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“Captain, we were discussing your progress in our interdisciplinary care meeting. You’ve failed to attend your last three sessions with Dr. Friedman. Those sessions are every bit as critical to your recovery as PT, and you will attend. If necessary, I will arrange for officers to accompany you. Am I making myself clear?”
Dr. Friedman balks at the idea of punitive participation. “I don’t think that’s necessary. Perhaps Captain Chandler was unaware of the importance of these visits. I’m sure he’ll make every effort from now on.” His eyes hold Mark’s from across the room.
Mark grudgingly attends, but he still refuses meds and shuts down any conversations about his worsening emotional state. His discouragement and depression snowball into irrational outbursts and angry tantrums with physical therapists, nurses, and even me. His angry highs are higher, his depressed lows lower, and his outbursts increasingly volatile. Dr. Friedman pulls me aside a few days later to offer some insight.
“Picture Mark’s emotional distress as an infection, brewing below the surface and thriving in darkness. Bacteria breed and form noxious matter that spreads unchecked until the body overcomes it, whether alone or with help. The mind responds that same way to depression and self-loathing. Poisonous self-talk forms deep roots. Mark’s self-talk is toxic because his self-image is toxic. He needs a catalyst, a breakthrough, to help him see more clearly.”
I envision Mark’s depression and self-loathing as a huge purple amoebic blob, engulfing everything it touches and growing exponentially. “How can I help?”
Dr. Friedman smiles, his steel-blue eyes softening. “Keep doing what you’re doing. It’s not you he’s angry with, it’s his situation. Because he trusts you, he knows it’s safe to ‘lose it’ with you, because you’ll still be there for him. It’s a terrible compliment.”
Now nine weeks out from the explosion, Mark’s thigh bone is finally fusing, his burns have mostly healed, and he’s fully recovered from many of his other injuries. Measurable PT achievements boost his mood, but only temporarily. His primary focus of contempt is the appearance of his injured leg. Angry purple scars track from his upper thigh to just above the knee. The newest one, still pink, runs almost directly down the center of his thigh; two others run down the outside. A dozen or so punctures from the external femoral pins dot the surface, connecting to the cage. Pale rectangular patches highlight his skin grafts, and a thin lavender scar crosses the tip of what remains of his limb after they reshaped it following the amputation.
Mark’s now in a (mandated) support group for new amputees. The meetings are led by experienced disabled vets who initially had difficulty coping with their new reality and have opted to help “newbies” learn things it took them years to discover on their own. One topic they’ve discussed at length is phantom pain, and while nothing besides medication seems effective, he’s learned he isn’t alone.
Mark’s mentor from the group is a brawny, boisterous double-leg amputee named James Mackey, though he goes by the nickname “Stubbs”. I meet him when he stops by the room one afternoon.
“What are you doing in that bed?” demands a deep voice, startling me. A huge man strides into the room, dressed in camo shorts that come to his knees and a khaki tee shirt that’s tight across his broad shoulders. He's easily six-five, with rich mahogany skin, a massive chest, and muscled biceps bigger than my thighs. He reaches for Mark’s covers and yanks them down. “Let’s go, Pretty Boy. You can lay around when you’re dead, and you don’t look dead yet to me.”
“I’m damn close,” Mark mutters. “I just got back from three hours of PT.”
The man snorts, then catches sight of me in the chair. He lays a huge hand on his chest. “Apologies, ma’am. I didn’t see you there. Sorry for busting in. I’m Stubbs.”
My eyes drop to his matching carbon-fiber prosthetic legs. An amputee named Stubbs? My exhausted brain doesn’t catch up to my mouth in time. “Seriously? Your name is Stubbs?”
He smiles broadly, showing perfect white teeth. “Actually, it’s James, but I go by Stubbs.”
“On purpose?”
Damn exhaustion.
He laughs, unoffended. Maybe he’s used to dealing with people whose brain-to-mouth filter doesn’t work. “Do I look like somebody who’d put up with name-calling? Stubbs is my nickname, spelled with two B’s, because I’m black and beautiful, baby.”
“Clearly, there’s no H for humble,” I say with a wry smile.
He chuckles. “Humility isn’t an affliction of mine.” Then he turns to Mark. “Let’s go. You’re late for the meeting.”
Mark pulls his blankets back up. “I’m not going today. I’m tired.”
“I wasn’t asking. You can go voluntarily, or I’ll carry you like a little girl, but you’re going.”
Mark glowers at him. Stubbs crosses his arms and plants his solid body like a redwood. After a minute, Mark concedes defeat, throwing back the covers. “Fine. Get out of my way.”
I hide my smile as Stubbs passes him his crutches. “You need to check your hair or fix your makeup?”
“Fuck you, asshole,” Mark mutters, and Stubbs laughs out loud.
Stubbs is exactly the push Mark needs. He calls Mark on his bullshit in a way only military brothers can. He’s a Marine (“no such thing as a former Marine”) injured in an incident similar to Mark’s. Stubbs swaggers through the hospital like he owns the joint, his cheerful bellows echoing down the halls. He stops by frequently to visit and “take the emotional temperature,” judging the caliber of the day by Mark’s mood. If he’s bitchy, Stubbs bitches right back, somehow unruffling Mark’s feathers, at least temporarily.
Two weeks before Mark’s discharge, his tension erupts like Mount St. Helens.
My night terrors are the worst they’ve been since I was first hospitalized immediately following my rescue from Afghanistan. I spend every night backed against the hotel room door with my tactical batons, always awakening in a panicked crouch, panting and drenched in cold sweat.
Every. Damn. Night.
It happened again this morning.
The Chihuahua taunts me, holding his makeshift whip in my face. I clench my jaw, steeling myself, and he smiles evilly before stepping behind me and flaying my back again. The whip bites my flesh, and hot blood drips down my hips and legs. Then I see his leering face and cruel eyes, and once again, I wake up backed into the corner, crouching, my batons raised to strike even though I’m a trembling, sweaty disaster.
