by Tom Sullivan
The big man sounded thoughtful. “Here he is, flat on his back, having lost the Corps and believing that he’s not a whole man anymore. Therapy won’t be easy, Brenden, because somehow you’re going to have to help him rebuild his sense of worth—and at the same time not minimize the problem. Remember when you came to see me for the first time? By sharing my story, I was able to create the kind of empathy that let us work together. This guy needs to understand that you’ve lived through the devastation of accidental disability and that your blindness, frankly, makes you color-blind.”
Brenden drummed his fingers on the desk. “But will he buy into that idea, Marvin? I mean, does that sound too corny?”
“Do you believe it’s true?” the big man asked. “Are you color-blind?”
“Sure,” Brenden said. “You know I am.”
“Well then, orient your therapy around your sincere beliefs, and then make sure that you gradually expose him to the successes that guys in wheelchairs all over the country are having. You also know there’s been some promising research regarding in vitro fertilization that’s allowing some spinal cord victims to still have families.”
“I know that’s true,” Brenden said.
“We’ve come a long way,” the big man said. “So make sure you gather all that data and have it ready to share with your patient.”
“Any other thoughts?” Brenden asked, encouraged.
“I think you’ll probably want to get him involved in some group sessions. They have them at the hospital, right?”
“Yes, they do,” Brenden told the big man. “Apparently, with federal cutbacks, there is very little one-on-one time being offered.”
Marvin snorted. “That drives me crazy, man. This stuff is so personal. I mean, when you’re talking about something like sexual function, to share that with a group, at least in the beginning, makes real communication almost impossible. No one wants to be that open and intimate. There has to be one-on-one involvement with your therapist in order to set the foundations necessary for group participation. Boy oh boy, we’ve got to do better.”
The two men were quiet for a minute. Eventually Barnes said, “Okay, well, try to get him involved. He very much believes in the Corps, so peer group engagement might be very useful. I also think that it’s going to be important for you to spend some time treating the couple. His wife is still in Seattle, isn’t she?”
“She’s back and forth,” Brenden said. “I found out from the attending nurse that she’s a teacher in San Diego, so while Carver is completing his physical therapy with us, his wife comes to visit as often as she can.”
“Why didn’t they put him in a hospital closer to home?” Barnes asked.
“I don’t know,” Brenden said. “Some kind of bureaucratic snafu based on how he was transported back to America.”
“Well,” Barnes said, “maybe it’s just as well.”
“What do you mean?” Brenden asked.
“He’s in the hands of the psychiatrist best equipped to face his particular problem, isn’t he?”
Brenden sighed. “I don’t know, Marvin. I just don’t know.”
Brenden heard his friend’s voice take on a tone of urgency.
“Listen, Brenden, one of the most important requirements in dealing with these guys is that you completely believe in what you’re saying. It’s not enough to just offer therapy, whether that’s directive or analytical. You have to be in the business of offering hope, because that’s the commodity these men are lacking. They’ve given up hope, quit on themselves, and quit believing that the system cares about them. You’ve got to be more proactive. It comes down to this: you have to be a missionary of hope, get involved, cross the line.”
Again Brenden was quiet, and then he said, “I guess that’s the way you treated me, right, Marvin?”
The big man chuckled. “You’ve got it, boy. You’ve figured out my trade secret. To be honest, I wasn’t sure when I first met you that I could reach you, and based on the fact that later on you considered”—he paused—“you considered suicide, I had good reason to doubt the potential results; but I took a chance and launched into a proactive approach.”
Brenden could hear the big man’s voice take on a satisfied smile.
“And it worked. You’re about the best-adjusted blind guy I know . . . outside of me, of course.”
“Marvin,” Brenden said, “in my professional opinion, you have an ego big enough for the whole state of Colorado.”
“Let’s not stop there, son,” the big man said. “If you’re going to believe in yourself, make it an ego the size of the whole country. You’ll need that kind of confidence, especially if you’re going to lift someone out of the depths of despair.”
“Okay, Coach,” Brenden said. “That was just what I needed, and now I’d better get on the ferry and head home to the family.”
At the sound of the word home, Nelson stood, yawned, and stretched.
“Okay, my boy,” Barnes said. “Give everyone a hug for me. Call me if you need me.”
“Thanks, Marvin,” Brenden said. “Thanks a lot.”
chapter eight
Darla Carver was beginning to feel desperate. Her instinct as a woman and a wife was telling her that Antwone was pulling deeper and deeper inside himself, building a shell around his emotions that she feared was becoming impenetrable.
Over the last few days, he had been unwilling to speak of rehabilitation or coming home or, when she pressed him, to talk to her about his injuries, the war, or the loss of his fellow Marines. He just said, “Ain’t nothin’ to say, baby. Ain’t nothin’ to say.”
She knew that she had to get back to San Diego and her teaching position—not just because she had a responsibility to her class and the school district, but because, frankly, they needed the money. She understood that Antwone would be on permanent disability, but she also knew that following rehab they would need to consider an alternative career for her young husband.
Though the doctor’s grim diagnosis was certainly on her mind, she was more concerned with getting her husband out of his state of depression. She loved Antwone—that was something she was very sure of—and she was committed to him for life. She didn’t deny the potential pain of a marriage without the love, comfort, and joy of sex, but she knew she needed to find a way to make Antwone understand that he would always be her husband and that she relied on him for love, strength, and support.
She decided to try to lift his spirits by bringing him the kind of dinner she knew he relished. There weren’t many soul food stores in Seattle, but she did find one. She bought fried chicken, collard greens, candied yams, and biscuits and gravy, along with a cherry pie—his favorite—hoping the familiar food would draw him out and allow them to share a conversation she knew they needed to have.
There they were, in a stark conference room at the end of a hospital corridor. The nurses had tried to make it lovely, allowing her to put flowers on the table, even permitting them to share a bottle of wine. But right from the beginning Darla knew something was very wrong. Her husband may have been small in stature, but he always had a large appetite, especially when the food was so appetizing; but tonight he just picked at his food, and she had to struggle to make even simple conversation.
In their relationship, she was the person who had removed his reticence and shyness, making him a communicator on every important level. She knew that it was because he loved her, yet what she was feeling now frightened her to her very core.
The shell Antwone was building around himself included his heart, and as she sat across from him, studying his face, she couldn’t figure out how to break through. Over the last couple of days, she had tried touch, smiles, a loving kiss, tender words, but nothing was working. Now tonight was turning out to be a disaster. She wanted to cry; she wanted him to put his arms around her and tell her everything would be all right. She wanted to wake up from this nightmare and get her husband back. She remembered as she studied his face how she had anticip
ated his homecoming every time he was overseas or in a training cycle. They enjoyed being physically active together, often dancing at clubs late into the night, and in the endlessly perfect San Diego weather, they went jogging, swimming, rollerblading. Shamelessly, she also thought about how they had spent whole days in bed—their lovemaking fueled by being so much in love. But now . . . What now?
She was surprised as Antwone pushed his food away and, for the first time that night, looked straight at her. Then she shivered, realizing the eyes across the table weren’t expressing love. They were vacant and distant, as if a decision had been made that was going to shatter her life.
She heard her husband take a deep breath and waited, suspended, for the ax to fall—the verdict, the sentencing by her husband, the sole judge and jury. There was no life in his voice.
“Go home, Darla. Just go home and forget about me.”
“No,” she protested, rising and reaching across the table, trying to hug him. “No. I love you, Antwone. I need you. What are you talking about?”
He disconnected her arms and gently pushed her away.
“I’m talking about a man who can’t love you, Darla. I’m talking about a man who has nothing. No Marine Corps. No future. No love to give. Nothing.”
“You’re just being crazy, Antwone,” she said. “You’re just out of your head. You don’t mean any of this. You don’t know what you’re saying. I love you, Antwone. I love you.”
She saw the tears start to come to his eyes, and . . . And then she saw him angrily wipe them away.
“Listen, girl,” he said, his voice taking on the resolve of a trained Marine on a mission, “I was never good enough for you anyway. Not smart enough. Not funny enough. Not handsome enough. Not anything enough. With the Corps and how much I loved you, we could have made it. We could have had a good life, but now there’s nothing. I’m nothing, and you can’t change that, no matter how much you love me.”
She tried to hug him again, but this time he pushed her away hard enough to knock her off balance.
Involuntarily she cried out, not in pain but in shock and hurt. “What are you doing, Antwone?” she said. “I won’t accept this. You don’t believe what you’re saying.”
For a brief moment she saw his face soften and his expression change. Once again there was love in his eyes, a love so deep that it had to be forever, and all of this—all of this—had to be a bad dream. Nothing more than a bad dream.
“Go home, Darla,” he said again. “Go home and start a new life without me. With someone else—a whole person who can love you the way you deserve.”
Before she had a chance to speak, he turned his wheelchair and his back on her and wheeled his way out of the room. She rose and followed him, not even feeling her feet touching the ground. Her eyes were on his back as she followed him to his room. Without turning to look at her, he wheeled his way through the door and closed it. She froze with her hand just above the knob.
Should she open the door and force her way into his room, his life, and his heart? No, She thought. I can’t do that. Antwone has to find his way back to me if we’re ever going to have a chance to be happy. He has to decide he needs me. More importantly, he has to realize that I need him. I’ll do what he says. I’ll go home. I’ll start to teach, but there is no one else for me but Antwone. I’ll try again. I’ll keep on trying. I’ll never stop. I love him.
ANTWONE SAT IN THE chair, his head in his hands, his back against the door. His body convulsed as the tears poured down his face. He was alone. He had lost—no, he had given away—the person who was his treasure, his whole life, and now he was empty of any human connection. Family didn’t matter, the Corps was gone, and his heart had left the building as he heard Darla’s shoes tapping their way down the hall, walking out of the hospital, walking out of his life.
chapter nine
Wow, what a rare morning, Brenden thought as the ferry chugged its way toward Seattle.
He and Nelson were out on the open deck to appreciate one of the rare pristine days the Northwest offers.
Appreciate the good stuff, Brenden reminded himself. Don’t ever take anything for granted.
As the sun glistened off the water, he ruminated over the profile that his friend Barnes had suggested might fit his new patient, Antwone Carver.
The issue that worried him most—even beyond the patient’s potential for PTSD—was his own ability to establish trust and cross the void Barnes had described as the racial divide. He had treated ethnically diverse patients in the past, but never some one coming from the kind of inner-city background and family dysfunction indicated in Antwone’s profile.
So how to begin? Barnes had suggested that sharing his own story might be helpful, and Brenden agreed, but since Carver had not even shown a willingness to begin therapy, Brenden believed that he had to approach the young Marine in a sort of obtuse manner.
WHEN HE AND NELSON got settled in his office in Madison Tower later that morning, he called Kat.
“Hi, beautiful,” he said when she came on the line. “How busy are you this morning?”
“I’m okay,” she said. “Are you trying to set up a romantic lunch?”
Brenden laughed. “I haven’t got time for that today, dear, but I do need your help. Can you meet me at the hospital and bring along my basketball DVD?”
“Oh, you mean Showtime and the Lakers?”
“That’s the one, babe. I think it might be helpful for me to share with my new patient. Oh, and about that romantic lunch, if you get here by noon, I think I might actually have time to have lunch with you.”
“Okay, big fella,” she said, laughing. “See you in two hours.”
They ate at a small French restaurant down by the wharf called Andre’s, which featured a delicious Provence-style preparation of sand dabs with delicate green beans and red skin potatoes. Over the meal, Brenden explained his problem in trying to establish communication with Antwone Carver. Kat was extremely supportive.
“Listen,” she said, “you have a distinct advantage. Because you’re blind, it won’t take long for this guy to figure out that you are probably the single most unprejudiced person in the world. And I’m sure that every hurt person wants to find someone to communicate with, especially if they are feeling desperate.”
When lunch was over, they shared a cab and a kiss before Brenden and Nelson went back to work.
“See you at home,” she said as the man and the dog climbed out of the cab.
Brenden’s smile said it all.
WHEN HE ARRIVED AT Seattle Veterans Hospital that afternoon, Brenden was surprised to learn from the nurse on duty that Corporal Carver’s wife had left town. One of the nurses had left him a note at the station mentioning that Mrs. Carver was terribly upset but wouldn’t talk about what had happened.
“Uh-oh,” Brenden said to Nelson, “either this guy will be even more closed off, or he’ll be open to talk to me. Let’s go find out.”
He found Antwone in the recreation room, sitting in his wheelchair in front of a window and listening to music through earphones. The nurse had to tap the man on the shoulder to get his attention.
“Corporal Carver,” she said, “Dr. McCarthy is here to see you.”
No response came from the guy in the chair, so Brenden plowed ahead.
“I brought you something,” he said.
The man still didn’t look at him.
“A real treasure,” Brenden went on. “The Showtime Lakers.”
He produced the DVD and held it out to Carver, who couldn’t help but take it.
“Yes, sir,” Brenden said. “Showtime—when B-ball was at its best—eighty-six. Worthy and Rambis up front; the captain, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, in the middle with Byron Scott; and the Magic Man, Earvin ‘Magic’ Johnson, at his best, running the show. Then they came off the bench with people like lock-down defender Michael Cooper and Mr. Enthusiasm, Mychal Thompson. They were something, weren’t they? You never really got to see them play, did you,
Antwone? I mean, you were too young.”
“Just seen highlights,” the man said.
“Well, you’ll love this video because it’s narrated by Chick Hearn, the great Lakers announcer, and I think it really captures the team concept. The interviews on the video are really awesome. For those guys, team was everything—I bet a lot like the Marines. Hey, do you mind if I sit down?” he asked, as if he hadn’t come there with that intention.
Carver nodded and Brenden pushed right through.
“Find the chair, Nelson,” Brenden said. “Find the chair, boy.”
The dog put his nose right on the seat of the chair Brenden wanted, and Carver couldn’t help but acknowledge it.
“That’s cool, man. I mean, the dog finding a chair like that. That is really cool.”
“I told you,” Brenden said. “He’s special. Say hello to Antwone, Nelson,” Brenden told the big dog.
Nelson wagged his tail and gave the man in the wheelchair a sniff.
“Pat him,” Brenden encouraged Antwone. “That’s what he wants, just some affection.”
The Marine reached out tentatively and touched the dog on the head.
“No, I mean really give him a good pat,” Brenden pressed. “You know, rub his ears or something. He wants to be your friend.”
The blind man heard Carver ruffle the black Lab’s ears and then heard the dog put his paw up on the man’s leg.
“He wants you to shake hands with him,” Brenden said, realizing that Antwone couldn’t feel Nelson’s paw on his knee. The doctor sensed that the man was smiling despite himself. He heard him pick up Nelson’s paw.
“You’re a real cool dog,” he said to Nelson.
“He knows that,” Brenden told the Marine. “He knows he’s special. It’s because he has a purpose.”
The master snapped his fingers and called Nelson to lie down next to his chair.
“I suppose that’s what we’re all looking for, don’t you think—a sense of purpose?”
“It don’t matter when you’re not good for anything,” Carver said, “when you’re half a Marine and half a man.”
