Discharge Instructions

"They give you a list of warning signs that mean you're dying, then send you home with paracetamol and good wishes. Medical care in a nutshell."

The observation period stretched with the peculiar elasticity that hospitals imposed on time.

Jackson checked on me every hour—blood pressure, pulse, temperature, oxygen saturation. Each visit included neurological assessment: pupils equal and reactive, follow the penlight, remember these three words, what's today's date, squeeze my fingers with both hands.

Each time I passed well enough to remain in observation rather than escalating to imaging or specialist consultation.

Between checks I drifted in uncomfortable liminal space between waking and sleeping. The darkness helped. Jackson had dimmed the lights to bare minimum after Claiborne left, leaving just enough glow from the corridor to prevent complete disorientation. The reduction in visual stimulus eased the light sensitivity slightly, made existence fractionally more bearable.

But it also made time disappear entirely. I'd close my eyes for what felt like moments and Jackson would be back, announcing another hour had passed.

My hand throbbed beneath its bandaging—a dull, persistent ache that the paracetamol barely touched. Each pulse reminded me what Karl had done, what I'd concealed, the lies now embedded in official records.

I must have dozed because voices in the corridor startled me back to awareness. Multiple voices—Jackson's familiar tone, Dr. Montgomery's measured cadence, and Claiborne's deeper register. They were conferring just outside my door, words indistinct but tone suggesting professional assessment rather than concern.

The door opened to admit all three men. The small observation room felt suddenly crowded, their combined presence transforming the space from medical sanctuary to something more official.

"Detective Lahey." Dr. Montgomery's voice was warm despite the late hour. "Understand you're eager to escape our hospitality. Let's make sure you're ready for that."

Jackson moved to check vitals one final time whilst Dr. Montgomery pulled up the stool, positioning himself at eye level. Claiborne remained standing near the door, observing without interfering, his expression carefully neutral.

The neurological assessment was more thorough than Jackson's hourly checks. More questions, more physical tests, more careful observation of responses and reactions. Dr. Montgomery was looking for subtleties that screening wouldn't catch, ensuring nothing had been missed during the observation period.

He tested coordination—finger to nose, heel to shin, walking an imaginary line across the small room whilst Claiborne and Jackson watched. Tested cognitive function with increasingly complex questions. Assessed my ability to track movement, to process information, to maintain balance.

"Right," Dr. Montgomery said finally, making notes on his tablet. "Vitals are stable, neurological signs are all appropriate. Symptoms haven't worsened during observation, which is what we want to see."

He looked up, meeting my eyes directly. "I'm satisfied you're safe for discharge. However—" his tone shifted, becoming more serious "—that doesn't mean you're recovered. You have moderate concussion. The symptoms you're experiencing now will likely worsen over the next 24-48 hours before they begin to improve."

Claiborne shifted slightly, attention focused on Dr. Montgomery's assessment.

"No work for minimum 72 hours," Dr. Montgomery continued firmly. "I know police culture emphasises toughness, pushing through injury. Don't. Your brain needs rest to heal. Working through concussion symptoms can cause permanent damage or significantly delay recovery."

"I understand."

"No driving for 48 hours minimum. Your reaction times are compromised, your judgment is impaired even if you don't feel like it is." He ticked items off on his fingers. "No alcohol, no recreational drugs, no aspirin or ibuprofen—just paracetamol for pain. Rest in a dark, quiet room. Avoid screens and reading. Light meals. Stay hydrated."

He pulled out a printed sheet, handing it to Claiborne rather than me. "Warning signs requiring immediate return—severe headache unresponsive to medication, repeated vomiting, vision changes, confusion, difficulty waking, seizures, clear fluid from nose or ears, weakness or numbness. Any of those, call triple zero immediately."

Claiborne accepted the papers, scanning them quickly before folding them into his jacket pocket.

"Follow-up with your GP in three days," Dr. Montgomery continued. "The stitches need checking, ensure healing is progressing appropriately. They'll come out in ten days total. Don't miss those appointments."

He stood, collecting his tablet. "Jackson will handle discharge paperwork. Detective Sergeant Claiborne—" he turned to address my supervisor directly "—she'll need someone checking on her regularly for the next 24 hours. Someone who knows the warning signs and can get her back here immediately if needed."

"Understood. I'll arrange it." Claiborne's tone was professional, accepting the responsibility without question.

Dr. Montgomery moved to the door, then paused, looking back at me. "Get proper rest, Detective. Let your body heal. Everything else can wait."

Then he was gone, leaving me with Jackson and Claiborne in the small room that suddenly felt less crowded but more weighted with unspoken expectations.

"Right then," Jackson said. "Let's get you sorted with those discharge papers. Won't take long—just need some signatures."

He produced forms from his tablet, walking me through each section with patience. Confirmation I'd received instructions. Acknowledgment of warning signs. Understanding of follow-up requirements. The bureaucratic documentation that transformed medical treatment into administrative completion.

I signed where indicated, my handwriting shaky with exhaustion.

"Your car's been taken care of," Claiborne said quietly whilst Jackson processed the paperwork. "It's been moved to the station car park. Will be cleaned and ready for you when you're cleared to drive again."

The practical consideration surprised me. I hadn't thought about my car still sitting in the ambulance bay, hadn't considered how it would be dealt with.

"Thank you," I managed.

"I'll be driving you home." It wasn't a question or an offer—just a statement of fact, delivered with the calm authority that suggested no alternative had been considered.

Jackson finished with the paperwork, handing me copies along with a prescription for stronger pain medication if needed. "All sorted. I'll call for a wheelchair—hospital policy for all discharges."

"I can walk."

"I know you can. Humour me again, anyway.”

The wheelchair arrived, and I transferred into it with Jackson's steadying assistance. My head protested the movement, sending fresh spikes of pain and dizziness, but nothing severe enough to halt discharge.

Jackson wheeled me through the quiet late-night hospital—observation unit nearly empty now, Emergency Department dealing with the sparse collection of crises that arrived approaching midnight. Different energy than earlier, slower-paced, the staff moving with the careful deliberation of people managing exhaustion through routine.

We passed through automatic doors into the cool night air. After hours of recycled hospital atmosphere, the fresh air was shocking—cold, clean, carrying salt-tang from the Derwent River and eucalyptus from the surrounding hills.

I breathed deeply, grateful for air that didn't taste of antiseptic and institutional fear.

Claiborne's car waited in the short-term parking. He helped me from wheelchair to passenger seat with careful support, ensuring I was settled before closing the door and returning the wheelchair to Jackson, who'd waited by the entrance.

I watched through the window as the two men exchanged a few words—Claiborne probably receiving final instructions, Jackson probably reiterating warning signs and care requirements. Then Jackson headed back inside, and Claiborne returned to the car.

He settled into the driver's seat, started the engine, and adjusted mirrors. But he didn't immediately pull out. Instead he sat for a moment, hands on the wheel, the engine's quiet idle filling the silence between us.

"Ready?" he asked, voice gentle.

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

Claiborne pulled out of the car park, joining the sparse late-night traffic heading away from the hospital. Hobart at midnight on a Sunday was quiet, peaceful even—street lights creating pools of illumination between shadows, occasional pedestrians making their way home from pubs or late shifts, the city settled into its nocturnal rhythm.

We drove in silence.

Not the comfortable silence of people who didn't need words to communicate, but the weighted silence of too much unspoken between us. Questions Claiborne wasn't asking. Truths I wasn't offering. The space filling with everything neither of us was saying.

I leaned my head against the window, watching familiar streets pass in the darkness.

Claiborne made no attempt to fill the silence. Didn't ask how I was feeling, didn't press for my decision on whether to alter my intake statement, didn't offer reassurances or platitudes. Just drove with steady competence, giving me space to speak if I wanted whilst maintaining his own quiet presence.

I didn't want to speak. Couldn't find words that would bridge the gap between what had happened and what could be safely acknowledged. So I just sat, watching the city pass, existing in the grey space between sleep and waking that concussion created.

The drive was short—hospital to my flat was perhaps ten minutes at this hour with light traffic. But it felt longer, stretched by silence and exhaustion and the weight of everything that remained unaddressed.

Claiborne turned onto my street. He pulled up in front of my building, put the car in park, turned off the engine.

The sudden silence after the engine's hum felt weighted, significant.

"Come on," Claiborne said quietly. "Let's get you inside."

He came around to help me from the car—steadying hand on my elbow as I found my feet, the world tilting slightly before stabilising. My legs felt distant, unreliable, like they belonged to someone else and I was just borrowing them.

We made our way to my flat's entrance, my keys fumbling in the lock before Claiborne gently took them, opened the door, and handed them back.

My flat was exactly as I'd left it hours ago—breakfast dishes in the sink, coffee cup on the side table, newspaper folded on the couch. The ordinariness of it felt surreal after the hospital's institutional environment.

Claiborne did a quick professional walk-through, checking locks on windows and doors, ensuring nothing was amiss. Satisfied, he returned to where I'd remained standing in the doorway, too tired to move further without explicit instruction.

"Right," he said, voice carrying new weight. "Medical leave starts now—minimum 72 hours as per Dr. Montgomery's instructions. That's non-negotiable."

I nodded, lacking energy to argue even if I'd wanted to.

"However—" Claiborne's expression became more serious "—I'll need your official incident report first thing tomorrow morning. Full documentation of what occurred at the Berriedale Road residence. Mechanism of your injuries. Sequence of events. All of it properly recorded for the file."

The request landed with uncomfortable weight. Official documentation meant committing to whatever story I chose, meant creating a permanent record that would follow the investigation, that could be scrutinised and questioned and used to establish facts.

"What time tomorrow?" I asked, voice rough with exhaustion.

"I'll need it by 9 AM. Before briefing." Claiborne's tone was firm but not unkind. "I know that's early given your condition, but there are... administrative requirements that need addressing promptly."

Administrative requirements. The phrase felt weighted with meaning I couldn't quite parse given the lateness of the hour.

"I'll have it ready."

"Good." Claiborne moved toward the door, then paused with a hand on the knob. "Sarah. Get some actual rest tonight. What happened today—whatever really happened—it can be sorted tomorrow. But right now you need sleep."

"I will."

He studied me for a moment, expression unreadable. "I'll have someone pick you up in the morning and bring you to the station. Officer Thompson—Emma. She'll stop by around 8, make sure you're managing."

"You don't need to—"

"I do need to. Hospital discharge requirements." His voice was gentle but firm. "If symptoms worsen before then—any of those warning signs Dr. Montgomery listed—you call triple zero immediately. Don't try to assess severity yourself."

"I understand."

"Right then." He opened the door, letting in night air that made me shiver. "Get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow—well, later today now—when you submit that report."

Then he was gone, the door closing softly behind him, leaving me alone in my flat for the first time since Sunday morning.

The silence was overwhelming. After the hospital's constant ambient noise, my flat felt almost aggressively quiet. Just the soft hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of late-night traffic, and the creaking of old floorboards as the building settled around me.

I stood in my living room, cradling my bandaged hand, trying to process everything that had happened in the last twelve hours.

Karl's breakdown. The violence. My injuries. Hospital treatment. Lying to medical staff. Claiborne's assessment of my condition and careful management of the situation. The knowledge that tomorrow I'd have to commit to some version of events in official documentation.

And underneath all of it, the concussion fog that made everything feel distant and unreal.

I should move to the bedroom. Should follow discharge instructions, draw curtains, properly rest in darkness. But moving required energy I didn't have, and the couch was right there, comfortable enough.

Just for a moment, I told myself. Just sit for a moment, let the exhaustion settle, gather strength to relocate.

But my body had other plans. The moment I sat, the accumulated stress and pain and exhaustion of the day crashed over me with overwhelming force. My eyes closed despite my intention to stay awake, consciousness slipping away before I could formulate better plans.

And when I jerked awake hours later—disoriented, aching, still on the couch in yesterday's clothes—the alarm on my phone was insisting it was 6 AM Monday morning.

Time to write that incident report.

Time to decide what truth would become official record.

Time to face consequences I'd been postponing since the moment Karl's hands had pushed me into that wall.