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I reach for my crutches and follow Lila to the dining room. Charlie has placed a soft stool beside an end chair so I can prop up my leg. The four of us relax around the table, and I find myself enjoying the camaraderie and comfort of good food and good friends.
Charlie leans over once to quietly ask if I need anything for pain while Lila and Tucker are squabbling good-naturedly about her goats. I shake my head.
Today has been another emotional roller coaster. A few hours ago, I was at the end of my rope. Now I’m looking at the people who mean the most to me, and I have hope that I just might get past this and maybe even be stronger in the long run.
Dr. Friedman said strength is knowing when to ask for help and being willing to accept it. He was right.
Time to figure out what the hell I want.
CHARLIE
Phantom pain is a bizarre phenomenon. Over the past two months, I’ve devoured every scrap of research and anecdotal information I can find. Phantom pain is extremely intense and quite real, even though it feels like it originates in amputated body parts. Although the limb is gone, the mind is convinced it’s there because the spinal cord continues sending frantic signals from damaged nerves just above the amputation. The mind and body translate those signals into severe pain. Essentially, the brain and spinal cord get trapped in an endless loop, and the only way to stop the pain is to interrupt the loop. Pain meds block the pain receptors in the brain, but they can’t break the loop, so the pain returns when the meds wear off.
I've exhausted every resource, determined to find a way to help Mark, and I’m hopeful I’ve found something. I’m planning to test it the next time they strike.
Mark’s worst episodes always seem to follow strenuous days when he’s most fatigued, and today has been long and exhausting. He’s been up all day, unable to elevate his leg while traveling and unwilling to take any medication while Tucker and Lila were here. I’m positive his phantom pains will hit tonight.
Mark’s gone to lie down. I’ve changed into sweatpants and a loose shirt, and I’m wiping down the kitchen when I hear his anguished groan. I'd expected the pain, but not with such immediate intensity. I dash down the hall, stopping at his door. I hear his gasps and rush in without bothering to knock. He’s gritting his teeth and gripping the comforter, his breath coming in tight bursts. I’m at his side in a heartbeat. “Phantom pain again?”
He nods, his eyes squeezed shut. I place my hand against his clenched jaw. “I want to try something different, to see if it will help.” He nods tersely. I grab a long folding mirror and a bottle of muscle-relaxing massage oil from the closet.
“I need you to help me. We’re going to slide your upper body to the right and position your legs toward the left, okay? I’m setting up a mirror on the right side of the bed.” I slip an arm beneath his shoulders to shift him. He’s still gritting his teeth, and another groan escapes his lips as he moves. I cross to the other side of the bed. “I’m shifting your legs,” I caution, and a guttural moan escapes him when I reposition them.
“Did you take your pain medicine?” He shakes his head, unable to speak. I snag a bottle of water and two tablets before helping him sit up enough to swallow.
“I’m propping you up with pillows so you can see my mirror.” I assess him as I arrange extra pillows. His jaw is tight, his skin pale. Beads of sweat dot his face, and his breathing is rapid and shallow. I move to the foot of the bed, adjusting the mirror’s angle as I scuttle back and forth to see what Mark will see when he looks at it. I need the reflection of his left lower leg visible exactly where he would have previously seen his now-missing right lower leg.
When I have the mirror situated, I rub his left shin to get his attention. “I need you to show me on your left leg exactly where you feel pain in your right leg.”
Mark opens pain-filled eyes and raises his head. “What?”
“I’ve been researching phantom pain,” I explain. “I’m going to combine massage with something called mirror therapy. You’re going to show me where your right leg hurts, and I’m going to rub that area on your left leg.”
His brows draw closer in utter confusion. “What?” he repeats.
“Mirror therapy uses an image of your healthy leg to trick your brain into thinking you aren’t hurting. Show me on your left leg where you feel pain in your right leg.”
“The place my right leg hurts is spread all over a road in Afghanistan,” he growls through clenched teeth.
“C’mon, work with me,” I encourage him. “Let’s give this a shot. Your right lower leg hurts. Front or back?”
Mark stares like I’ve lost my mind. “I don’t have a right lower leg. This is ridiculous.”
“Yeah, well, your pain looks pretty damn real, so let’s see if we can persuade your brain the relief is real. Is the pain in the front or back of your right leg?”
He regards me for a long moment, and I meet his skeptical gaze with stubborn determination. I see it in his eyes when he finally surrenders. “Both. All through the shin and calf.”
I squirt massage oil into my palms to warm it. “Okay, Mark, I want you to look in the mirror and watch what I’m doing. We’re going to convince your brain that I’m massaging the pain out of your right leg.”
He shakes his head. “This is crazy.”
“What’s crazy is deciding this won’t work before you even try,” I say firmly. “Maybe it will, maybe it won’t, but there’s only one way to find out. There’s a decent amount of evidence supporting mirror therapy, so I say we give it a shot.” I pause for a moment. “Unless you have a better idea?” When he remains silent, I push on. “Look at the mirror. Do you see the reflection where your right leg would be?”
He studies my face, then glances at the mirror. Reaching behind his head, he readjusts his pillow, settles back, and nods reluctantly.
“Good. I want you to watch that reflection while you tell yourself you’re looking at your right leg. I need you to convince yourself I’m massaging the pain out of your right leg. Really think about it. Imagine what it feels like. If it’s easier, you can close your eyes, but you need to look at the mirror sometimes to reassure your brain I’m working on your right leg. Okay?”
I wait until he nods again, his eyes locked on the mirror.
