"We're in orthopedics," I told Mom and Dad happily, my voice conveying the message that this was good news.
They looked at me cautiously, waiting for me to explain the ramifications of this.
"We're not in neurology, which would be bad," I told them. "That would mean she had some sort of neurological damage. You know, brain injury, spinal injury, paralysis, something like that. Orthopedics is bones. They put you here when you have broken bones, and only broken bones."
They became cautiously hopeful but I could tell they were awaiting a final word. It was understandable. I was too. About ten minutes after we arrived a young doctor came into the room. He was dressed in scrubs and I had an eerie flashback to waiting for the prognosis on Jack. He introduced himself and we all stared for a moment in disbelief as we heard him say his name.
"Did you say Dr. Quack?" Dad finally had to ask.
He smiled the smile of one who has explained this many times before. "It's spelled with a KW," he said, "but yes, you have the pronunciation right. But have no fear. My name does not reflect my skill, although I had to put up with quite a bit of teasing in med school and residency. Anyway, I'm an orthopedic surgeon and I'm in charge of Tracy's case."
"How is she?" I blurted before anyone else had a chance to.
"In considerable pain," he told us. "And she'll be in a wheelchair for a few months, but other than that, she's doing fine. I expect a complete recovery."
It took a few moments for that to sink in. I almost thought I hadn't heard him correctly. Doing fine? Complete recovery? Had fate been thwarted again? Beside me Mom and Dad breathed great sighs of relief. Dr. Kwack smiled at us for a moment and then explained her injuries.
"From what I hear," he said, "Tracy was seatbelted into the right rear of the taxi. The driver was making a left turn and was struck by a shuttle van right where your daughter was seated. The impact was considerable and the taxi was spun around to where it rolled off of an embankment into Lake Tahoe, landing upside down in the water. Fortunately Tracy was able to extricate herself from her seatbelt and get out of the car before she drowned. This is a remarkable feat I must add since her injuries were undoubtedly caused by the initial impact. It must have been horribly painful for her to drag herself out of the car but somehow she did it."
"And what are her injuries?" Mom asked.
"Her pelvis is broken in four places," Dr. Kwack explained. "Her right femur, that's the long bone in the leg, is broken in two places. She has two broken ribs on the right side and had a partially collapsed lung when she was brought in. A chest tube down in the ER took care of that. She also has a nasty cut on the right side of her head. That's been stitched up. I operated on her leg and her hip and put pins in to help set the bones back together. She's going to have to go through some physical therapy and she'll probably always walk with a little limp since her right leg is going to be about an inch shorter than her left. And she'll probably set off airport metal detectors for the rest of her life. But she's alive and doing well."
"When can we see her?" Dad asked, tears in his eyes as he heard the news. It was understandable. There were tears in mine too.
"She's just been moved to her room," he said. "And she's pretty doped up on pain medication, but you can go see her now if you wish. She may not be capable of talking to you, but you can see her."
We did. And Dr. Kwack was right. Tracy was flying high. She was lying in a hospital bed, her body covered by a gown. Her entire pelvis and right leg were encased in a fiberglass cast. Her ribs were taped on the right side and the plastic hose of a chest tube snaked out from beneath it. Her face was deeply bruised, the right cheek an ugly purple color, her right eye swollen shut. Some of her hair had been shaved away and a neat line of stitches was visible on her scalp. There was also the inevitable catheter hose protruding from beneath the sheets and ending at a plastic bag with urine in it. The other end of the hose would be threaded through her urethra and into her bladder. Remembering my own experience with such a thing I pitied her.
Mom wept openly at the sight of her, stroking her hair and trying to get her to talk. Tracy opened her eyes a few times to Mom and Dad's voices but seemed to have no awareness of what was going on around her. When she tried to speak it was only in nonsensical grunts. We stayed for nearly an hour before a nurse finally suggested we leave for a little bit. She would probably be like this for the next twenty-four hours we were told.
We found a hotel room in one of the downtown casinos and fell into immediate sleep within minutes. It had been a long night.
The next day Tracy, though in pain, was awake and alert enough to talk. She told the story of what had happened to her both to Mom and Dad and I and to the investigator from the South Lake Tahoe Police department.
Her and one of her girlfriends from college had ridden a Greyhound bus up to the casino area to do a little weekend gambling and drinking. Tracy, I knew, did not like to ride in a car with anyone but she had no problem with airplanes or buses, figuring that fate would not wipe out an entire vehicle full of people just to get to her. Since you had to be twenty-one to gamble or drink in Nevada, Tracy and her friend had secured fake ID's from a reputable dealer at the college. She declined to name just who this person was to the cop, although he did ask. The Greyhound had dropped the two girls off at one of the casinos on Friday night. They'd spent a few hours gambling and drinking and then, finding the room rates at the casino a little more than they could afford, rode a shuttle bus to one of the motels on the California side of the town and got a room there. Early the next morning they rode another shuttle bus back to the casinos.
The two friends spent all day on the strip and Tracy managed to get ahead more than a hundred bucks. Her friend was down about the same amount. Feeling fatigued, Tracy elected to head back to the motel to take a nap for awhile. She tried to find a shuttle bus heading in her direction but discovered that none were scheduled for more than an hour. Wanting badly to sleep, she'd gone out to the taxi stand and hopped in a cab. After all, she was ahead of the game and she could afford it.
The last thing she remembered was driving down the boulevard of South Lake Tahoe in the back of the cab. The next thing she knew, she was in horrible pain in a helicopter, looking up at a trauma nurse in a blue jumpsuit. Things were very spotty from there.
She was questioned several times about the accident itself but she said she could not remember anything. Nobody disputed her on this point. Amnesia is common among accident victims.
The cop filled us in on a few details that had been uncovered.
"According to the witnesses," he explained, "the cab made a left turn against across traffic and was struck by the shuttle van, which was moving about thirty miles an hour. The van driver was slightly injured, as were six of the passengers, although that's probably just what we call Jacoby and Myers pain around these parts. Anyway, your daughter and the cab driver were the only one's with any significant injury. The fault for the accident lies directly on the cab driver. No question about it."
"The driver of the cab was drunk," he said. "From what we've learned he's a hopeless alcoholic. We found an empty pint of vodka under the seat in the cab. Vodka and gin are the favored beverages of those alcoholics that are trying to function on the job. It doesn't leave much of an odor on the breath although it does leave a little. Our officers smelled it right away when they questioned him. They took a blood sample from him at the hospital. He registered point two-one percent. That's more than twice the legal limit. He has two previous convictions for driving under the influence. One in Nevada, one in California. He'll be charged with felony driving under the influence this time."