‘I’m sorry I’ve been so busy,’ he says, also watching the swing creak back and forth. ‘I’ve been training every day at the clinic, in the gym at home in the evenings or the pool.’
‘It’s fine, really. You’ve got so much going on, and you get fitted with your prostheses soon.’
‘Thursday.’
‘You don’t need to be driving all the way out here to check up on me.’
‘First, it’s only a half-hour up the M3 and second, this isn’t an inconvenience to me, Alice. If you need anything, even just to talk or go for a walk, I’m here. Just because I’ve been busy and spending time with Will and Euan, doesn’t mean I’m too busy for you.’
I gaze down at my feet, at my woolly gray socks on the cold patio stone, and sigh deeply. I feel guilty he’s come all the way out here, for me. He’s got so much to be happy about right now, he’s finally getting his life back. He’s so much happier than when I first met him at the hospital. All I’m doing is bringing him down.
‘Have you been back to the church group?’ he asks.
‘No, not yet.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I ran out the first time. I suppose I’m just a little embarrassed,’ I shrug, picking at the edge of the plastic lid.
‘You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about. Look, I’ll go with you next time if it means you’ll go.’
‘Really? You’d do that?’
He nods.
‘Thanks,’ I smile, taking another sip. He doesn’t have to say anything when he’s there, but just having him next to me will help a lot.
‘Come on,’ he mutters, turning himself around in the chair. He’s already so much smoother navigating that than what he used to be. I can’t help but smile. ‘Get dressed. We’ve got an adopted herb patch to tend to.’
Jack
‘How does it feel, Jack?’
I glance at the prosthetist, Dr McKenzie, then over at my mum who eagerly sits on the edge of her chair. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it’s not this. This feels – strange. Extending from my thighs all the way down are two very artificial-looking legs. They’re smooth to the touch, cool beneath my finger pads, and the texture is weird. And the colour, what colour is that? It’s the default colour of the emoji faces on my phone, a rich yellow that’s neither tan nor beige. I hate using emojis, Lauren used about five per text, but if I used one I always changed the colour to a more realistic-looking shade. But I can’t alter the colour on these, they’re permanently set to default.
Oh God, I have emoji legs.
‘Jack?’ asks my mum.
What do they want me to say – I love them? Oh yes, they’re perfect, they look just my own legs, I’ll never be able to tell the difference. And the durability is outstanding. These legs can definitely get me to the top of a Munro or to the finish line of a marathon.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Dr McKenzie says as she moves closer to me.
I doubt she knows what thoughts are going through my mind right now.
‘They’re not your legs. I know. They can’t ever replace your legs.’
OK, maybe she does know.
‘But these will hopefully do a lot for you in terms of enhancing your way of life. In an ideal world, we wouldn’t be sitting here at all. You’d be out there, doing what you love to do. But we’re not in an ideal world, so this right here is the best option for getting you more physical movement and freedom.’
Freedom. She’s right. These strange-looking, bright yellow emoji legs are an opportunity to get back to all the physical activities that I love, and just because they look weird right now, doesn’t mean I won’t get used to them. I will. And besides, once I put trousers on no one will be able to see them anyway. I’ll be standing tall again and no one will have to crouch or bend down to speak to me like I’m a child. I’ll be tall again, right? These aren’t the artificial legs of a short person? Girls hate short guys.
‘Do you want to try standing on them?’
I nod hesitantly. I’ve been waiting for this day for a long time, ever since we first discussed prostheses. Here we go. I look over at my mum who takes a loud, sharp inhale and slowly shimmy off the clinic bed, scooting one inch at a time. I take Dr McKenzie’s hand when she offers it and start to shift forward.
My mum stands beside me and smiles. ‘It’s OK, we’ll catch you.’
I take a long deep breath, squeeze my eyes closed and let go.
The first thing I feel is pain. Overwhelming pain through my thighs to my hips as the weight of my whole body rests on two pieces of hard plastic. Then I feel nauseous as my body sways and rocks. I grip Mum’s shoulders and the specialist’s to steady myself. I lift my left leg and let the weight shift to the right, and try to take a step. My torso lurches forward, pushing my hips back and I slide back down onto the bed. My mum catches me before I can fall back. Another burst of sharp pain shoots up my thigh as I try to stand again so I sit back down and take a sharp breath in. It hurts so much.
‘It’s going to be uncomfortable and probably painful at first so don’t be discouraged. That’s why we encourage a desensitising programme to build tolerance and so that your limbs get used to the impact of the movement. But it doesn’t last long, and soon you’ll be moving in them pain-free. Remember how awkward you felt in the wheelchair when your first got it?’
I nod, that time in my life at the hospital feels like so long ago already. I hated that chair at first. Hated being in it, hated feeling like I couldn’t leave it. But then I got used to it and getting around in it became more natural, like these will. I just need to train harder and persevere. I can do that.
‘You mentioned you wanted to recommence your physical activities?’ asks the specialist.
‘Yes, I want to get back to running. And climbing, hiking, skiing—’
‘Jack—’ My mum can’t stand to hear this again. She tells me my life now is different, not worse, just different. She doesn’t understand. She probably never will. Who could possibly walk in the shoes of an amputee who recently lost both legs? Don’t excuse the pun. It was intentional.
‘So, it’s possible now? With these?’ I ask Dr McKenzie.
‘I did get you endurance prostheses for high-functioning physical activities like every day walking. In terms of running, we’ll see how you get on with these and with your new physiotherapy training programme and if all goes well, we can discuss other options for getting you back to your optimum fitness, such as looking at the Össur running blades.’
‘Great!’ I exhale. ‘Can you order them now?’
‘Running blades are very expensive; they cost around $15,000-$18,000 per limb. And they tend to work best with below-the-knee amputations but your injuries meant an above-the-knee double amputation so for that reason it’s better for us to start with these – along with an aggressive training plan to learn how to move smoothly and efficiently before thinking about speed and pace. You also need to learn how to compensate for the loss of muscle, bone and knee joint in both legs. Let’s start there for now, yeah?’
‘But we can have this conversation again soon, right? Once I’ve had success with these?’ I ask.
‘Of course.’
I bite my lip in elation, gazing down at the new prostheses. I’ll be back up running in no time.
Alice
Alice, I’m so sorry but I won’t make the therapy group tonight. Patrick’s had a cancellation for an evening session at the training clinic and I couldn’t say no.
I roll my eyes and shove my phone in my pocket. I’ve been standing in the car park in the dark for ten minutes and now I have to go in there alone and face everyone. I sigh and gaze back at the church building, the bright lights from inside illuminating the cars around me. I sigh and shove my phone in my pocket. I think I’ll just miss it tonight too. I was dreading going in, even with Jack beside me. Maybe I’m just not ready for this. I’m not ready to talk about it, or face it. I’ll walk slow, mayb
e get a slice from Pizza Bella or a coffee and walk along the river, take the long way home. That way I can pretend to my mom that I went tonight. She and my dad are so worried about me. I don’t want to worry them more.
‘Alice?’ I look up and see Ian at the steps.
‘Oh, hi.’
‘You coming in?’
‘Um … sure.’ I follow behind him, cursing myself for not thinking fast enough. I should have said no, or said I was waiting for someone then just left. Now there’s no backing out.
He turns and smiles at me. ‘It’s nice to see you here again.’
‘Hope I stay longer this time,’ I laugh nervously.
He smiles with me, but I can tell it’s a sympathetic one. He opens the door to the hall for me and I step inside, immediately seeing the circle of chairs. Wyatt is here already. He waves to me from the circle. I hesitantly wave back. Ian starts unpacking an array of snacks from a bag onto the folding plastic table by the door. A carton of orange squash, a battered box of oatmeal and raisin cookies and what looks like over-ripe bananas in a plastic bowl. They really could do with some funding.
‘Snack?’
‘No, thanks. I just ate,’ I quickly reply. I take a seat and slide my bag under my seat wondering if I should excuse myself to the bathroom just so I can run away discreetly before this starts.
‘Nice to see you back, Alice,’ says a woman from behind me, who I think is Sara from last time. She takes a seat opposite me in the circle and smiles. I’m surprised how many of them remember me. I’m not particularly memorable, or so I thought. The rest of the group shuffle in through the door, pick through the snack table and sit down.
‘Shall we start?’ asks Ian. ‘First, welcome back Alice.’
‘Sorry about last time, just running out like that,’ I mutter, feeling my cheeks warm.
‘No need to apologize for anything here. Your reaction was perfectly normal. Everyone here has walked out at some point.’
Again, they all smile and nod.
‘What’s important is that you came back.’
Not really – I just couldn’t escape the car park in time.
‘I don’t want to put you on the spot, but do you want to introduce yourself again to the group?’
I stand, pushing the chair back and clear my throat.
‘You don’t need to stand unless you want to.’
‘Oh.’ I plop back down in my chair. ‘My name is Alice. I go to high school in the city. I’m from the US but we’ve moved around a lot throughout my life.’ What else do I say? ‘I like reading, poetry, and … animals.’ They’re still staring at me. ‘And my favorite food is pepperoni pizza.’
‘Hi, Alice,’ they say, strangely in perfect unison.
I wave awkwardly from my seat.
‘Thank you, Alice, for that.’
‘You’re welcome,’ I mutter.
‘Let me tell you why I’m here, and then if you feel comfortable, you can tell us why you’re here,’ Ian says. ‘I joined the army when I left school, was deployed soon after that, and by nineteen had my first assignment in the Middle East. The things I witnessed there were very difficult for me to understand and when my unit lost some men, I had to return home. I was experiencing what I’d later find out was something called survivor’s remorse. I was plagued with guilt at having survived what many other people hadn’t. And since my injuries weren’t physical, that made it harder for my family and friends to understand.’
‘How did you overcome it?’ I ask.
‘There’s no quick fix, I’m afraid. It took years of therapy, peer support groups like this, and talking about it. Talking about it is the first step.’
Years? At best I was hoping for six to twelve months, but I could be feeling like this for years?
‘I was … um … at Leicester Square back in the spring,’ I slowly say.
Wyatt leans forward in his chair as the rest nod.
‘I didn’t sustain any physical injuries, not like some, but I guess what I’m feeling could be survivor’s remorse. I don’t know. It feels more like fear to me.’
‘Fear of what, Alice?’ asks someone.
‘Having it happen again, maybe?’
‘Have you been back to Leicester Square since?’ asks Ian.
‘No, why would I?’ I scoff. Did he not just hear me mention the word ‘fear’?
‘I know it would be really difficult, but sometimes returning to the scene can help release trapped feelings.’
My chest immediately feels tight, and my breathing gets a little faster. ‘I don’t think that would be a good idea,’ I shake my head. There’s no way I’m going back there. No way.
‘It might help you overcome your fear.’
‘Maybe. Or it might trigger an even bigger panic attack,’ I gasp.
‘You won’t know until you try. It’s a strategy that’s worked for some people.’
‘It worked for me,’ Sara says quietly, her eyes on me.
‘I’ll think about it,’ I mutter, then sit back in my chair, hoping he gets the cue that I’m done talking about it for the night.
He nods then looks round the group. He’s got it. ‘Does anyone else want to share anything this evening?’
Wyatt eagerly raises his hand, practically jumping out of the seat. I lean back and listen to him ramble on about a bumblebee he saw dying outside in his garden, and feel an ache in my chest again. I rub it and hear Wyatt move onto a more general discussion on the fragility of life. When he finally finishes talking, we do a seated meditation of some sort, like my mom does on her yoga mat in the mornings, where we concentrate on our breathing.
At the end I stay a few extra minutes, thanking people for listening, or more so apologizing for occupying half the meeting. Everyone is really nice, really welcoming. I actually didn’t absolutely hate it tonight. I think I would come back here, even without Jack. But I wish he was here. Even if he doesn’t need it like I do. I think about Jack in the gym training with his new legs, getting stronger, getting braver. I’m so happy for him, happy he’s so focused and motivated now. Happy. So if I’m so happy for him, why do I feel suddenly jealous? I wish my life was moving forward like his. But I’m still here, reliving that morning. Over and over and over. The repetition of it all is tedious, and tormenting.
Jack
The reception at the physio clinic is covered in fake spider webs and orange tinsel. Two cheap plastic pumpkins sit by the entrance beside a table with a jar full of sweets and a HELP YOURSELF sign. One of the pumpkins still has a round £1.99 sticker on it. These are the worst Halloween decorations I’ve seen.
‘Jack.’
‘Patrick.’ I push myself forward in my chair towards the door he holds open. My new legs hide under my black joggers and the strange flat bottoms I’m supposed to call feet are shoved tightly into an old pair of trainers. I wheel myself through an entryway of more fake webbing and into the gym. There’s a woman at a table in the far corner working with a therapist on lacing a shoe. I can see the shaking in her hands from here. Near the door is the same guy as last time, Charlie, I think his name is. He’s at the pull-up machine, his truncated thighs perched on the edge of a rubber platform as he pulls himself up to the top bar. I count beyond ten by the time I stop staring and wheel myself over to Patrick’s training station.
‘Let’s take a look at these then,’ he says squatting down. He shimmies my trouser leg up over my fake knee joint, held together by what looks like flimsy silver screws and plates. ‘Fantastic. These are the new models, meant to withstand more impact. Nice.’
‘I’ll be switching to running blades as soon as I can.’
‘Those are tough to train on. Fantastic once you get there.’
‘Can I enter the London Marathon with running blades?’
‘You’d have to ask the events team but I think there’s an exception that says you can.’
‘I’ll contact them. I’ve already got my place in the next marathon.’
‘You’re talki
ng about running next year’s marathon, the one in April?’
‘Yeah, why?’
‘Jack,’ Patrick stands and leans against a weight machine, ‘that’s less than six months away.’
‘I know, I’ve trained for events or climbs in less time than that.’
‘But you’re working with artificial limbs now. That’s completely different.’
‘Where’s your optimism, Patrick?’ I say, wheeling myself over to the weight machine.
‘Jack, as your physiotherapist, I need to warn you that training for an event like that using new artificial limbs sometimes takes a couple of years of training and—’
‘Patrick, I’ll be fine. I already feel great in these prostheses! Should I start with chest press reps?’
We continue the rest of the session mostly in silence except for the occasional counting of reps and instruction to move onto the next stage of the training programme. When it comes to the walking bars, he helps me to my feet and grips me from behind. ‘Ready?’ he asks.
My hands tighten around the bars as I shift from one foot to the other.
‘Try easing off the bars for the walk back, putting more of your weight onto the prosthetics.’
Dull pain throbs at my thighs when I do so and as it builds I have to bite my lip to stop myself from screaming out.
‘Doing OK?’
I nod and force a smile. If I let on how painful it is, he might ease off the training intensity and I can’t do that. I need to get ready for the marathon as soon as. I can’t afford to take it easy.
‘Why don’t we end it there? We’ll start to shift our focus from upper-body training to lower-body training more over the next few weeks – start to add more of your body weight to these limbs and work on balance. How are you feeling in them?’
‘Great. Fantastic.’ I have sweat pouring down my back and hairline. I’m so sore. And all I want to do right now is remove these legs and throw them into the Thames. Great and fantastic is far from what I’m feeling. ‘Same time tomorrow?’
After the Rain Page 18
