14. CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
This wasn’t supposed to happen like this. The surgery was supposed to fix me, make me whole again.
I mean, obviously, I wasn’t going to wake up with a brand new leg, but this definitely isn’t what I’d envisioned.
In my mind, I’d pictured myself standing tall, without crutches. I’d wear pants so no one could see my prosthetic. It would let me walk with a natural gait, so no one would know I was half a man unless I wanted them to — which I wouldn't.
I'd be able to dance and run and ride ATVs and do – well, anything Charlie wanted to do. Like stand in front of a minister in a tuxedo. Like ride zip lines in South America on our honeymoon, or maybe snorkel in the Caribbean, or go rock-climbing.
But once again, reality is a heartless bitch. I feel like I’ve lost my leg all over again, except this time, there’s no hope, nothing to look forward to.
Just a lifetime of never being good enough for the woman I love.
Fuck.
I wish that goddamned explosion had killed me.
Everything’s fine. He just needs pain meds and rest.
It becomes my new mantra.
They move Mark upstairs to a private room after a couple of hours. I keep the blinds closed. I text Lila rather than calling because I don’t want to disturb him. I don’t mention his behavior to her. I’m hoping he'll feel better after some sleep.
Although he wakes up occasionally, he keeps his eyes closed and doesn’t speak. He declines food every time it’s offered, though I do get him to take a few sips of water now and then. Just before midnight, the nurse gives him pain medication along with something for sleep.
It works. I stay in the recliner beside his bed, wide awake and anxious. I’m haunted by the emotionless look in his eyes. He’s withdrawing from me, or at least, that’s how it feels. It doesn’t help when he begins talking in his sleep. “No,” he mutters. “No.” He thrashes his head back and forth, and I place my hand on his chest.
“It’s okay. I’m here,” I murmur, and his body instantly relaxes.
It happens over and over, all night long, nightmare after nightmare, always the same anguished “No!” on his lips. Nurses come in and out, changing his IV fluids, emptying his catheter, administering IV antibiotics, checking vital signs. They give him pain shots two additional times, and he doesn’t balk like he normally would.
I don’t think it’s a good sign.
For the second night in a row, I’m awake all night at his side, but the difference between his behavior last night and tonight leaves me shaken.
Nightmares plague me all night, the same dream, over and over.
Charlie and I are standing before a minister. She’s in a beautiful white gown, and I’m in a tuxedo. She’s breathtaking – her hair down, her green eyes sparkling.
The minister, whose face I can’t see, asks if anyone knows any reason we should not be wed, and tells them to speak now or forever hold their peace.
Someone, a male, yells out, “Because he’s only got one leg!”
And every time, Charlie looks at me, her eyes angry. “You don’t have two legs. How could you think I’d ever marry you?”
My subconscious is a real asshole, but he’s right.
I was a fool for thinking I’d ever be good enough to find forever with someone as perfect as Charlie.
Mark really is out of bed the day after surgery. His first visit with a physical therapist takes place in his hospital bed. “I’m Shane,” announces a kid who could pass for a blond surfer headed to Florida for spring break.
Mark eyes him skeptically, but says nothing.
“I know what you’re thinking. I’m too young to be a real physical therapist. There’s no way I know what I’m doing, right?” He grins. “I started college at fifteen and got my master’s at twenty. I’ve been doing this for six years. You’re in good hands, I swear.”
This guy’s a little too perky for this hour of the day, although, to be fair, it could be that I’ve been awake for over forty-eight hours and my stress level is off the charts.
He tugs Mark’s covers down without asking, exposing his leg. It’s the first time I’ve seen it. The abutment extends past the gauze bandage over his stump. There’s a little serous drainage and old blood on the dressing, but no fresh bleeding. His leg above the dressing doesn’t appear red or hot, only swollen, which is normal under the circumstances.
“Alright,” Shane says, “I’m going to explain everything as I go. Some of it you may already know, but this way, I can be sure you have a baseline understanding about your procedure. Your surgeon reamed out the center of your bone to create a hollow to insert your implant. He drilled the hole slightly smaller in diameter than the rod. Then he hammered the implant into place for a tight fit. That implant is called your fixture, because it’s fixed in place. An adaptor mounts to the external end of your fixture. That adaptor is called a dual cone. It’s the go-between for your internal and external hardware. The abutment connects directly to the dual cone. The abutment is your external hardware. It’s the piece you’ll attach your prosthesis to with an Allen wrench.” He points out each part of the metal extending from Mark’s leg. “Fixture. Dual cone, which you can’t see. Abutment over the dual cone.”
Mark remains silent, but I nod.
Shane produces an odd-looking walker and pulls out a plastic bag, withdrawing a foam-bottomed rubber pyramid. “This is your footie.” He grabs an Allen wrench from his pocket and proceeds to slip the pyramid onto the abutment and tighten it into place with the wrench. “Snug, but not too tight,” he says, glancing at Mark. Then he straightens. “The footie is to get your bone used to bearing weight again. Bone that’s used is bone that’s fused,” he quips with a grin. “Light weight-bearing helps the bone fuse more quickly to the fixture. We start with a footie because the fixture needs to be partially fused before we add the weight of a prosthesis.”
Mark glares, but Shane is undeterred, whipping out a tape measure and measuring from the bottom of the footie to Mark’s heel on his intact leg. Then he reaches for the walker. I realize it looks different because it has an adjustable shelf with a computerized display. Shane adjusts the height and rolls the walker to Mark’s bedside.
“Okay, Mr. Chandler, time to get you on your feet.” Shane directs him to turn and slide to the edge of the bed. “Mrs. Chandler, if you could come help for just a second.”
My eyes fly to Mark’s face as he clenches his jaw, clearly displeased by Shane’s words. His expression slices my heart like a knife.
Is the thought of being married to me that appalling?
“It’s just Charlie, not Mrs. Chandler,” I say, hiding my hurt as I move to Mark’s side. “What do you need me to do?”
“When he stands, I’d like you on his right to help him balance while I move the walker into place and adjust the scale’s height if needed.” He grins. “Can you be his crutch?”
I remember laps around the halls at Brooke where I did just that, when the shrapnel injury to his upper arm kept him from being able to use a crutch. “Sure.” I sit beside him on the bed, careful not to bump his leg, ducking beneath his arm so it’s over my shoulder and sliding my arm around his waist. “Grab the bedrail.” I nod toward it and wait for him to grip it. “Up on three? One, two, three.” He stands more easily than I expected, and I help him balance as Shane kneels down, fiddling with the walker. I rest my head briefly against Mark’s chest and feel him press his face into my hair. Tears spring to my eyes at the unexpected touch.
Maybe things aren’t as bad as I fear.
“This walker is yours,” Shane says from the floor. “Go ahead and move so that your footie sits on this scale. Don’t press down yet – just rest it there.”
Mark moves his right leg into position, grimacing as he does.
“Good. Is the height right for you?”
Mark nods, one terse movement. “Okay. This readout –” Shane gestures to the small display “– shows you how many pounds of pressure you’re applying to this built-in scale. Your goal today is to apply twenty pounds of pressure for ten minutes, for a total of four times. Tomorrow you’ll do it six times. The next day you stay at six sessions, but for fifteen minutes at a time. After that, we’ll begin incrementally increasing the weight. If all goes well, you should be able to attach your prosthetic limb in about three weeks. Now you won’t be able to fully bear your weight for at least twelve weeks,” he cautions, “so you’ll still need crutches for a while. But this baby here?” He gestures to the footie. “She may not look like much, but she’s your ticket to freedom.” He grins. “I like to name the footies. You know, like pin-up girls. This one here? She looks like an Ava to me.” And before either of us realizes what he’s doing, Shane’s whipped out a silver permanent marker and scrawled the name across the black footie.
Mark scowls, but Shane’s irrepressible mood can’t be dampened. “Okay, big guy, let’s get you to bear some weight.” Mark tenses noticeably at Shane’s inadvertent use of my nickname for him. “Push down and hold when you get to twenty pounds. Then we start the stopwatch.”
It’s harder than it sounds. Being able to consistently apply enough pressure without going too far takes a lot of muscle control, and those muscles are hurting from surgery. By the time ten minutes is up, Mark’s thigh is trembling, and beads of sweat dot his forehead.
“Alright, big guy, sit back down on the bed,” Shane says.
“My name is Mark,” he snaps.
Shane just grins. “I knew Mr. Strong and Silent would talk sooner or later.” He helps Mark back into bed and pulls the covers to his waist. “I’ll be back in about four hours. I’ll have the nurse bring you pain meds before I come so it won’t be as bad next time. You did really well. You pushed through the pain. You’re strong and determined. You’ll be walking before you know it.”
I’m at the sink before the door even closes, wetting a face cloth with cool water and pressing it to his head. He closes his eyes while I gently stroke the cloth over his damp skin. Then I pull his covers up. “Thanks,” he mutters.
It’s literally the first word he’s said to me all day.
“Can I get you some water? Are you hungry?”
He shakes his head. “I just want to be left alone.”
By midafternoon, I’m exhausted and hungry. I slip out of the room and call Lila while making my way to the cafeteria.
“How’s he doing?” she asks immediately.
I hesitate. “Physically? He’s doing alright. He’s had PT twice today. He’s got some swelling, but nothing compared to when he first got to Brooke. And he has pain, but the pain meds seem to take the edge off.”
“No phantom pain?”
“Not so far.”
“You said he was alright physically. What does that mean? What’s wrong?”
Tears form in my eyes, and my throat gets tight. “Charlie, talk to me,” she says, and I hear the worry in her voice.
“He’s pulling away. Not talking, not eating, barely drinking. Before surgery, he behaved one way, and now – now it reminds me of his emotional roller coaster at Brooke. He’s not volatile,” I hasten to add, “but he’s distant. There’s a chill in his eyes, and before, he was –”
Warm. Loving. Tender.
“Different,” I finish lamely.
“Tucker said he’d have a hard time accepting the external rod. He said Mark kept talking about being normal again and being whole. He was worried when Mark woke up and saw that abutment sticking out of his leg, it would hit him hard.”
I remember the day we left the VA in Pueblo, when he told me he was “this close” to being normal. “That’s what’s wrong,” I say softly. “We discussed it a few weeks ago. He was talking about being almost normal. I told him he wasn’t defined by what he’d lost, but by who he was.” I sigh. “He’d seemed so happy lately, I thought he was starting to see himself differently.”
“He’s happy because of you.”
“He was. Now… something’s changed, Lila, and I’m worried.” A thought occurs to me. “Maybe if he talked to someone again.”
“Like a therapist?”
“He saw a psychiatrist at Brooke, but only because it was mandated. I’m not sure he’d be willing to go now. Maybe he’d go to an amputee support group. That might help. I’ll text Stubbs. I don’t want Mark hating himself again.”
“Let me work on it. I have a couple of clients that could probably recommend a psychiatrist, or at least steer me in the right direction.”
“Thanks, Lila.”
“If you think he’s up to a video call later, let me know and we’ll be there.”
“I will. Love you guys.”
The cafeteria has a section dedicated entirely to deli sandwiches and paninis. When Mark was at Brooke, I frequented a nearby deli several days a week. I’d bring Mark lunch most days. It was a way to help him feel less like a patient stuck eating hospital food and more like a guy hanging out with his best friend. I decide to try the same approach today. The cafeteria makes a pressed Cuban panini here that reminds me of the Cuban sandwiches from the deli in San Antonio. I purchase paninis, chips, and chicken soup, the world’s greatest cure-all. It’s still hospital food, but at least it’s not the bland stuff they send up on his trays.
I return to the room just as Shane is leaving. “He’s doing great, Mrs. – uh – Charlie. He’s determined. That’s a good indicator of success.” He frowns. “I’m pretty sure he’s hurting more than he lets on, though.”
He is. In more ways than one.
I push into the room, my arms laden with food. I put it down on the bedside table. Mark doesn’t even open his eyes.
But I can be stubborn, too.
He opens his eyes when I sit on the bed at his waist. I lean across him, my chest brushing his. “I thought you might be hungry for something.” I let my gaze linger on his mouth, hoping to pull him back to me.
He looks at me, his eyes cold. “No. I don’t want anything.”
“You’re sure I can’t tempt you?” He turns away from my double entendre, literally shifts away from me. Stung, I stand and reach for the bags. “I brought you a Cuban panini and chicken soup.”
Mark exhales sharply. “Leave.”
My head spins, and I can’t breathe for a second. “What?”
“I don’t want you here. Leave.”
“What changed?” I burst out. “Yesterday I felt like you –”
Like he loved me.
“And now you don’t even want me around? Why?”
Mark never answers my question. He shifts further over in the bed, turning his back on me. “Close the door on your way out.”
I stare at his back for a full minute before realizing he’s not going to answer me or change his mind. Finally, I pick up my backpack from the corner of the room, wiping tears away before he can see them, and leave, quietly closing his door as he requested.