Chapter 8
Josh
Deep furrows trace across my neurologist's high forehead. His lips curve upward, but his gaze remains solemn. Clearing his throat, he adjusts his rimless glasses. Then he sinks into the broad leather chair, forming a triangle with his bony fingers.
He looks like he needs to gather his energy, and I feel like he's sucking mine away.
All sensations vanish, leaving only one thing. I want to run away. This room, as spacious as it may be, feels suffocating. The chair, as soft as it may seem, feels like a bed of nails. My instinct to flee overwhelms me. It warns me of what might come.
What will come. Inevitably.
"What are the test results?" I dare to ask, even though a part of me doesn't want to hear the answer.
He clears his throat, his thinning hair on his head trembling. "The fall has severely damaged your cervical spine and compressed the nerve pathways leading to your hand. You are suffering from an extremely severe case of cervical syndrome."
Cervical syndrome, extremely severe . I repeat the words in my mind as if that would help me better understand their meaning. "What can we do about it?" My voice sounds surprisingly composed, but just one look at his face is enough to change that. "Something can be done, right?" I croak. As if on command, my neck muscles tighten even more than they already were.
Once again, he smiles, his gaze filled with nothing but concern. "Various treatment options can gradually alleviate the effects," he says, listing medications and physical therapy possibilities, but I stop listening.
Gradually alleviating the effects is not an option. "The trembling has to disappear immediately. I don't care what I have to do. I'll do it. But make it stop," I insist. I raise my hand demonstratively, forming a fist. It trembles.
Of course, it does. Since the problem first occurred, it has steadily worsened.
I can hardly bear his empathetic gaze. And I equally dislike how he now leans toward me across his glass desk, assuming a patronizing tone.
"I understand your wish, but it's not that simple." He speaks to me as if I were a child.
"Spare me that tone." It slips out. I’m a polite person, but right now, it seems like my whole life is in ruins. "I can't work with this hand. I will never be able to perform again." And the International Music Award will forever remain just a dream.
What am I supposed to do if I can't play? There is nothing else I'm good at. My fortune will quickly be depleted.
Will I really end up in the gutter, as my father predicted?
Unfazed, the doctor reaches for a sheet of paper and hands it to me. "You shouldn't dwell on that right now. I have prepared a treatment plan for you. In the coming months, we need to determine which medication is suitable for you. I'll also prescribe accompanying physiotherapy."
Months?
"Have a little patience, and we will get it under control." He nods kindly.
I don't want to get it under control . I want everything to be as it was before. "You misunderstand, Doctor. I don't have that kind of time. My tour starts soon. I need to be fit for it." Anything else is unthinkable. "Isn't there another option? One that works faster?"
For a moment, he presses his lips together. "Well, we could also attempt to surgically reconstruct the defects in your cervical spine."
There we go, that sounds better already. Reconstruct is a word to my liking. "Then let's do that. Preferably tomorrow."
I don't like his headshake. "First, given the extent of your injury, the operation can only be performed by specialists. Second, it carries significant risks."
I don't want to know about that.
"Thirty percent of these procedures yield no significant results, and over half of the patients end up with even greater limitations afterward," he continues unabated. "Furthermore, there is a risk of spinal cord injury and subsequent paralysis."
So there's a twenty percent chance? Only if I can still walk at all. I am at a loss for words. In fact, I am devoid of everything. All emotions, clear thoughts, and most of all, hope.
The neurologist pushes himself up from his chair and circles the desk. Then he takes a seat right next to me, gazing intensely into my eyes. "We'll start with a conservative treatment according to the plan I've already prepared. In a few weeks, we’ll assess the initial results. After that, you can still decide if you want to expose yourself to the risk of surgery."
"My open-air tour starts on July fifth at Vienna's Rathausplatz." I try to maintain a composed tone so that he understands the gravity of the situation. "Today is June twenty-eighth. I don't have a few weeks."
How could you be so reckless? I can already hear Tamika's voice raging. She has a right to be angry. I've jeopardized the tour with my thoughtless behavior. My career hangs by a thread.
As if he has nothing more to say, the doctor retrieves the sheet of paper he handed me earlier. "Follow the treatment plan and take care of yourself. Feel free to call anytime if you have any questions. I will closely monitor your progress." He places the useless document in my hand and looks at me. "There's nothing more we can do for now."
Who are we ? I am the one alone who has the problem. He will go home today with light shoulders and a free feeling in his chest, to his picture-perfect family, whose photos adorn this office. He doesn't care what happens to me. His life won't go down the drain.
But mine will never be the same again.