Bridge to a Distant Star - Carolyn Williford [71]
Though rehabilitation was a grueling process, Charlie attacked it like he would have charged for a goal on the soccer field. His rehabilitation team insisted he was their best patient ever—way beyond his years in maturity, determination, courage, focus. So that Charlie would gain the greatest possible mobility with his prosthesis, they put him through a punishing workout of various exercises—stretching, water and resistance therapy, weight training. Any increase in how far Charlie could stretch his severed limb brought a grin of victory. Each quarter pound more he could lift produced an exuberant fist-jab. Efforts by Dr. Owens to properly shape his limb as it shrunk to its more permanent size—to ensure the prosthesis would fit well—evoked stoic decisions on Charlie’s part to simply endure. That was all anyone could ask of him during that particularly painful part of his therapy.
Every advance was not without price. Each was bought with intense pain. And then mined by Charlie as a resource for more progress.
Chemo, however, was a different challenge. Try as he might, Charlie could not face it with a positive attitude; it succeeded in defeating him every time. Though he took drugs to alleviate the nausea, vomiting routinely followed his treatments. As a result, he lost his appetite. Then he lost weight. Soon afterward, he lost his hair—all of it. His face looked flat without eyelashes or eyebrows to give it dimension and definition.
In Charlie’s estimation, he looked like a freak. So he avoided mirrors at all costs, ducking beneath the one in their home’s entranceway. Keeping his eyes averted when standing over a sink in a bathroom. On the rare occasions he did catch a glimpse of himself, he would frown and smirk, vowing never to cut his hair once he was done with chemo. And though the members of his soccer team wanted to shave their heads in support, Charlie vigorously opposed the idea. They were actually disappointed when he’d argued that he didn’t want to look at any more bald heads. “Mine’s enough to deal with,” he insisted. “I’ll think I’m looking in a mirror everywhere I go if I have to see you guys hairless too. Thanks—but no thanks, guys.”
Another side effect was susceptibility to infection. Though Fran was like a drill sergeant in protecting Charlie from anyone with infectious potential, he still caught colds and viruses. Which put him into a vicious cycle, for once he became ill, his treatment would be delayed. The longer he went without the treatment, the longer his chemotherapy would need to last, making him susceptible to infection for that much longer.
Charlie also discovered his rehabilitation exercises and determination to get around independently meant constant accidents. Bumps into table edges, intense pressure on his limb while using the weights, even falls were inevitable, according to Charlie and his dad. According to Fran, these mishaps were to be avoided at all costs. Due to Charlie’s shortage of blood platelets from chemo, he bruised easily. And bled profusely even from minor cuts. The combination of rehabilitation and chemo was Murphy’s Law waiting to happen.
And every struggle of Charlie’s was profoundly telling on Fran.
Fran and Charles had made a bargain to put aside their differences for Charlie’s sake, and for the most part, they had kept it. Putting him in the middle—causing Charlie even more hurt—was enough of a deterrent that they swallowed back words. Kept raging emotions in check. And generally avoided direct confrontation. It was taking a mounting toll on both parents,