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“I hate that word,” Mark growled.
Dr. Paxton nodded. “I don’t blame you. It’s a lousy word for a lousy situation.” He’d waited, but Mark said nothing else. “If your femur heals properly, I believe you would benefit tremendously from osseointegration. You’re young and strong, and it should allow you to achieve optimal function.”
He looked at Mark’s expression, then plunged ahead. “Your other injuries will take time. Broken ribs heal slowly, and the wound to your right bicep will limit your ability to use crutches for now. Your other wounds are healing well, and I don’t foresee long-term issues from any of them. But I don’t want to downplay your challenges. You’ve come a long way, but you still have an uphill battle.”
I'd raised my chin and moved closer to Mark. “He won’t be fighting alone,” I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. Mark reached up to cover my hand with his own, and despite his stoic façade, I’d felt his hand tremble.
Dr. Paxton smiled. “A solid support system is crucial, and this young lady has barely left your side. You’re in excellent hands, Captain.” Then he’d gotten to his feet. “If either of you have questions, just ask. The nurses can reach me day or night.” Then he’d gone, leaving us to collect the shattered pieces of Mark’s world.
MARK
An amputee.
I’m a fucking amputee.
Some assholes in the sandbox set off an IED packed with ball bearings and rocks and shards of metal and shit, and now I’m missing half a leg. And that’s not all. I’ve got tubes coming out of every orifice, and when there weren’t enough holes, they made more. Holes in my chest. Holes in my skull. I’ve got broken bones, a body full of shrapnel, and burns.
And a goddamned stump where I used to have a leg.
The trauma surgeon comes to see me after I regain consciousness. Charlie’s with me when he talks to me.
He’s straightforward. Blunt. Surgical, eviscerating me, gutting my hopes. Not that I want him candy-coating anything, but still.
I’ll heal eventually, but I’m damaged goods. Best case, I’m looking at a prosthetic leg after more surgeries. Worst case, my head injury permanently fucks me up, mentally and emotionally.
After fifteen years of protecting the weak from the bullies, I go out like this? A fucking cripple? What a load of horseshit.
But Charlie won’t let me wallow. She pushes me forward, even when I feel mired in quicksand. She spends all day at my side, coming early and leaving late. She patiently waits while I’m in PT and helps with wound treatments and dressing changes. And she never flinches, not even when they clean my burns and the stench of dead flesh fills the air.
Not even when they unwrap and redress my stump.
God, I hate that word. Stump. It brings to mind a dead tree. Which is accurate, I suppose. A useless, dead chunk.
I hate the word ‘stump’ almost as much as I hate what my body has become. Repulsive. Weak. Vile.
But Charlie is relentlessly positive. Because it’s her, I try to control my negativity, but sometimes it surges, and I behave like an ass.
And then, because things weren’t shitty enough, the phantom pain starts. What was once a prickling sensation emanating from my non-existent foot morphs into crippling agony.
Holy fuck.
It’s ferocious, debilitating, and infuriating. I don’t have a fucking leg there anymore, so why do I have such excruciating pain? It doesn’t make sense.
Maybe I am fucking crazy.
As my body slowly recovers, I start seeing a shrink. It’s mandated, and because it’s a military hospital and I’m not yet officially discharged from the military, I don’t have a choice in the matter. Dr. Friedman is perfectly nice, but he pushes me to take pain meds for the phantom pain in my leg. I’ve refused, because there’s no leg there. It’s not logical for something that isn’t there to hurt. I finally surrender after I miss a PT session because I’m in so much pain I can barely breathe. I take the damn pain meds. I have to go to PT. It’s my only hope of achieving anything close to normalcy again.
Dr. Friedman also keeps pushing me to take an antidepressant. Fuck that. After all this shit, who wouldn’t be depressed? We talk a lot about depression, anxiety, mood swings… well, he talks, and I sit in stony silence, running out the clock. I’m not taking any more pills. If I were stronger, I wouldn’t even need pain pills, but that phantom pain is a motherfucker.
My body continues healing. I’m getting stronger. My physical and occupational therapists are teaching me how to manage my miserable new reality. As my body improves, my internal resentment heightens. I’m always at a low boil, and every little thing sets me off. I’m biting the heads off nurses and therapists, but they don’t engage or bite back. They look at me with pity. They never say it, but I see it on their faces. Pity for the useless cripple.
I’m like a taut cable, ready to snap. I’m even bad-tempered with Charlie, but she lets it slide. Sometimes she’ll raise an eyebrow or disappear and return with coffee or food. She doesn’t pity me, thank God. If I saw pity in her eyes, I couldn't stand it. But Charlie looks at me the same way she’s always looked at me. We’ve always had a connection far deeper than mere friendship. I don’t know how to describe it, except to say she’s everything to me, and she’s all I have.
But even our bond isn’t strong enough to hold my temper in check.
CHARLIE
Dr. Paxton hasn’t exaggerated about the challenges ahead. Mark has his burns debrided again a few days later. Dead and infected tissue gets scraped away until only healthy pink tissue remains. It’s brutal, but necessary. After that, he begins daily hyperbaric treatments that promote healing but leave him utterly exhausted.
