by Tom Sullivan
A little girl asked, “Does your dog always wear that thing on his back?”
Brenden laughed. “You mean his harness? Oh no,” he said. “When Nelson’s harness is on, that means he’s working. It’s like wearing a uniform. But when I take it off, and we’re at home, he’s Brian’s best friend, and he’s just a dog like any other dog. It’s kind of like when you go to school. You work hard when you’re in the classroom, and then when you go home, you get to play. Nelson loves to play.”
In response to his master’s voice, the big dog thumped his tail on the floor, making all the children laugh.
Brenden stood up, and so did the dog.
“Outside, Nelson. Let’s go. Find the door, boy!” The black Lab moved easily through the crowd of kids and put his nose right on the doorknob of the classroom.
This got another “wow” from the children.
“That’s awesome,” a little boy said.
“What’s your name?” Brenden asked.
“I’m Jimmy,” the boy said.
And Brenden remembered. “Come here, Jimmy. Let me let you feel how Nelson does his job.”
The little boy walked up to Nelson and took the harness in his left hand.
“Brian, would you come here and help me, please? Okay, Jimmy,” Brenden said, “now Brian’s going to take me back to my chair, and Nelson will follow us, so you’ll feel how he guides you.”
The teacher smiled, knowing exactly what was happening.
“Okay, Brian,” Brenden said, “show me where my chair is.”
Brian guided his dad expertly back to his chair, and Nelson obediently followed, with Jimmy feeling the pressure in the harness.
“Whoa, cool! It’s like . . . It’s like water-skiing,” Jimmy said, laughing. “He almost pulled me off my feet.”
“Well,” Brenden said, “I’m a big guy, so he has to pull pretty hard to drag me around.”
Brenden went on with his explanation. “Nelson knows a lot of different words—inside, outside, find the chair. He knows escalators and elevators. He knows how to stop at curbs when I’m going to cross a street and how to watch the traffic to make sure we’re safe and won’t get hit by any cars.”
“He’s a wonder dog!” a little girl exclaimed.
“Yes, he is,” Brenden agreed, “but he’s also my best friend, and that’s something everyone needs—a best friend. It’s easy to have good friends,” Brenden told them, “when you take time to learn about the other person and how they feel. Today you’ve learned about what it means to be blind, so it’ll be easier for you to have a blind friend the next time you meet one.”
LATER THAT NIGHT, AS Brenden tucked Brian in, the little boy said, “After you left school today, Daddy, Jimmy asked me if I would like to come to his house and play.”
“That’s great,” Brenden said. “That’s exactly what I hoped would happen.”
“I love you, Daddy,” the boy said, hugging his father.
“I love you, too, my little man. Thanks for sticking up for me.”
“It’s okay, Dad,” the boy said, sounding like an adult.
chapter four
“Dr. Blinky, I presume.” The voice boomed through the line, forcing Brenden to quickly pull the phone away from his ear.
“Bad News Barnes! To what do I owe the honor of this conversation?”
“It’s simple, my boy; you’re blessed because I’m going to be coming to your fair city for an American Legion convention—you know, those of us heroes who have fought for our country. I expect you to pay homage to my service with a dinner cooked by the beautiful Kathleen, in your island paradise, with enough time to play with the children, drink expensive scotch—at least twelve-year-old Macallan—and smoke cigars out on your deck, of course. Preferably Cubans, if you can find some.”
Brenden opened his mouth to reply, but his friend’s bombast continued. “I’m sure none of this will be an imposition, as you owe me big time for making you the successful psychiatrist you are today, living the good life and charging patients exorbitant hourly fees for your service, fees that those of us who are simply humble counselors never receive for the work we do.”
“You don’t need compensation,” Brenden said, laughing, “because you’re a crusader for the rights of those less fortunate. At least that’s what you always told me when you were lifting me out of my own depression.”
“True, true, my boy,” Barnes agreed, “but I have expensive and exquisite tastes. It’s a weakness in my character. So prepare the dinner, bring the scotch, and don’t forget the cigars. I’ll be joining you in a week.”
“Bad News,” Brenden said to his friend, “that’s the best news I’ve heard in a long, long time. See you soon, pal.”
McCarthy hung up and sat back in his chair with a large smile creasing his face. Dr. Marvin “Bad News” Barnes, former first-round NFL draft pick and a Vietnam veteran who had been blinded in combat, was the person responsible for jarring Brenden into living again. Barnes was Brenden’s intake counselor at the Colorado Rehabilitation Center for the Blind, and his no-nonsense approach, administered with intelligence and an uncompromising attitude, provided Brenden with the kick in the pants that made possible the life he now so very much enjoyed.
Brenden loved the giant of a man with the enormous personality. The bond they shared had gone far beyond counselor and patient. They were family.
KAT WENT ALL OUT for the dinner with their friend. A cheese platter and some wonderful Greek spanakopita were followed by Washington oysters and a Caesar salad. The main course of prime rib melted on the tongue, along with Kat’s famous garlic mashed potatoes and summer squash. Dessert was ice cream and fruit, which delighted the children.
Barnes had only met Brenden’s children once before, and though Mora had taken to him immediately, Brian considered him a giant and was a little shy around him. The shyness evaporated when the big man produced a football autographed by the entire Denver Broncos team and a promise that if Brenden and Brian could get to Colorado, Barnes would procure sideline passes from Coach Mike Shanahan to make the game up close and personal for the little boy.
Barnes’s infectious personality and boisterous humor charmed the whole family, and by the end of dinner, when the men moved outside to enjoy their cigars, everyone was feeling full and terrific.
Surrounded by the rich smell of Havana tobacco, Brenden asked, “So what goes on at these American Legion conferences, Marvin, besides the swapping of old war stories?”
“A lot,” Barnes said. “Remember, we’re a nation at war, and veterans are paying a horrible price. There are over five thousand dead and well over forty thousand men and women wounded, man! Most of the American people have forgotten the war in Afghanistan, and Iraq—well, Iraq is Iraq. None of our guys feel good about it because they don’t feel that they’re winning. Unlike the war in Vietnam, the public is mostly sympathetic toward the vets, but these fellows come home wondering if their sacrifice has been truly relevant.”
“I hear that,” Brenden said.
“Then there’s the question of the conditions. You’ve probably read about the problems at VA hospitals like Walter Reed. When a federal bureaucracy runs the show and there is no competition, maintenance and care seem to fall to the basement. Plus, there’s the added problem of patient compensation. There are thousands of guys waiting months, even years, for their cases to be effectively reviewed in order to determine how much they should be receiving per month. We have countless wounded veterans who are receiving only a minimal subsidy because the system is so inefficient.”
“I’ve read a little about that. Seems so unjust,” Brenden said.
“I’ll tell you something, Brenden; what’s most unjust—more than anything else—is that these men feel betrayed by our military and our government. So many of them feel alone and helpless. I spend a lot of my time counseling them, at least the ones in Colorado I can see, and I feel fairly effective because they think of me as one of them. But more than that, t
hey accept the idea that, as a disabled person, I’m talking to them from a point of real understanding. That makes them believe I’m personally engaged.”
As in years past, the big man dropped a huge arm over Brenden’s shoulders and gave him a fatherly squeeze. “You know, Dr. McCarthy, you could make a big difference in the lives of some of these vets if you wanted to get involved.”
Having tucked the children into bed, Kat joined the men on the deck, not saying anything about the cigar smoke. “What should Brenden be involved in?” she asked, coming in on the last part of the conversation.
Brenden moved to a chair and sat, knowing his wife’s question would continue the uncomfortable dialogue.
“Counseling disabled vets,” Barnes said, turning to Kat. “Brenden’s clinical background and his personal experience make him someone I know they’d listen to, particularly, as so many of them are facing PTSD . . .”
“You mean post-traumatic stress disorder?” Kat asked.
“That’s right,” Barnes said. “It’s part of all wars, but when you come home feeling irrelevant, the trauma seems to be exacerbated.”
“I’ve read about some of the studies in my journals,” Brenden said. “There are some new drug protocols that seem to be helping veterans, but I suppose if it’s not addressed, it can become an epidemic, ruining many lives.”
Barnes was intense. “It can ruin families, man, shatter marriages, destroy self-worth, and, frankly, make it seem like life is not worth living.”
“It sounds horrible,” Kat said. “I mean, that the system is failing these guys, and that they feel abandoned by their own country.”
“That’s not quite true,” Barnes said. “The American public is sympathetic. It’s the bureaucrats and the professionals who aren’t getting the job done.”
Brenden found himself tensing. He could sense where this conversation was going.
Barnes plowed ahead. “The patient load is far too great for the system to handle, and the VA is looking for doctors who will work cases pro bono.”
“Pro bono,” Brenden echoed. For the common good.
“That’s right, my boy. Pro bono,” Barnes said. “And I think you’d be perfect for the job.”
Brenden felt sweat dripping onto his shirt, even though the night was cool. “I don’t know, Marvin,” he said. “I’m at the stage where my practice is growing rapidly, and I already have a patient load that’s taking most of my time. I just don’t know if I can help.”
“You mean you don’t know if you will help,” the big man said, his tone changing, expressing disappointment.
“Listen, Marvin,” Brenden said, trying to explain, “the truth is, I’m not sure that I’ve had enough time adjusting to my own disability.”
“How much time is enough?” Barnes asked. “How many more years do you need?”
“You’re probably right,” Brenden agreed, “but I just don’t know if I’m able—or ready—to do something like that. Not yet.”
Barnes reached into his pocket and took out a card, passing it to Brenden. “Well, here’s the number for the VA hospital here in Seattle, along with the name of the administrator of the psych section. I’ve already spoken to him and sold him on the idea that you’d be great at the job.”
The big man took a long pull on his cigar and spoke pointedly. “Brenden, you can’t fight for your country because you went blind, but you can serve your nation by making a difference in the lives of some of these young men.”
Brenden wanted to speak. He wanted to fight back. He wanted to argue with his friend, but the impact of the man’s words made him close his mouth.
Kat broke the tension, offering brandy and chocolate-dipped strawberries. Barnes graciously dropped the subject, allowing the evening to become light once again; yet to all of them the next forty-five minutes seemed tense, the joking awkward, the frivolity artificial.
Brenden was thankful that the hour was late and it was time for bed. So with Barnes settled in the guest room downstairs, Brenden and Kat quietly headed up to their room.
As they went through their nighttime routines, neither wanted to broach the subject of Barnes’s conversation. Kat was thinking that there were issues in her husband’s adjustment to blindness that were too complicated for her to ever understand, and Brenden was wondering if once again his friend had been testing his character by suggesting that he get involved professionally in the needs of war-ravaged vets.
In a way, he was angry at Barnes for imposing the idea of service on him. Wasn’t he already doing enough to make a difference in the lives of others? Did he have to take on the complexity in the psyches of these disabled men? He knew Barnes believed that you would never be whole again until you found a way to give back to the disabled community, but oddly, Brenden believed that he was not one of them—the handicapped, the disabled. Even though his eyes were broken, Brenden still felt like the young man who had later returned with Nelson to the mountain that had taken his sight and conquered it, putting his disability aside and breaking its hold on him.
Is every person with a disability obligated to get involved? he wondered.
In the dark, unable to sleep, he asked Kat, “So what do you think? Is Marvin right? Do I have a responsibility to get involved with these vets?”
“I don’t know, honey. What do you think?” his wife asked.
Brenden hated when she put the question right back on him like that. “I don’t know, Kat. I mean, I’m trying to help the patients I already have. Why would I be obligated to do pro bono work with disabled vets?”
“Because right now,” she said candidly, “at this point in time, those are the people who could benefit the most from your”—she paused, looking for the words—“your personal expertise.”
He recoiled at her words, and she touched his cheek. “That’s not . . . Brenden, that’s not what I mean. The truth is, Barnes is right. Those guys will believe that you understand because, though you didn’t lose your sight during military service, the accident—your loss—was just as traumatic.”
“But, Kat,” he said, “I haven’t been to war. I don’t understand it.”
“But you can learn,” she said, “by asking questions, by being empathetic, by using your skills as a doctor and your talent as a therapist to put yourself in their place. And most importantly, you can use your goodness as a person.” She paused for a moment then asked gently, “Brenden, do you know why I love you?”
“Because I’m handsome,” he joked.
“Because you’re human,” she told him in the dark. “Because you are the most human person I know, and it’s in the blending of your humanity, your particular understanding, and your professional skills that you can really make a difference. So I believe you have to. Look, call this administrator up at the VA, try one case, and see how you feel. If you don’t connect, at least you gave it a shot. I don’t think Marvin will hold you responsible for more than that.”
“Okay,” Brenden said, sighing. “Let me sleep on that. I’ll talk to Marvin in the morning.”
Kat snuggled next to her husband, her back fitting perfectly against him in that intimate way reserved for people who are in love.
“You’ll figure it out, Brenden. You’ll get it right. I love you.”
He kissed her neck, and in minutes they were asleep.
THE NEXT MORNING, THEY had a simple breakfast of coffee, juice, and blueberry muffins. And Nelson was forced to take on a new challenge.
Since it was Saturday, Brenden would not be going in to work, but he insisted on getting Marvin settled on the ferryboat, with Kat staying home to watch the children. This would require Nelson to guide not only his blind master but also the blind giant who would be holding Brenden’s other arm.
“You really think we can do this?” Barnes asked.
“Absolutely,” Brenden said, “as long as you don’t trip. I’m sure Nelson will provide enough space—if there is enough space to accommodate your big butt,” he joked. “You’ll get
through just fine.”
They went down in the elevator and crossed to the departure dock; it was much easier than Brenden’s trip a week earlier with his cane.
“Who is the captain today?” Brenden asked the ticket taker as he prepared to board.
“Captain Johns,” the man said.
Brenden had come to know most of the crew during the time they had lived on the island, and Eric Johns was a young and enthusiastic seaman.
Introducing them, Brenden asked the captain if he would make sure Barnes got a cab to his conference when they docked in Seattle.
“No problem,” the captain said. “There’ll be plenty of cabs hanging around on a weekend.”
Brenden hugged his friend.
“Look, Marvin,” he said, “I don’t know if I’ll be any good working with veterans, but I promise I’ll call the hospital administrator and take on at least one pro bono case.”
The return hug nearly crushed Brenden’s ribs. “That’s my boy,” the giant said. “I knew you would come around. Call me if you have any problems or if I can be of any help.”
“Oh, you’ll hear from me,” Brenden said. “This is all your fault. I know I’m in way over my head, and I’ll need all the advice you can give me.”
“This was a great visit,” Barnes said. “Thank Kat for me, and tell her there’ll be dinner at our house next winter when you guys come skiing.”
“Sounds good,” McCarthy said. “I’ll expect a bottle of Midleton Irish waiting for me when I show up.”
“And you’ll have it, young doctor. Even on my limited resources.”
The men hugged again, and Brenden said good-bye to his friend, surprising Nelson with the change from his weekday routine—instead of boarding the ferry, he cued the dog to retreat back down the gangway and head home for a quiet Saturday with the family.
chapter five
Dr. Jonathan Craig placed the chart neatly on his desk and studied his hands. He loved his hands. They were long and strong, the nails perfectly groomed; they were the hands of one of those hand models in commercials or a great pianist, or, in his case, the hands of one of the most respected neurosurgeons in the country.
