“That’s what you took from everything I just said? I’m trying to be serious, Mickey.”
“I heard every word.” He picks up his fork and takes a bite. “And I want to talk about it. For real. But not yet. Not over pasta. When the time is right, I’ll have something to say about it.”
He’s taking me seriously. He heard me and he wants to answer well, not brush it off or shut it down.
“Deal,” I say. “Now tell me about the rehab. The honest version about everything you’re doing here. Not the quick ‘I’m fine’ version.”
His shoulders settle lower and the performance drops. What’s left is a man who is tired and willing to let me see it.
“The physical part isn’t the problem,” he says. “Jason pushes me hard and I push back harder. My arms are stronger than they’ve been since I played football. The push-ups, the transfers, the core work, all of that makes me feel like myself.”
“And the part that doesn’t?”
He looks away from me. “Keeping my balance is the hardest. Leaning forward in the chair. Reaching for things. Without the legs to anchor, I tip. Jason calls it trunk control. He pushes me off center and I have to catch myself, and half the time I don’t. I was the biggest guy on the football field except for Tex. Linebacker. Two hundred and twenty pounds. Nobody moved me. And now a physical therapist half my size can push me over like a toddler sitting on the floor with two fingers.”
I don’t say anything. This isn’t a moment for my words.
“The occupational therapy is different, but as hard in its own way,” he says. “Leah’s teaching me to live in the chair. How to cook from a seated position, how to dress myself, how to reach the high shelves. It’s practical. And every skill she teaches me is a skill for a life in a wheelchair and I’m learning the skills while praying I don’t need them permanently. It’s like studying for an exam you’re hoping gets canceled.”
“But the studying still matters,” I say. “Even if the exam gets canceled.”
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s a good way to think about it. The studying still matters. Jason tested my legs again this morning. The sensation test. Pinwheel. Fingertip pressure. I tried to move my toes.”
I go still. “And?”
“Same. No response. Weeks of daily testing. Same result every day.”
“That doesn’t mean forever, Mickey.”
“I know. The body heals on its own timeline. I’ve heard the speech. I believe it, mostly. But I hear the speech and then I look at my feet. They don’t move and the gap between the speech and my feet is where I live right now.”
“It must be exhausting,” I say.
His shoulders shift a little like he wasn’t expecting that answer. “Yeah,” he says. “It is.”
I squeeze his hand once before I let it go and check my phone for the time. “Damn, time is up again. I need to let you get back to your afternoon sessions. What do you have?”
“Leah at two. Group at three-thirty.”
“I’ll come back after you’re finished. Five-thirty? Whatever time works.”
“Five-thirty. I’ll be done by then.”
“Any dinner requests?”
“Surprise me,” he says. “You’re always good at that. I don’t know if you realize this, but your visits kept me going in the hospital. They brightened up my day every time you walked into the room.”
“I wanted to be there,” I say. “I wish I could’ve been there more for you.” I quickly clean up our lunch and tidy his room. “Hey,” I say from the doorway when I’m leaving.
“Yeah?”
“The photo I sent you this morning from the bed. I want you to know I thought about that photo for a very long time before I sent it. And by that, I mean about two seconds. I have zero impulse control and regret nothing.”
“I saved it,” he says. “To my favorites. I have a whole folder of you.”
“What are you planning to do with it?”
“I’ll never tell,” he says, winking at me.
