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I slide one oiled hand under his left calf and begin to gently knead the muscles there while my other hand finds the taut muscles in his shin. “Think about how your right leg is relaxing,” I say quietly after a couple of minutes. “Focus on how your pain is diminishing.”
I massage in silence, observing over several minutes the perceptible changes in Mark’s body. His fists gradually unclench and his jaw relaxes. The tension slowly leaves his shoulders. His breathing grows more even and his face softens.
It’s working.
Holy shit, it’s actually working.
I continue rubbing, working into his deep muscle tissue.
“Tell me how you feel,” I say about twenty minutes later, still massaging his left leg.
“I don’t understand,” he says, bewildered. “How did you do that?”
I smile. “Well, it doesn’t work every time, and it won’t work for every person. The nerves for both your right leg and left leg branch off your spinal cord in the same general area. By making your brain think your right leg was being massaged while I stimulated nerves in your left leg, we interrupted the pain loop trapping your brain and spinal cord.” I gently release his leg and put the mirror away. “Studies suggest it can not only disrupt a current pain path, but prevent new ones from forming. We’re going to make this a nightly routine.” I return to sit beside him again.
Mark grabs my hand, a desperate edge to his voice. “Baby Girl, I can’t tell you how much this means. The phantom pain has been hell. You’ve got to tell them about this at Brooke.”
“They’re the ones who pointed me to the research, but they’ve not had much success,” I admit. “People are skeptical, and you have to really commit for it to be effective. Let’s face it, if it had been anyone but me, I’m not sure you would have tried as hard.” I squeeze his fingers and lean over to kiss his cheek. “How about a hot shower? I’ll set up what you need and stay within earshot.”
His expression turns wistful when I mention a hot shower. “It sounds wonderful.”
I turn toward the bathroom. “I’ll put everything where you can get to it.”
Mark gathers some clothes, then joins me. I’ve already placed shower gel, shampoo, and a washcloth on the shower bench and hung a soft bath towel on a hook. I turn on the water to warm up.
“There are more hooks for your clothes, and the walker is right here for the shower.” He rolls his eyes. “No arguments,” I say sternly. “If you fall and screw up your femur, you’ll be right back at Brooke, explaining your pigheadedness to Rick.”
I know he’s silently conceding I’m right because he frowns but says nothing. I barely suppress a victorious smile. “Do you need help?”
“It’s a shower. I’ve taken them before.”
I cock an eyebrow at him. “Sit down to dress and undress so you don’t have balance issues. If you need help getting into the shower, I’ll be nearby. Yell if you need me.”
“Thanks, Charlie.”
I linger in his room, listening to be sure he’s alright. There’s the rustling of clothes, followed by the scuffing of the walker over the tile. I smile. It may be under duress, but he’s cooperating. I finish tidying the kitchen, fold his freshly washed laundry, and check all the door locks again. When I return with his clean clothes, the shower is off, and I hear him moving around. I’m putting his clothes in the dresser drawers in neat stacks when he slides the bathroom door open.
He glances over. “You know I can do that, right?”
I shrug. “It gave me something to do. Do you need anything? A snack or something to drink?”
He grins. “I’m good. Lila made sure I have easy access to refreshments.”
I chuckle. “If you need me, you can yell or text or call. I’ll be up for a while.” I wait until he’s back in bed before heading to his door. “Good night, Big Guy. Love you.”
“Love you, too, Baby Girl. Good night.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MARK
I’m lying in bed hours later, still marveling at Charlie’s ability to relieve my pain with brain tricks and mirrors. Maybe it works on the same principles I’ve been reading about – neural paths and neuroplasticity, or maybe placebos and the power of the mind. When I hear an odd noise, I sit up, straining to identify it.
It’s a cross between a growl and a curse, like a werewolf with PMS. Charlie must be watching a movie.
I don’t hear any background music or dialogue, though.
“Charlie?”
