by Scott Martin
I spent it with my mom as she rubbed my hands between each of hers, giving me the friction of life while she refused to let the tears fall because tears were signs of grievance and she was not grieving. In my mind, my fingers twitched and she gasped, her large, brown eyes growing even rounder in surprise, then I slowly curled my fingers around her warm hand and squeezed. I whispered jokes in Jeff’s ear, told him not to feel responsible.
All the things I could never do, I did that afternoon.
~~~
Jeff
At some point I decided to stay at the hospital. Just in case something happened, good or bad. We didn't know which was more likely. Good news or bad was a 50/50 ball. We slept on chairs near your room. I think I was there three or four days and don't recall leaving the hospital.
I know Mom and I remember the amputation discussion with the doctor differently. Maybe he explained it to her and then she asked him to explain it again with me there.
Here is what I recall:
Mom asked me to come with her and speak with Dr. Henrickson. She introduced me as your brother and best friend. I specifically remember that.
He told us that there were basically two options: Try amputation of your hands and feet (at the purple line), which may stop the necrotizing and allow your system to come back on line, or begin winding down the life support which would probably end in you dying.
We decided on the spot that you would choose to undergo the amputations. Dr. Henrickson made the other option seem pretty certain. That is, that without life support, in a few days you would be dead.
It seemed to me that you were trying to hang on. We made our best call, on the fly, standing in that hall with an unsure doctor.
I hope you think it was the right choice.
20
Perception is Key
I took my post as I had seen so many others do before me, obligingly placed the left prosthetic hand on the Bible, and solemnly swore to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
I think I did fine, both during Mike’s questioning and the cross examination by Bradley Wentworth. Although he did address me as Scott for the first time during the trial (I’m sure to avoid coming across as being hostile towards ‘the unfortunate man’), Wentworth didn’t fail to paint a clear and manipulative picture of the man he wanted me to be: normal, unfazed, and quite accomplished with ‘overcoming my illness. ’ As they say, perception is key.
~~~
The afternoon sunlight burst through the windows in Tom and Sue’s living room like an eccentric guest. I leaned back in the wooden rocking chair, idly studying the slice of Domino’s pepperoni pizza I held.
I had sandwiched the crust between the first two fingers and the thumb of the right-hand myo. I knew what it should feel like to have the crust in my hand: the crispy outer edge crunching under the first faint signs of pressure from my fingertips; the doughy inner layers eagerly giving way to a greedy grasp. I had held so many slices of pizza over the years; I shouldn’t have felt the need to touch this one as intimately as I had the others. But I did.
Tom came back into the room carrying two Cokes. I hastily brought the pizza to my mouth and bit off a chunk of grease-coated cheese and bread.
‘So,’ he said as he held one Coke out to me, ‘what now?’
‘Mike told me he’d call when the jury has announced,’ I replied around another mouthful of pizza. At least I could still taste it as acutely as I always had.
Tom plopped onto the tan sofa and rested his left, Coke-holding arm on the armrest. ‘What are Mike’s thoughts about it?’
‘Without the Women’s Day quote to refute Marsh, Mike’s at 50-50.’
Tom made a sound in the back of his throat. Whatever he had intended the noise to mean, it was hopelessly contorted by the bite of pizza he was chewing.
‘That’s what it all boils down to, doesn’t it?’
I nodded and looked down at the strip of crust left in my grip. The attorneys had given their closing remarks that morning. In front of the jury, Mike had said that our case was solid, Dr. Stevens credible, and my life had been not just altered but devastated. The amount of judgment, he informed the jury, should be ten million dollars.
I had squirmed at that number. Ten million dollars to justify the fact that I could never feel the warmth of fresh pizza in my hands again? Maybe my life hadn’t been devastated that badly. But the jurors didn’t seem to be bothered by the number he pitched to them, so I had bowed to his professional judgment on the matter.
The second chair for the defense, the plump and frumpy Robert Junig, countered first. ‘Their request of ten million dollars is so far off we should receive a judgment,’ he ranted.
I jotted a note to Mike: Huh? Mike just shook his head, looking far from impressed by the scattered-looking opposition and his aberrant speech.
Bradley Wentworth was much smoother when he gave his closing remarks after Junig. Wentworth simplified the case to one, definable thing: Marsh’s testimony.
I turned to look at Tom on the sofa beside me. ‘Strange how two weeks of witnesses, the objections and arguments come down to an article in Women’s Day Magazine.’
‘Mm-hmm,’ he said with his eyes on the next slice of pizza. ‘You know –’ he began, but never got to finish the thought because the clangor of the phone erupted from the kitchen. He turned wide, think-this-is-it? eyes on me, his hand hovering part way to the pizza box. I pinched my lips, raised my eyebrows, and nodded.
It has to be it.
When the phone cried out a second time, Tom pushed himself to his feet and strolled casually towards its summons. I could hear the muffled sound of his voice as he answered. A moment of silence. Then another soft murmur.
He reemerged a moment later, the phone held slightly away from his body as he brought it to me.
‘Attorney Mike Schumacher’s on the phone. He says the jury has returned a verdict.’
I took a breath, wiped the rubber fingers of the right myo on my pant leg, and stood to take the phone.
‘Hey, Mike,’ I said in the best imitation of carefree calm I could muster. Inside, each of my organs seemed to be practicing the art of tying sailing knots.
‘Scott,’ Mike said, the single syllable drawn out with a weary sigh. His voice engendered images of a man slumped in his office chair, his shirt open at the collar and jacket rumpled at the creases. If I hadn’t been frozen where I stood, I may have put the phone down before he could say more. That was not the voice of a man who had just won a battle.
‘They came back Not Guilty,’ he said at the same time as the words flashed through my mind. We had lost. I wanted to sit, but my knees refused to bend. ‘The jury asked if you could be awarded for limited damages,’ he continued, his tone like a consolation prize – then the prize was taken away: ‘but it wasn’t possible.’
I looked down and saw four, straight tracks of grease on my pant leg. My mouth tasted like pizza even though I could no longer feel its weight on my tongue. The case was lost.
‘I’m sorry, man,’ Mike said at length. ‘We did try.’
I swallowed cheese-flavored saliva and licked my lips.
‘Fuck,’ I deadpanned with all the vehemence of a stone. ‘You did more than I could have hoped for, Mike. Thanks.’
When I hung up the phone, Tom was ready with another Coke in each hand. I smiled weakly and took the one he offered, drawing in a long swig. It was over. The pendulum of my life had swung completely opposite of where it had been before the illness.
Then my knees chose to cave. As if the channels between brain and limbs had finally re-opened, my legs buckled under me and I crumpled onto the edge of a cushion. I threw my arms out and managed to keep the Coke upright as I teetered forward and Tom grappled for my elbow.
‘Easy there,’ he said when I had settled on the sofa. ‘You good?’
‘Yeah.’ I slowly set the can back on its coaster. ‘Yeah, I’m good.’ After a few moments of silence, I told Tom I just needed some
time to think and thanked him for the pizza. He didn’t press me, but the expression in his eyes said it all. Please don’t lose it, they seemed to beg. Please, just hang in there.
I tried on a reassuring smile as I left, but found it ill-fitting and abandoned the effort. When I heard the click of Tom’s door closing behind me, I gasped like a diver coming to the surface and doubled over. It was done. The case was lost. I had nothing. No job. No income. No security. No hope. No options.
I felt the cold, callous metal of a metaphoric pistol pressed against my skull; a finger on the trigger that wasn’t my own. When I could breathe again, I straightened up and continued shuffling out to my car.
By the time I reached my apartment a few miles away, the desperation and dismay no longer felt like they had belonged to me. They were distant memories, like emotions experienced vicariously through someone else; not truly my own. I was calm as I ascended the steps to the main floor of my apartment.
I passed through the living room, ignoring the sofa and made my way up the second flight of steps leading to my home office. I selected suitable music for my work: Talking Heads, Sting, Traveling Wilburys, Donald Fagen, Genesis, Bob Marley, John Mellencamp, Steely Dan, Robert Palmer. It was time for me to design my own Atlas. Where was I going and how was I going to get there?
Peter Gabriel’s So album started to play as I opened a fresh Word document. Bogart jumped onto the desk and took his usual perch next to the keyboard. As track three began to rise from the speakers, I let the lyrics and music propel me forward. My focus began to converge on what I wanted to accomplish and as it did, I began to understand that I needed to do whatever I could to start the head of the pendulum swinging in the opposite direction. I needed to make it move because no one else could do it for me.
21
Bogart and Me
By the time I was ready to begin my trek westward, I had sold my massive collection of cassette tapes and entered the age of CDs. With Bogart draped over my left shoulder and my 36-disc portable CD case laid out on the suitcase that filled much of the passenger seat to my right, I started rifling through my high-tech music collection in search of the ideal audio ambiance for our journey. Flipping past disc after disc, I couldn’t help grinning at the memory of my fervent belief that CDs would never catch on. I had been so convinced that I’d ordered my custom Pontiac Grand Am GT with a cassette player instead of a CD player. Oops!
Damn, that was over four years ago, I thought, shaking my head at the ceaseless passage of time. It was also right before I became sick. In fact, it’s been four years and one month to the day since I was admitted to the hospital. Which means this time four years ago, I was just waking from the coma.
The realization washed over me like a tidal wave through time. I sat momentarily frozen in the driver’s seat of my car, unable to shake the surge of the past.
As it had washed in, the feeling ebbed and pulled back out to sea. I blinked to clear my vision and refocused on the CDs at hand.
. My hand hovered over the sleeve holding Jackson Browne’s “I’m Alive.” A lopsided smile quirked my lips. Nah, I thought and kept flipping, discarding album after album until . . . There it was: Tom Petty’s Full Moon Fever. Gingerly, I slid the delicate CD out of its pouch and pinched it between finger and thumb to glance at the song list. “Free Fallin’” came first, but we could skip that. “I Won’t Back Down,” however, was perfect.
I popped the disc into my player and cued it to track two.
'Well, Bogs,’ I said to the cat on my shoulder, ‘time to hit the road.'
We had five states and eighteen hundred miles to cross before we reached western Washington, and only four days in which to do it. Considering all I had managed to accomplish since taking the job as John Wedge’s assistant coach at The Evergreen State College (TESC) in Olympia three days ago, four days devoted solely to driving sounded like a walk in the park.
I glanced in my rearview mirror, realized it was a pointless gesture now that I’d filled my Chevy Cavalier to the roof with my limited possessions, and eased my way out of the driveway one tap of the brake pedal at a time. What couldn’t be crammed into the four-door sedan was sold in a haphazard garage sale during the weekend. Between selling, packing, and settling things with my landlord, I had also made the requisite phone calls to my family and joined Tom and Sue and their boys for a farewell dinner to break the news of my impromptu move.
They had known that as per my ‘game plan’ I’d been scouring the country for work, but I think learning that in one week, I had taken a job in Washington State, sold a majority of my material possessions, and was leaving Wisconsin with only my cat for company caught them a little off guard.
No one had said anything particularly profound to the news that I was heading west; in fact, most of what they had offered was wide-eyed silence followed by hasty well-wishes and it’s-probably-the-right-thing-to-do’s. What I didn’t tell them was the particular arrangement I had entered into with Head Coach John Wedge; the agreement which said I would work free-of-charge provided John helped me land a position at a larger university sometime during the next two years. Those worrisome little details, they didn’t need to know.
As I navigated towards the highway, I imagined them holding a collective breath, anxiously waiting to see what would become of me. I, for my part, was breathing easy as I belted out the lyrics to “I Won’t Back Down” and put the gas pedal to the floor on I-90 West.
~~~
John Wedge was a lean man with a froth of white hair covering his head like the tip of a Q-tip. His blue eyes crinkled at the corners, giving him an affable appearance despite the stern line his mouth was apt to form. Standing side-by-side before our team of eighteen young men, we matched in stature and aura of unassuming authority. But where John spoke with animation and gesticulating hands, I stood stationary, like a sculpture meant to capture a single moment or an instant of emotion, wearing a long-sleeve shirt to cover the plastic forearms of the myos, and the myos surreptitiously clasped behind my back. In this stance, from the front I appeared normal and unaltered. I told myself it was simply a natural way of standing with no ulterior motive to my posturing.
As John welcomed the team and made the introductions, I watched the players cast clandestine glances my way. I was reasonably certain John had given them more details about me and my past than what he was divulging now – I imagined they would have needed some forewarning about my handicap, at the very least – but I was glad such information had been passed along outside of my presence. It was hard enough meeting new people after my illness, having to give a preface to these young men as if attending an Amputee’s Anonymous meeting (‘Hi, my name is Scott and I’m handicapped’) would shatter what little self-possession and poise I had to cling to. I would gladly share the details of my disease with them eventually, but not before they had a chance to become acquainted with Coach-Martin-the-man. Scott-the-amputee could come out in due time.
When his spiel was complete, John stepped back and gave me the floor – or soccer field. I stepped forward and felt the heart-clenching awareness of 18 pair of eyes latching onto my face. Keeping my hands securely behind my back, I took a moment to meet their gazes, allowing them time to take stock of me freely and openly while I pretended to be unfazed by their inquisitive gazes.
It was probably a blessing in disguise that my career and future were on the line at TESC because it left me with no choice but to be my old, cocky self. I couldn’t afford to let my insecurities get in the way of our success. So, with a stabilizing breath, I issued the same opening statement I always did:
‘My mission is not to teach you, but to put you in a position to learn.’
~~~
For the first two weeks, my days were packed with two daily training sessions, preparations for the sessions to come, reviews with John, and the seemingly incessant clothes-changing that had to be done. With an average annual rainfall of over fifty-three inches, seldom was an outfit worn in the morning s
till dry by lunch – Hell, they rarely made it through breakfast and my morning walk to buy a copy of the USA Today (my twenty-five-cent daily indulgence).
I feared that were my feet to remain wet it might cause the skin on my “bad foot” to breakdown again and wet forearms weren’t much better as water – like sweat – under the forearm shells would cause them to misfire or be difficult to manipulate. This left me hustling home between the morning and afternoon training sessions to devote an aggravating hour to fighting my way out of my saturated clothes, a task which, without wrists, was damn near impossible.
The socks were the worst. Before leaving Eau Claire I had been outfitted with rubber feet rather than the original boot-style prosthesis. The rubber feet came with rubber toes and reached up to just below the medial malleolus of my ankle when I slid them on like slippers. Like almost everything else in my life, the rubber upgrades came with a slew of downsides to compensate for their few upsides: namely, they didn’t fit in normal shoes so I had to wear waterproof Nubuck leather sandals with rugged, rubber soles and easily adjustable elastic Velcro straps with socks. The feet looked so realistic that I could have done commercials for Dr. Scholl’s, but I needed to walk and these did nothing for the pivoting of my foot or my relentless shuffling. To top it off there was the aggravation of rubber offering no slip when it came to prying off wet socks.
Like enduring an unrelenting filibuster, my first few attempts at shedding the socks from the rubber feet resulted in only frustrated furor and no actual progress. The feet looked good, but had they ever taken the time to consider the person wearing it? No, of course they hadn’t considered that because who would want to spend time imagining the life of a handicapped person? A growl rumbled at the back of my throat. This was absurd. One way or another I was going to get that blasted sock off.
