The Missing Pieces of Sophie McCarthy

by B M Carroll

  That’s what I feel the most regret about: the nights, not being there, leaving Chloe on her own to deal with it. I deserve to miss out on the good parts of being Jasmin’s dad – you could say that’s my punishment for screwing up so badly – but it’s not fair that I should automatically miss out on the bad parts too. Poor Chloe. I know she’s struggling. I’ve seen her snap, cry until she’s red in the face, completely lose perspective. It was my job to calm her down, to step in and restore order and peace. Between the two of us, we would get through the night. Now, she has to deal with it all on her own.

  Leaving my family, moving out of my home, becoming distant from the good parts and the bad parts, has been the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Harder than the most gruelling military exercise. Harder than the pieces of shrapnel that had to be dug out of my left arm in Iraq. Harder than my mother dying when I was fifteen years old, when I still really needed her (even though I thought I didn’t).

  The only thing that I can say in my defence is that it was the only honourable thing to do in the circumstances. Once I faced up to the fact that I was in love with Sophie, I felt I had no option but to be honest with everyone involved, including myself. Being deceitful would have been an even bigger betrayal. At least that’s how I felt … feel. Guilt has a funny way of bringing things into focus, of making the hardest decision of your life more clear-cut. Not only did I love Sophie, I had this driving need to make good to her, to right my wrong, to do everything in my power to help get her back on her feet. It’s what they teach us in the army: never leave a man behind.

  The phone on my desk rings. It’s the chaplain.

  ‘Good morning, Aidan …’

  ‘Hey, Jack.’

  I get calls like this at least once a week and, as a result, the chaplain and I are on first-name terms.

  ‘I wondered if you might have time to see me today. It’s about one of your men … He’s having some … ah … issues …’

  Jack starts with the phone call, then he comes along to see me and we discuss the soldier involved. ‘Some issues’ is usually an understatement of the situation. More often than not, the men don’t go to see the chaplain until things are bad … very bad. Their first instinct is to try to battle through the problem on their own. They are proud and resilient: these are great attributes for soldiers, but not when it comes to asking for help. Jack and I are trying to change this culture, to make them see that talking to us is not defeat but actually the opposite: it’s fighting back.

  ‘No problem … I can see you at three,’ I say, doing a mental reorganization of my day in order to fit in the appointment. ‘That’s unless it’s urgent enough for you to come here right away. Just say if it is.’

  I’ve learned – the hard way – always to check the level of urgency. A few years ago, during a particularly busy period, I put off the chaplain until the following day. The soldier in question attempted suicide that same night. Luckily it was a call for help rather than a serious attempt, but it was a lesson I won’t ever forget.

  ‘Three is good, Aidan,’ Jack says. ‘See you then.’

  Every day is different, even in ‘peace time’. The only constants are the ‘O group’ meetings in the mornings – where I go through the orders for the day with the junior officers – and the paperwork that I tend to do last thing. In between can be anything. Today it’s a weapons inspection and organizing transport and equipment for Panther, the code name for a major training operation that’s happening in a few months’ time. Panther will involve a twenty-kilometre hike and ‘enemy attack’ in the mountains at the dead of night, and anything to do with its planning sucks up hours and hours of time.

  All too soon it’s 3 p.m. and Jack knocks on my door, ready to discuss the marital situation of one of my sergeants, Bradley Lynch. It’s not the first time Jack and I have sat across from each other and dissected other people’s marriages, and it won’t be the last. The army is tough on relationships: wives, husbands, girlfriends, boyfriends, children … especially the children.

  ‘Bradley says it’s largely his fault,’ Jack sighs. ‘He dislikes peace time, he’s bored with army life, and he admits he’s not easy to live with.’

  Boredom: we’ve all experienced it. The disappointment of everyday training, kitchen parade and weapons inspection after the intense life-and-death experience of Iraq or Afghanistan. It’s the reason so many soldiers end up leaving. They don’t know how to readjust to real life, where the only action happening is in their dreams: frame-by-frame raids and attacks that replay in their heads while they’re asleep. When I go to bed at night I see faces, the dead, the people I failed to keep safe, their blank expressions playing in a reel. The sons, brothers, fathers, daughters, sisters, mothers. The innocent civilians and children, the baby-faced soldiers. They resurrect at night, come alive, bleating, ‘Save me, save me …’ Peace time is a myth. Once you’ve experienced war, you’ll never be at peace again.

  ‘Bradley’s wife has had enough of his moods and wants to separate …’

  I’ve met Mrs Lynch a few times. She seems like a nice woman, warm and chatty, supportive of her husband, but I guess we all have limits.

  ‘What does Bradley want to do?’ I ask.

  ‘He wants to take a few months’ leave, see if he can work things out with his wife, establish where his future lies, if it’s in the army or elsewhere …’

  I approve three months’ leave of absence, the chaplain goes on his way, and it’s four thirty before I can start on my paperwork: DVA (Department of Veteran Affairs) forms that must be filled out, emails that need to be forwarded on and/or responded to, a few minor staff-related disciplinary issues. At 6 p.m. I shut down my computer, do a quick tidy of my desk and lock the filing drawers, before donning the distinctive green beret that marks me as Special Forces.

  My exit from the barracks is punctuated by the salutes I receive from all the soldiers I encounter on the way.

  ‘Good evening, sir.’

  ‘Bye, sir.’

  ‘See you tomorrow, sir.’

  I’m greeted by a strong breeze as I come out from behind the shelter of the gymnasium; all the flags in sight are flapping strongly. There’s a game of soccer happening on the parade ground. A social match against the navy. Physical, by the looks of it. Shouldering, and some shoving – out of the referee’s sight, of course – and the usual high degree of competitiveness, despite the ‘social’ tag. This time last year I would’ve stopped and watched – I might even have put my name down to play – but that was in another lifetime.

  I stride past the officers’ quarters, where Chloe point-blank refused to reside.

  ‘I’m sick of army accommodation – all those houses look and feel the same. They have no soul.’

  I’m not sure if she knew what she was turning down in this instance: charming historical sandstone terraces with original slate roofs. Still, I have to say that having our own – non-army – house made her happy. She bought statement pieces of furniture and bright cushions, hung our own curtains and covered the walls with family photos. It really did feel like a proper home. Until I fucked it all up.

  ‘Goodnight, sir,’ says the soldier at the gatehouse.

  ‘Goodnight.’

  Then I’m through the archway and into the outside world. The bus stop is directly across the road, and it’s more or less the same crowd waiting there every day. The banter fizzles out as soon as I arrive – I’m too many ranks above these soldiers for them to feel comfortable around me.

  The bus arrives, I hold my opal card against the machine and take a seat near the front (the soldiers seem to prefer the rear of the bus). A faint smell of vomit emanates from the old man sitting next to me. The bus has barely taken off when it stops again. It drives me crazy, this stop–start, stop–start. I usually end up walking the last few blocks.

  A young girl and her mother get on at one of the stops. The girl is around Jasmin’s age. I miss my daughter so much it’s like missing a limb. It’s been a cou
ple of months now. Time enough to broach the subject of custody, of Jasmin staying some nights with Sophie and me? I expect resistance on all fronts: Jasmin, Chloe and even Sophie, who is perfectly nice to Jasmin but is one of those people who just doesn’t know what to do around kids.

  I’ll teach Sophie what to do. She’s smart, she’ll learn. Jasmin is not negotiable. I need her to feel whole. I need to be her dad. My hands curl into fists on my lap. I have the sudden urge to hit something hard, really hard. To feel my knuckles crunch. To fight someone, anyone. The bus stops yet again and, unable to bear it, I jump up and bound towards the doors, just making it through before they close.

  5

  Richard

  Sophie is lucky to be alive, no doubt about it. When I first saw her at the hospital, she was in a bad state: fractured sternum, extensive soft tissue and nerve damage, broken ribs, punctured lung, broken cheekbone, fractured eye socket, concerns about her spinal cord and even her heart. The first few days were touch and go. Dee and I were distraught, although our shock manifested itself in quite different ways. I went into overdrive, peppering the doctors with questions, demanding explanations and recovery statistics, ultimately seeking reassurance that my daughter was going to make it. Dee was dazed and almost mute.

  ‘Shock can have very different effects on people,’ explained one of the nurses, who was thoughtful enough to bring Dee a sugary cup of tea. ‘I’ve seen demure women morph into screaming banshees, and stoic men smash their fists through plasterboard walls.’ She grimaced. ‘Once we had a man take out a pane of glass … in the end, he needed more stitches than his son!’

  By some miracle, Sophie made it through those first few critical days. They had to operate to put her sternum back in place and to try to repair some of the nerve damage. Dr White, the specialist, explained that the sternum would take a few months to heal, but a full recovery was expected. The nerve damage was more complex, though. Apparently brachial plexus injuries are categorized according to the type of trauma experienced by the nerve. In Sophie’s case, the axons (equivalents of the copper filaments in an electric cable, Dr White explained) had been severed.

  ‘The prognosis is moderate, Mr McCarthy,’ he said. ‘Nerves are very delicate and hard to repair, much more difficult than bones.’

  I realize now that he was trying to tell me that a full recovery was unlikely but at the time I wouldn’t hear of it.

  ‘Sophie will overcome this. She’s a fighter … She never gives up, does she, Dee?’

  Dee nodded in a confused manner. She was so upset that all the medical nitty-gritty was going right over her head.

  Once out of ICU, Sophie spent another two months in hospital. Dr White has continued to see her on a regular basis since she was discharged. She also sees a back specialist, a physiotherapist and, of course, her GP. I drive her to all the appointments and usually sit in while she’s being treated. In my opinion, it’s better to have two of us across the medical jargon, not to talk about keeping tabs on all the different drugs she’s on.

  Today we’re back with Dr White, for Sophie’s monthly check-up. Parking is difficult; it’s often that way in the hospital car park. The lifts also prove difficult, one of them being taken out of service by maintenance staff. We’re a few minutes late for our appointment, something that has never happened before.

  ‘Hello, Sophie,’ Dr White says as we come through the door. ‘Good morning, Mr McCarthy.’

  For some reason I feel the doctor is less pleased to see me.

  ‘How have you been, Sophie?’ he asks, once she has sat down.

  ‘Some good days, some bad days.’ Her face scrunches in frustration. ‘Overall, no real change.’

  ‘You’re looking well today.’

  Sophie does look well. She’s wearing a white shirt and dark, fitted pants. She often dresses in some combination of the colours black and white, and the effect is crisp and professional. Her hair is swept into a loose ponytail that rests on one shoulder.

  ‘Today has been good … so far.’

  ‘I have your most recent CT scans in front of me. As expected, the sternum has healed nicely … Hop up on the bed and we’ll check things out.’

  Sophie unbuttons her shirt and I can’t help noticing that even this carefully executed task seems to cause her some degree of discomfort.

  Checking things out means the doctor pressing and massaging areas of her chest, her ribs and her clavicle.

  ‘Does this hurt?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘On a range of one to ten?’

  ‘Eight. No, seven.’

  Then he tests her range of movement by gently manoeuvring her arms, her shoulders and her back.

  ‘Turn your head to the right. As far as you can go.’

  Her lips tighten, holding in a wince. ‘That’s an eight. Definitely an eight.’

  ‘OK. Gently does it. Turn to the left now. I can see that hurts. Is that an eight too? … Thanks, Sophie, we’re done now. You can get dressed.’

  Back at his desk, he types up some notes on the computer. The printer spits out a script: for more pain-relief medication, no doubt.

  She’s white in the face when she sits down again. I reach across and squeeze her hand. It’s all I can do: offer my support. I wish I could take the pain away, I really do. I don’t envy the doctor his job, seeing people in terrible pain, how it must change their personality over time, drag them down.

  Sophie bends over carefully, picks her bag up from the ground and extracts an envelope which she slides across the desk. ‘My spreadsheet …’

  She gives the doctor an updated copy of the spreadsheet every time she sees him. I think he admires her thoroughness and mathematical ability as well as her proactive attitude to her recovery.

  He puts the spreadsheet aside after only a brief glance.

  ‘I thought you might see some pattern,’ she says, flicking her hair from her shoulder. ‘Even though I can’t.’

  His smile is sympathetic. ‘Nerve damage is not something that can be graphed and extrapolated … It’s just not that easily pinned down. Unfortunately, for everyone involved.’

  There’s an awkward pause. Then he says the worst thing imaginable.

  ‘I think we’ve reached a plateau, Sophie. Progress from now on will be in small degrees, almost indiscernible, one might say.’

  She looks stricken at this news. I am stricken at the news. This can’t be as good as it gets. It can’t.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I don’t need to see you quite as regularly. We’ll ask Mary to book your next appointment for August.’

  ‘August?’ Her eyes bounce from me to the doctor and then back to me again. ‘But that’s six months away.’

  I can’t help getting angry then. ‘My daughter is in pain. You can’t just dump her like this. Can’t you see she needs all the bloody help she can get?’

  ‘Mr McCarthy, I assure you that I am not dumping your daughter. I’ll continue to monitor her condition, but there won’t be as much change from now on and we really don’t need appointments every four weeks.’ He turns his attention back to Sophie. ‘Pain medication and physiotherapy are the main focus now. And one other thing – a very, very important thing – mental attitude. You must fight the pain, not give in to it. Deny its existence as much as you possibly can.’

  ‘Are you saying the pain is in my head?’ she whispers, looking deeply affronted.

  ‘Of course it’s in your head … That’s how the brain works. If it anticipates pain, then it will feel pain, even if the pain’s not really there.’

  ‘The pain is real, Dr White!’ she cries. ‘I’m not imagining it, I’m not.’

  ‘I know it’s real, Sophie. I was the person who operated on you, remember? I saw the damage first-hand. The point I’m trying to make is that how we think is often an underrated part of the treatment. We can allow the pain to consume our lives, or we can try to keep it in its place.’

  Her frown has traces of anger, hurt and desperation. And t
he only thing I can do is squeeze her hand again. I feel so bloody useless.

  ‘Forget the spreadsheet, Sophie. It’s having the opposite effect to what we want here – it’s making you fixate on the pain. And I recommend quite strongly that you go back to work –’

  ‘But I’ve already tried to go back to work!’ she exclaims, looking to me for support.

  ‘She went back last October,’ I interject, a little too forcefully. I don’t seem to be able to hold myself in check today. ‘Don’t you remember? She didn’t last a bloody week!’

  ‘Try again,’ he says, with unnerving calmness. ‘Some things in life take a few attempts before they’re successful. You’ll benefit greatly from the routine of work, Sophie. It will be something to focus on. Yes, it will be hard to begin with, but you’ll adapt, I know you will.’

  ‘But on my bad days I can hardly get out of bed.’

  ‘You have bad days how often? Two, three times a week?’

  ‘Yes, about that.’

  ‘So, more good days than bad days … Days when you could be out of the house, with colleagues and work responsibilities to take your mind off things …’

  I can see from Sophie’s face that she is beginning to consider the idea. To be honest, I’m coming around too. Sophie loved her job; it would be a new lease of life if she returns. I just can’t help worrying after what happened last time, that’s all.

  ‘Maybe you could ask about working part-time,’ I suggest. She nods, and suddenly I don’t feel so useless any more.

  ‘Three days would be ideal.’ The doctor stands up from behind his desk. He leans across and holds Sophie’s hand in his. It’s obvious that he likes her a lot. ‘You know, I’ve had other patients like you, young men and women who’ve survived terrible injuries and whose lives will never be the same again. Some of them spiral into a lifetime of chronic pain and depression. Some learn to cope, adapting and getting on with their lives as best they can. A small percentage thrive, using their pain or disability as a motivator, a daily reminder to make the most of things and celebrate life.’