(1938-06-26) Falling Down Drunk
Details for Falling Down Drunk
Summary: Hunter finds out he has to choose between drinking and walking… at least for the time being
Date: 26 June, 1938
Location: St Mungo's
Related: Directly after http://wandw.wikidot.com/log:1938-06-26-visiting-hours Visiting Hours

At Clover's whisper, Keenan nods, taking back the charts. "Ye can tell that man of yers that I'll tolerate him claiming yer free time when yer not here, but I'll not tolerate him stealing ye from me altogether," he chides teasingly at the mention of opening a private practice. "I can't be popping over to the mansion every time I need a second opinion." He nudges Clover shoulder to shoulder, then turns to his patient. "Mr. Macmillan, I'm sorry to keep ye waiting so long. I'll just wheel ye over to the examining room, now. We'll need ye to take yer robes off so we can get a good look at those legs of yers…" he tosses a wink back over his shoulder to Hunter's informant as he waves the nurse off and gives her a reprieve as he wheels the patient himself.

While Hunter may be good at hiding things on his person — one must be in his line of work — he's not -that- good. The Macmillan looks briefly in a panic at the likely discovery of his pilfered bottles. There's an expression as he racks his brain, considering. "Will you be finding me a nice nurse to help with that?" A nurse he might be able to charm or bribe?

"Have ye ever heard the expression 'falling down drunk'?" Keenan asks conversationally as he waves his wand to open the appropriate door. "And ye're not even standing up yet." It takes little time for the healer to push the chair through the door, and over next to the bed. The door closes quietly, and Keenan leans back against it, crossing his arms over his chest. He looks Hunter squarely in the eyes, his gaze and countenance neutral. "I will help ye onto the bed, and I can help ye take off yer robes, or ye can take them off. It's up to ye."

"I'm not drunk," Hunter points out, scowling. "Much as I'd like to be. I've not been allowed to drink and my family's been told to stop bringing me whiskey." He glances to his legs. "Unless that's a joke about my current physical state. I'm actually rather skilled on my feet, even when I'm drunk." He looks sidelong at the Irishman and his brow furrows. "Why do I have to get undressed anyway? It's my legs that are the problem." He is, at least, starting to pull away that light blanket that covers his legs.

Keenan flicks his wand to remove the blanket, then gives Hunter a moment to prepare for what has probably become routine, the locomotor charm to lift him from chair to bed. "Because ye're legs are connected to the rest of yer body. And it's not just that ye're muscles don' want to work, but there's also a block between yer brain that's telling yer legs to move, and the nerve that does what the brain is telling it to do," he informs the man mildly. "And no, it's a joke to yer condition. It's why ye should not be drinking. Licquor counteracts the efficacy of any potion meant to improve or repair lack of locomotion." He folds his hands loosely in front of him once Hunter is on the bed, waiting for the man to take off his robes willingly. "Yer choice. For the next few weeks, ye can walk, or ye can drink. But ye can not do both."

For a long moment — as he TRIES not to feel utterly embarassed — the Macmillan looks like he might be considering giving up walking in lieu of drinking. Like really, actually, considering. He chews on his lip for a while, brow furrowed. "Can I smoke?" He hasn't been able to do that either. It's not as much a requirement in his day to day life, but it'd help. There's a long sigh and he finally starts to remove the robe. He tries, he really does, to keep the clinking of the various bottles to a minimum and to avoid any conspicuous lumps in the fabric.

Keenan takes the robe as Hunter takes it off, waving his wand again, but this time to indicate that the patient should "roll over on your stomach, please." He takes advantage of this time to clear the champagne bottles out of the pockets, and place them on a nearby table, fixing them there with a sticking charm. The robe is then carefully laid on the back of the chair before he approaches the man. His wand traces a spell down Hunter's spine, causing it to tingle so that Keenan can now press his fingers along the length, trying to feel for a blockage that he spoke of earlier.

Ass to the world. Hunter brings his arms up to rest his forehead on and scowls at the table instead. He saw Keenan removing those bottles and he is -none- too pleased about it. He needs those, as much as he needs this treatment. There's a wrinkle of his nose as his spine tingles and he grunts slightly. "So think you can get me walking again?"

Keenan shrugs. "I can. Question is, can ye?" His fingers pause at a spot about halfway down, and he nods to himself, his voice turning more clinical and less Irish. "Ye got yerself a nice little twist in the nerve here where it leaves your spinal cord. I can make a potion that'll undo it, but it's been weakened. It will want to collapse, blocking the signal from your brain to your legs." He straightens, and gives a nod. "I can't say if it will ever regain its full strength. Ye will have to drink a potion to keep the nerve from collapsing until it gains strength, if it ever does."

"Of course I can," Hunter mutters, scowling. "I've had worse." After a fashion, perhaps- it's a danger of his profession. But none quite so long-lasting and frustrating for the lack of any visual sign of the issue. He grunts slightly again at the pressure. He can still feel things, he just can't do what needs to be done with them. "/If/?" His voice sounds a bit strained and he lifts his head to stare at Keenan. "That's not good enough. Look, I… I'll not drink. I'll do what I have to. You have to get me walking again."

"When I ask 'can ye' I'm asking if ye can leave this," a nod of the Irish healer's head indicates the champagne, "alone long enough for the potion to reconnect and create a strong bond?" Slender, strong fingers return to the spot indicated, there's a precise and hot sting, and then the tingling in the spine fades. "I'm not saying that ye'll not walk again. I'm saying that ye probably won't be able to do it on your own. Ye'll need to take the potion regimen prescribed ye, and ye'll need to keep off the drink. If ye don't, it won't be just a saying for ye."

There's a slight hiss at the burning sensation and Hunter scowls darkly. He's quiet a moment, jaw working. Clench. Unclench. He draws a long breath finally, "So… if I stop drinking for a while… you can promise I'll walk again?" It's a difficult decision. He's got enough of an addiction at this point it's not just psychological anymore. There's that physical need he's dealing with. Woe betide the nurses over the next few days. "I… I can do that."

It seems a similar thought has been going through Keenan's mind, considering the crankiness already displayed today. "Hm. Can the nurses handle it, I wonder?" he asks, quirking a brow to the man. "Ye can roll back over, and put yer robe back on," said clothing is handed over. "I've been a healer fer a long time. I know better than to 'promise' anything. But I can see no reason why ye shouldn't. As Healer MacMurry was suggesting, we'll give ye some mild petrification potions to reverse the jelly legs part of the curse, and with the feeling starting to return to yer legs, we'll see how far ye get." As the healer finishes speaking, Hunter should be feeling a light pins and needles feeling, like when your legs fall asleep. "Ye don't have any strength in them yet, so don't go trying to dance a jig."

"I don't dance," Hunter mumbles as he pushes himself upright. He replaces the robe, casting a baleful glare towards the pilfered champagne bottles. He wants to walk, but he's still going to struggle nonetheless. He gets himself sitting properly, legs dangling off the edge of the table. He prods at one slightly, brow furrowing at the tingling going through. "How long will it take the potions to take effect? When -can- I start walking, do you think? I don't want to be here any longer than you want me here."

Keenan smirks slightly at the patient's mumble. "Even after ye start walking ye'll still be here a bit. Yer legs will probably tingle most of the night, and tomorrow we'll give ye a petrification potion to counteract the jelly. Once that's done, we'll start small walks, and some strength potions." The baleful glare is ignored, instead Hunter is asked if he's ready to be transferred to the wheel chair before the transfer is achieved. "Maybe I will be finding a deaf nurse for you who won't be hearing yer complaints… and she won't be tempted to smack ye."

"Ugh." Hunter doesn't seem too pleased to be here much longer, but likely they aren't feeling too keen on it either. The young man slouches into the chair and exhales at length. "Deaf or not she'll get sick of me." He's done a fair job keeping the depression at bay, but the lack of alcohol and the news that this will take even longer and isn't even guaranteed has him fairly down on himself for the moment.

It's a good thing that Keenan is now behind Hunter pushing his chair, so the dour patient can't see the grin on his face. A wave of the wand opens the door once more. "Cheer up, kid. Ye could be here for life like some of the folks in the beds around yeh." He knows it's probably not much of an encouraging thought right at this moment. "I'll have Nurse Crashett put ye on my schedule first for tomorrow, and we'll get started on yer round of treatments. We got the nerve treated today, and ye're getting some feeling back. That's better than ye were half an hour ago."

Grinning doesn't go well with Hunter as of late. The young man, usually in good spirits, has been in worse and worse as time goes on. He's used to open spaces and traveling, not being cramped in a ward. He flinches at Keenan's words. "I'd rather be dead." And he seems to rather mean that, also. "Being stuck in this place for the rest of our life? It's a fate worse than death. At least in death you ge buried under an open sky…" He prods at his leg again, making a face. "Gonna be hard to sleep."

Keenan stops pushing the wheel chair when Hunter wishes he were dead instead. "I am sure ye know where yer bed is," he tells the man flatly. "Ye must've been able to push yerself to where Healer Winterthorne's basket was, ye're capable of pushing yer way to yer bed. And if ye pilfer any more alcohol, it's only yerself ye'll be hurting." He diverts his steps out towards the front desk with Hunter's case file tucked under his arm.

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