the wound. It shouldn't take more than 10 minutes."

Well, that was somewhat a relief. The nurse helped Thomas sit up, and take off his shirt and bandages, leaving only the covering over the wound. In the days he'd been at the hospital, he'd filled out a bit, but his ribs were still visible, and the cuts and bruises that dotted his skin were in varied stages of fading.

"You haven't been feeling nauseous or throwing up at all?" the nurse asked him. He shook his head.

"I feel the best I've been in eight months," he replied, and she smiled. 

"Have you eaten anything in the past hour?"

"Some bread, but that's about it."

"Okay, you should be good. We'll give you some painkillers and allow them to set in a bit before we start." She helped him stand, which wasn't as needed anymore, as Thomas had regained enough strength to walk for short periods of time. And with a slight limp, he was led out of the room, and down a small hallway to a set of wooden double doors.

He would be lying if he said he wasn't scared, but he knew that it was just one more step on the road to recovery, to normalcy. And, after this was said and done, he could see Philip again. He could play with him and take him riding, but he needed a good shoulder to be able to do that. So those were the thoughts that went through his mind as he laid himself down on the cool table, goosebumps breaking out over his skin at the chill.

The pills that were given to him were chalky and disgusting, and the nurse gave him a sympathetic smile as she handed him some water after he had swallowed them.

Another nurse was already there, and once Thomas was settled, she carefully peeled back the wound covering. The wound was a decent size, and red and swollen around the edges. Definitely infected, but not as bad as he thought it was. The pain was still violent and kept him up most nights.

 The room was cold and medical tools that Thomas had never seen before glistened on a side table. A kindly faced doctor in an apron and gloves walked in with another nurse next to him. "Okay, Mr. Jefferson, are we ready to get started?"

"I don't think I have much choice in the matter," Thomas tried to joke.

The man smiled softly. "Doesn't look like I have much work to do on you, Mr. Jefferson, but because there's still shrapnel it'll take some time. Have the pain meds kicked in yet?"
Jefferson couldn't really tell, but his headache was gone for the time being. "I think so. I guess we'll find out."

And so it began. It, surprisingly, wasn't as painful as he had anticipated, and he chalked that up to the pain meds he had been given. But that didn't mean it didn't hurt. He could feel blood drip down his bicep, and it felt like someone had taken a hot poker and stabbed it through his shoulder. With every piece of shrapnel that was pulled out, it felt like a minute had been added to the procedure.

His teeth left an imprint in the leather clamped tightly in his jaws, and his good hand clenched into a fist, straining against the nurses' hands. At some point, they had to hold his legs down, he was fidgeting so much. A groan slipped past the leather at some point, when the doctor was especially through. He was faintly aware of someone telling him it was almost over, but the discomfort made it seem like a lie.

Finally, the last sliver of metal clinked against the bottom of the silver tray, and he could relax. "Almost done," he heard the doctor encourage. "Just have to clean the wound and stitch you up now. The cleaning will be the worst part, but the stitches won't be as terrible."

And he was right. The cleaning burned, and with each individual stroke of the gauze it felt like his nerves were being poked over and over. But aside from his headaches, this was the most bearable pain he had felt in a while. Even when he had to be sat up to clean the other side, he found himself fidgeting less. It didn't put aside the fact that it still hurt.

Then the doctor had sewed up the wound neatly, and the tools dropped into hot boiling water for sterilization purposes. One nurse carefully carried the pot of water out of the room, while the other carefully wrapped gauze around his chest and shoulder.

While taking off his apron, the doctor told him that he'd done very well. "I must say, you're a very impressive man, Mr. Jefferson."

Thomas could only manage a soft grunt as the nurse started to put his arm in a sling. "Thanks."

"Nurse, be gentle getting him to his room. There is a wheelchair next to the door, make sure he's comfortable before taking him down the hall."

"Yes, sir." The nurse nodded, and patiently waited for Thomas to swing his legs over the side. The pain meds made him wobbly, which made him all the more grateful for the wheelchair. He barely remembered the trip down to his room, and the last clear memory he had was him propped up by pillows in the bed and Eliza appearing in the doorway.