The Things We Can’t Do Alone #2
He starts backing toward the door. "And don't let them talk you into juggling chainsaws."
"I'll try."
"They're sneaky."
"I've noticed."
***
He points toward Annette, who's walking across the therapy gym with a tablet tucked under one arm.
"She looks especially dangerous."
Annette hears the last part. Without breaking stride she says, "Good morning, Colby."
He grins. "Morning."
She stops beside us. "I promise to return him in one piece."
Colby studies me for a second. "I'd appreciate that."
"I'll do my best."
He nods once before heading back outside. I watch him leave, then turn toward Annette.
"You know...I think he's enjoying this."
She raises an eyebrow. "Taking care of you?"
"Being right."
She laughs softly. "I imagine both."
There's something reassuring about hearing that laugh. Not loud. Not forced. Just...easy.
She gestures toward the gym. "Ready?" She leads me past treatment tables and exercise stations toward the far end of the room where several workstations are set up to resemble parts of a home.
Kitchen counters. Cabinets. Shelving. A small laundry station.
I stop. "This is different."
She smiles. "It is."
"I thought we'd be measuring range of motion."
"We already know your shoulder is healing.Today I'm more interested in how you're living."
I glance around the room.
"So... this isn't therapy."
"It absolutely is."
She walks toward a waist-high cabinet and places a ceramic mug inside the upper door.
"Show me how you'd reach for your morning coffee."
I blink. "Seriously?"
"Very."
I step forward. Without thinking, I start to reach with my left hand.
Pain reminds me immediately. I stop. Switch hands. Reach again.
This time the mug comes out easily.
Annette watches without writing anything down. "Did you notice what happened?"
"I used the wrong arm."
"You've spent years moving without thinking." She smiles. "Now we teach your body to think again."
It sounds simple when she says it. It isn't. The next twenty minutes are filled with ordinary things.
Opening a cupboard.
Sliding a plate across a counter.
Pulling a sweatshirt over one shoulder.
None of it is difficult. Until it is.
By the time we finish, sweat dampens the back of my neck, my shoulder throbs, and my ribs burn every time I shift my weight.
Annette notices before I say anything. "Let's sit."
"I'm fine."
She gives me a look. "The chair wasn't a suggestion."
I smile despite myself as we settle into two chairs near the windows overlooking the snowy courtyard.
Neither of us speaks for a minute. The quiet isn't awkward anymore. Just comfortable. She hands me a bottle of water. I accept it with my right hand.
Progress. Small. But progress.
She waits until I've taken a drink. "Rough morning?"
I stare at the bottle. "What makes you think that?"
"You've apologized four times."
"I have?"
She nods. "You also keep clenching your jaw every time something hurts."
I hadn't realized. "I guess I'm not hiding it very well."
"No." She smiles gently. "You usually do."
I look out the window. Snowflakes drift lazily across the parking lot. A father helps a little girl zip her bright red coat before lifting her into the back seat of a car. Simple. Ordinary. For some reason, it makes my chest ache.
"We drove past the arena."
The words come quietly, almost before I know I'm speaking.
Annette doesn't interrupt.
"They were heading in for morning skate."
I laugh once. Without humor. "I was heading here."
"You were."
"It felt..." I search for the word. "Wrong."
She lets the silence settle. Not trying to fix it. Not trying to convince me I'm wrong. Just listening.
"I keep thinking they're moving on without me."
"They are." I look over. She meets my eyes steadily. "They have to."
The honesty catches me off guard. "So do you." Another silence. Longer this time.
"I'm trying."
"I know."
"I don't feel like I'm getting anywhere."
She glances at my chart. Then she closes it, not because she's finished, but because the numbers suddenly don't matter.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Last week..."
She folds her hands loosely in her lap.
"...could you lift your arm high enough to take a coffee mug out of a cabinet?"
I think back. "No."
"Could you pull a sweatshirt over your head?"
"Not even close."
"Were you sleeping through the night?"
Definitely not.
She waits. No pressure. Just patience.
Finally, I shake my head. "No."
She nods once. "So..." Another pause. "...are you getting somewhere?"
I stare at the floor. When she puts it that way the answer is obvious.
"Yeah."
"Not as fast as you'd like."
"No."
"But faster than you realize."
I lean back in the chair. "I hate measuring life in inches."
She smiles. "I know."
"I've spent my whole career measuring goals."
She tips her head toward the therapy gym where another patient is celebrating because he managed to climb one practice step without help.
"Sometimes..." I follow her gaze. "...an inch is a victory."
The man laughs as his therapist gives him a high-five.
His wife wipes tears from her eyes. One step. That's all. One step. I look back at Annette. She isn't watching me. She's watching them, like she always notices hope before anyone else does.
"I always thought recovery happened when the surgery was over."
She smiles softly. "Surgery fixes bones."
She gestures toward the therapy gym. "This helps people trust them again." The words settle somewhere deep inside me. Maybe that's what I'm really learning. Not how to move. How to trust. My shoulder. My body. My future. Myself.
Annette stands and offers me a hand—not because I need help getting up, but because it's time to move on to the next exercise. I look at it for a second. Then take it.
She smiles. "Ready?"
I think about the arena. About the jersey hanging in my mudroom. About the impossible distance between where I am and where I want to be.
Then I think about this morning. The coffee scoop. The drive. The cabinet. One inch. One repetition. One day.
I nod. "Yeah." This time I actually mean it.
***
By the time my appointment ends, the afternoon sun has begun sinking toward the tops of the pine trees. The parking lot glitters beneath a fresh dusting of snow.
I shrug carefully into my coat while Annette reviews my appointment card one last time.
"Same time Thursday."
"I'll be here."
She gives me a look. "I wasn't worried."
"You should be."
"Remember, I've met hockey players." She hands me the appointment card. "And Jamie?"
"Yeah?" "Today's enough." I hesitate. "No extra exercises."
She smiles. "No extra exercises.
I shake my head. "You really are dangerous."
"So, I've been told."
I tuck the appointment card into my pocket. "See you Thursday."
"See you Thursday."
I push through the front doors into the crisp winter air. Colby's truck is parked near the entrance.
He spots me and raises one hand through the windshield.
I wave back.
Halfway across the parking lot, movement catches my eye.
An older gentleman from therapy stands beside a small sedan, leaning heavily on a cane.
A thick wool glove has slipped from his hand and lands in the snow. He sighs quietly and stares at it for a moment. The glove isn't far away. It might as well be a mile.
Without thinking, I change direction. "You mind?"
He looks up. "I'd appreciate it."
I bend carefully, using my knees instead of my back, and pick up the glove. When I hand it to him, his fingers refuse to cooperate. Arthritis. The joints are swollen and stiff.
"Here." I hold the cuff open while he eases his hand inside. "There you go."
He smiles. "Thank you."
"My pleasure."
He flexes his fingers once before looking at the sling. "Shoulder?"
"Clavicle."
He nods knowingly. "Knee replacement for me."
I smile. "Looks like we're both keeping the therapists employed." He pats my good shoulder lightly. "Take your time, son." I start to answer. Instead...I simply nod. Maybe it’s because I'm finally beginning to understand what he means.
I look up and behind the clinic windows, Annette is glancing toward the parking lot. I think she sees me beside the older gentleman, and I’m pretty sure I see a smile touch her lips.
Then our truck pulls away, disappearing into the steady snowfall.