• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“I apologize for interrupting you, but Sonny brought me by to see you because I wanted to talk to you about what to expect. I pointed to the Ilizarov and said, “I had one of these external fixators.”

“Oh, you did?”

I showed him my pictures, beginning with those taken the day after they put on the Ilizarov frame. Each one showed progression to the next step. He stared at each one closely and saw that I had been worse off than he was.

“And you recovered, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did, and so will you.”

“That’s good that you made it all right, but I don’t think I’m going to make it. They can’t give me any guarantee that I’m going to keep this leg. The doctors are pessimistic, so that makes it harder for me.”

“Well, that’s just the way they are,” I said, remembering so well my feelings in those early days. “They try to err on the side of being conservative and try not to get your hopes up. Months from now, they know, you could have this fixator and everything could be working fine and then your leg could get infected and you could still lose it.”

“That’s what I mean. I’m just not sure it’s worth all this pain.”

“The good news is that the pain will ease up as you get better.”

His wife had walked in during the conversation and listened. “I’m just so tired at the lack of progress, and nobody will tell us anything,” she said. “We’re about ready to change doctors.”

“You might find a better doctor,” I said, “but wait a bit. Be patient. I’m sure your doctor is doing his best.”

Then I told them about the time I reached the end of my patience:

“When my doctor came in to see me I was fuming.

“‘Sit down,’ I yelled.

“He did, and for maybe five minutes I complained about everything that bothered and upset me. As I watched his face, I realized I had hurt his feelings. I hadn’t been thinking about him, of course. I was hurting, never pain free, couldn’t sleep, and I wanted answers. ‘I get tired of all this not knowing. I ask you how long I have to wear this, and you say, “Maybe another month, maybe two months, maybe three months.” ’ I wasn’t through yet, and my anger really burst out with another round of complaints. I ended with, ‘Why can’t you give me a straight answer?’

“He dropped his head and said softly, ‘I’m doing the best I can. I don’t know the answers. That’s why I can’t tell you.’

“‘I’m just looking for—’

“‘I know you are, but this isn’t an exact science. We’re reinventing the wheel. We don’t have that much experience in this area, and this is all new technology for us. We’re doing the best we can.’”

After I told Brad and his wife about that incident, I added, “Please be patient with your doctor. He can’t give you answers he doesn’t have. He’ll also tell you things to do and load you down with prescriptions. He’s going to put you in a lot of therapy, and you’re just going to have to learn how to deal with it—with all of it.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said, “but I just can’t control my emotions anymore. I’m a cop. I’ve seen a lot of hard, bad, difficult stuff. I find myself just breaking down—I mean, real emotional. Know what I mean?”

“Absolutely. Just go ahead and break down. It’ll happen again.”

“I feel out of control.”

“You are out of control!”

Brad stared at me.

“Think about it. What can you control? Nothing.”

“I can’t even wipe myself.”

“That’s right. You’re totally helpless. There’s nothing you can do or control.”

“Before this I was a weight lifter and a bodybuilder,” he said. “I had a physique you wouldn’t believe.”

“I have no doubt about that.” I could see that he had once been muscular and strong. “But you don’t have that now. You may have a great body again someday, but the inability to get up and do the things that you used to do will cause you to change. Be prepared to change. You’re going to lose weight; muscles will atrophy. You can’t control your body the way you did before.”

His wife was obviously feeling all the stress as well, and she was on the verge of tears. “He just feels so bad, even with medication. I just don’t know