“That’s not what I mean, but I won’t have the same abilities as before.”
“Yeah, duh. Doesn’t mean you can’t function in a normal job. Down the line, won’t you be able to run again? Play sports? I’ve seen enough examples of people with prostheses who climb mountains, even Mount Everest, so I assumed normal physical stuff shouldn’t be an issue for you.”
I blinked a few times. “You think so?”
“Creek, there’s nothing you haven’t been able to do once you’ve set your mind to it. I don’t know anyone who is as disciplined as you. If you decide you’ll run fucking ultra marathons on that new leg, then you will. If you want to climb a mountain, you’ll get there. Simple as that.”
My throat got so tight that I could barely swallow, but it felt different from before. My baby brother had such a belief in me and my abilities that it made me speechless. And maybe, just maybe, it was mixed in with a spark of something else.
Hope.
“Thank you for saying that. That was… Yeah. Anyway, how are you?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
HEATH
The sound of pen clicking got under my skin the way the sound of chewing did for some people. I was already in an iffy mood as it was. My leg was hurting, and my nerves were shot, and I was waiting for the doctor to look at me and give me his verdict.
A diagnosis that could either ruin my progress or tell me I was just being paranoid. I was praying for option B.
But it was difficult to focus when the doctor kept clicking his goddamn pen. If he didn’t stop in two seconds, I was going to leapoff this table and?—
“Everything looks good.”
I froze, then slowly licked my lips. “Can you elaborate?”
Dr. Michaels gave me a wry smile and set his pen down—thank god. He did that doctor thing on his little rolling stool that medical professionals always did during appointments. That pose where they hooked their ankle over their knee and tried to sit with some semblance of authority and dignity on a chair fifteen inches off the ground.
He linked his fingers over his bent knee and met my gaze. “It’s a small sore, and I’m pretty sure it’s coming from the size of your socket. Your muscle’s shrinking faster than any of us anticipated it would—and that’s a good thing.”
As a physical education teacher, I couldn’t say shrinking muscles had ever been considered a triumph before, but that was what I wanted to hear. A month ago, I’d been presented with the option of having a bone implant that my prosthesis would lock into rather than using a socket.
While it would be more convenient to wear, it also meant yet another surgery and a long recovery, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to be under the knife again anytime soon. I was finally feeling like myself again, and I was getting closer to figuring out what the rest of my life was going to look like.
“I’m going to call downstairs and let them know you’re coming in for a refit next week. Normally, I’d make you wait a month like all the other peasants,” he said with a wink, “but I really don’t want these sores to get any worse. I’m sure you’re eager to get back to business as usual.”
I almost laughed. I had no business as usual these days. Not really. It was work, PT, and wallowing at home, wishing I could be out on the water. And that wasn’t something I wanted to get used to.
“That means more waiting room, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” Dr. Michaels said. “But the waves will be there tomorrow and probably better than today’s ankle slappers.”
“I still haven’t gone in yet. Especially now with this sore,” I told him. I knew he’d get my pain since he also surfed in his free time. The first time he and I had run into each other at the Push had been so bizarre. He’d looked trim and pretty damn good in his wet suit, holding a Channel Islands board under his arm. It had felt like one of those weird moments of seeing your teacher at Trader Joe’s and finding their cart full of bougie beer and expensive frozen meals.
I hadn’t been able to get in the water that day either, so we’d made awkward small talk until his friends called him over. We never talked about our shared hobby, but he made littlecomments about the wave forecast every now and again when I was sitting in his office.
“Just throw a big patch of Saniderm over it,” Dr. Michaels said. “It’ll spare you from the worst of the sting.”
“Spoken like a man with experience,” I said, hopping off the table and reaching for my crutches. I was back on them today from the pain in my stump, and I was trying not to feel like I was walking my progress backward.
He shot me a grin over his shoulder as he leaned over the sink to wash his hands for a second time. “I’ve been doing this for thirty years, my friend. I’ve seen and done it all.”
He hadn’t attempted to balance on a board with a prosthetic leg, but that seemed unfair to throw that in his face, so I just nodded, then grabbed the yoga mat strap I used to drape my leg over my shoulder and headed to wait for the elevators.
The building was old—like everything around the city—which meant everything was also slow as fuck. Last year, I could have just hoofed it down the sixteen flights of stairs and not given the rest of my afternoon a second thought. But last year, I wasn’t navigating this new shape my body had taken.
The thought of trying that now gave me visions of toppling down like a cartoon character. Except, instead of flying birdies around my head, I’d be in the ER with a brain injury. Or, considering it was sixteen flights, lying dead at the bottom.
