CHAPTER 23
Harvey
Less Than Two and a Half Years Ago ...
Mistakes happen, and we should learn from them and move on with our lives.
At least that’s what they say.
Some mistakes grow roots into your back, each root spreading away from your spine, down your arms and legs. Said roots infiltrate the veins surrounding your beating heart. And such roots will either suffocate you or make you thrive and survive anything.
I made a mistake.
A grave fucking mistake.
And every inch of my body is telling me that I messed up—that there’s no way up from here, nowhere else to fall but rock bottom.
I hoped that reality would’ve set in by now, but I can’t shake the fact that a month ago, I was living my best life with very few worries to trouble me. Today, I’m in a wheelchair at an inpatient rehab center near my hometown of Clarendon Hills, Illinois.
The rehab has a big wraparound porch around its perimeter with a ramp in front. That’s where I sit right now, away from the other patients, seeking solitude.
I’ve been surrounded by many people since the accident, yet I’ve never felt lonelier in my entire life.
And I can’t even cry about it.
I don’t feel shit.
The numbness is all-consuming as I rehash my mistakes—how I rode my motorcycle during a stormy night, how Gemma sustained injuries because of me.
And I can’t take any of it back.
Even my stay at the hospital keeps taunting my every waking moment. Just the smell of hospitals is enough to make me relive it all—the pain, the news, the tests…so many tests, including an MRI and myelogram.
It was never-ending.
I process this information for the millionth time, emptiness coursing through me.
The rehab center has a group therapy program where we have to talk about our feelings, as if I have any. We were asked to share something about the day we lost our mobility. Actually, they used the words “since your mobility has been affected,” but we all know what they meant.
My mobility wasn’t the only thing affected.
I lost something.
I told them the truth. That I barely remember the accident.
What I do remember, vividly, was the scorching contrast of the July heat as Gemma and I rode our bikes the entire day, compared to the stormy downpour that led to our accident that night.
I remember that it was my fault.
Gemma begged me to go home right away, and I, like a dumb-fuck twenty-one-year-old, cared more about experiencing a high on my Harley than the anxiety-ridden voice of my girlfriend through the speakers on our helmets.
I know that a car crashed into me—a hit-and-run.
I know that Gemma’s bike skidded off the road and she fell down the hill.
I know that all of this could’ve been avoided.
But the rest? All a blur.
It’s like my brain has created patches of gray within my memories, and all I can do is feel how everything felt. And those feelings are woven through every goddamn particle of my upper body, like an echo, like a scene out of a movie that isn’t my life.
To be honest, I can’t wait to get out of rehab so I can ditch this program.
If you ask me, it’s like a pissing contest among which of us can get better physically the quickest. I’m being harsh, but I can’t help it.
Maybe it’s because I’ve barely improved.
I can barely move.
My body gave up on me, yet it’s like my mind quit on me long before I could even try.
Forget the paralysis for a second—gone are my gains, all those hours working out at the gym. And yet despite losing muscle mass, I’ve never felt heavier. It’s worse in my limbs, since I haven’t fully walked in a while. Even my shoulders and arms have taken a hit.
There’s this patient, Christian, who’s progressing well. The guy’s so happy you’d think he’s our fucking mascot.
And he’s walking again.
Meanwhile, I can barely stand.
They say not to compare yourself to others, and that might apply to the other patients here. But when you’re the loser, it weighs on your mind.
Other than walking, what I miss the most is pissing by myself, without any equipment or the need to aim my dick toward my stomach to insert a needle, aka a catheter, every time I want to pee.
I should’ve appreciated when I could pee without any issues.
Fuck my life, I should’ve appreciated it then.
Now I’m stuck doing this little routine in hopes that one day I might not need any equipment. Though I suppose I should be glad that I’ve managed to control my bowel movements.
The thought of Gemma seeing me do things now destroys my sense of self and independence. The thought of her seeing my new body can’t even be put into words.
I hate this new version of myself.
I hate that she has to deal with this when we’ve only been together for just over a year.
I just want to go back to the way things were. I want to go back. Just go back. That’s all I want.
On top of the fact that I can barely feel my limbs, I don’t even feel like the old me .
It’s like I was given a brain transplant and a new gloomy personality. I’d probably think of my old self as a douche if I saw him again.
That douche is dead.
I fell off my motorcycle, and I vanished. Just like that—never to be seen or felt the same way again.
Sometimes I wish, even for a split second, that I could die—just end it. A part of me doesn’t want to keep going. But I keep thinking of Henrik and Gemma and my parents.
Yet…I don’t want this—it’s too much.
I don’t want this life, and I sure as hell didn’t choose it.
“You’re gonna give Gemma an ulcer. The girl is stressed , Harv. You won’t let her see you. What’s going on?”
I freeze thinking about her.
My body keeps pumping blood through my arteries, yet my mind is frozen. Every exhale from my lips contains nothing but numbness.
“I can’t…not right now.”
“Harvey…it’s gonna to be a long journey, man. I know you know that. I don’t think shutting her out is the right approach.”
“I’m doing this for her.”
He snickers. “If you loved her—”
“Hen, what do you know about love? Seriously?” That shuts him up so fast I almost regret the words after they’re spoken.
He doesn’t get it though. I’m doing this because I love her.
“Try and explain it to me, then,” he mutters.
I swallow, looking away. The sun is blazing hot today, and touching the armrests of my wheelchair feels like reaching another level of hell.
“She doesn’t know what she’ll be sacrificing.” I exhale, my chest constricting with every word, wishing I could just scream.
“How do you know?” he throws my way. “Maybe she does. Maybe she did her research. Besides, don’t you think that’s her choice?”
I nibble on my lip, trying to create another painful diversion rather than the pain I feel deep within.
“I can’t let her do this…”
“Harvey.” Henrik takes a seat on one of the porch chairs. “Anything can be figured out in time, literally anything. You just… Change is new and scary, but once you get into a routine together , you might think otherwise.”
God, I hope so.
I don’t want to lose her. I love her.
“She’s not gonna let you do this. She won’t let you go.”
“Yeah, well, maybe she should.”
Who would even want someone like me?