Bridge to a Distant Star

by Carolyn Williford

  Though only seconds had passed in the poignant exchange between father and son, it played out in slow motion to Fran. Her response felt equally delayed and lethargic, like she was underwater or her limbs tied down with weights. Finally, she reached out toward Charles’s hand, gripping his wrist as tightly as Charles held onto Charlie.

  “Charles,” she whispered urgently. “Let go.”

  He gave Fran a vacant look. Eyebrows raised, questioning. Then, suddenly aware, he glanced down at his fist as though he’d just recognized it as his own. Mumbled, “Oh, sorry, son. I forgot about your … the IV.” He brusquely swiped at his eyes and backed stiffly away from the bed. Putting both hands in his pockets, he shot Fran a venomous glare before walking toward the window, where he stood, staring.

  Fran tenderly cradled Charlie’s cheek in her palm. “It’s all right, love,” she soothed. And then she turned to confront her husband, fully expecting to meet his disapproval. She set her jaw, felt her stomach muscles tighten.

  There’d been numerous times Fran had intentionally avoided her husband’s intimidating anger. For Charles’s wrath, she’d discovered, was a life force in itself—a daunting mountain to climb that often defeated her in its fury before she could take one step. But whenever she judged Charlie’s health—emotional or physical—was at stake, she called upon a hidden strength enabling her to stand up to him.

  As she slowly turned her head toward Charles, she understood this fleeting moment would not be the final battle. From the piercing challenge Charles had fixed on her with his gaze—any hint of tears now gone, his pupils narrowed to two jet black dots—Fran recognized the full consequences of her actions. The gauntlet she’d thrown.

  “Enough, Francine.” His voice nearly stripped of emotion, he stated, “We can’t do this anymore. We need to find … resolution. But now’s not the time.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “We’ll talk about this later. Soon.”

  Attempting to compose herself, Fran sat down in a chair. Folded her hands in her lap. She took a deep breath. “Charlie, love, can you forgive both of us? Obviously we’re … a bit frayed at the edges, I guess you could say.” She gave him a wan smile.

  Charles walked back over to Fran, placing his hands on her shoulders. Squared his own, and raised his chin. The two arranged in perfect positions for a posed portrait. “Son, the bottom line is, we’re going to get the job done. Whatever it takes to get you walking again. Your mom and I promise you that, don’t we?” He squeezed Fran’s shoulders, a nonverbal signal for a temporary truce. “We’re going to meet this challenge. All three of us together.”

  Fran reached up to lightly pat one of her husband’s hands. “Yes. Absolutely.” She kept patting him, mechanically. “Everything’s going to be just fine. Before we know it, things will be back to normal and … and …”

  Looking into her son’s eyes, Fran saw he was wrestling to hold back tears. “No. Don’t hold it in. Go ahead and cry, Charlie,” she entreated, jumping up to enfold him in her arms. “You need to cry. Grieve for your lost leg. You have every right to!”

  As Charlie began to cry and soon sob, Fran wept with him.

  She’d been so focused on her son, Fran had temporarily forgotten Charles. When she looked up at him, her heart broke to see deep pain transforming the handsome features into a caricature of despair. In the next moment, however, she caught Charles’s eye and was surprised to see a look of panic alongside the torment. And then, instantly, it was as though Charles had put on a mask—one that hid everything he was feeling, shutting her out as effectively as if a locked door had been slammed in her face.

  “Charles? You need to grieve too. Please, Charles.” The imploring look she gave him blatantly, vulnerably begged him to reveal tenderness. To be vulnerable in return.

  But Charles merely flinched and turned his back; once again he stared out at the city below.

  Fran closed her eyes, feeling more tears of disappointment form. Tears she blinked away as she consciously focused on Charlie and his needs. His sobs had diminished to soft whimpers. She tightened her embrace, kissing him on the beloved curls.

  “It’s okay, Mom,” Charlie said softly. “I’m better now.”

  How can I feel so alone, so disconnected, Fran asked herself, when I’m holding my son in my arms? And my husband is hardly more than an arm’s length away?

  A short while later, a noise in the hallway was followed by an aide calling out cheerily, “Breakfast.” She propped the door open and carried in the food. “Enjoy,” she said, disappearing as quickly as she’d come.

  Fran lifted the metal lids to reveal the eggs and French toast she’d ordered. “Hungry?”

  Expecting an enthusiastic appetite from Charlie, Fran was surprised to see him push away from the food, closing his eyes and grimacing. “You’re gonna think I’m crazy,” he said through gritted teeth. “But it … it hurts.”

  “Oh, Charlie. I’ll get a nurse in here right away.”

  “Stop fussing over him, Fran. What hurts, son?”

  Dr. Owens, on her morning rounds, rapped lightly on the door. “Good morning. Looks like I’ve come at the perfect time to mooch some breakfast. That smells good.”

  Charlie managed a strained smile, but she immediately noted his distress. “What is it, Charlie? Having some phantom pain? Does the amputated leg hurt?”

  Wide-eyed, he asked, “How did you … and how can it …?”

  “How can an amputated limb hurt?” She put her chart down, placed her hands gently around Charlie’s bandaged stump. “I need to check your incision, Charlie, but I’ll be as gentle as possible, okay? If you aren’t ready to see just yet—and that’s understandable—then avert your eyes. Check the weather outside … or look at your mom. She’d like that. Okay, I’m removing the pressure garment now … the bandage … takes a while. Let’s see here … oh, it looks great, Charlie.” Dr. Owens was efficient and swift, and Charlie began to breathe easier. “It’s healing well. The incision itself looks super. Swelling’s down. Yes, this is looking so much better already.”

  Andrea had followed Dr. Owens into the room, ready to assist. She smiled at Fran, nodded at Charles. “Hey, buddy. I hear you’re hungry this morning, huh? That’s great.”

  Andrea set to work dressing the wound and refitting the pressure garment as Dr. Owens watched. Charlie cried out and Fran flinched. She took Charlie’s hand and squeezed gently.

  “Hangin’ in there?” Dr. Owens asked.

  Charlie nodded, but he was biting his lower lip.

  “Almost done, brave young man. Know what? We need to get you up and around today.” She picked up Charlie’s chart again, began making notes. “So what do you think, Andrea? Think we can get him out on a walk later?”

  “I’d love to take this handsome young man for a stroll.” Winking at Charlie, she rushed out of the room, moving with her usual sense of urgency.

  Dr. Owens put a hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “That’s done. Now, tell me about your discomfort, Charlie.”

  “It’s like … like my leg is still there, and it’s burning.”

  She looked up at Charles and Fran before beginning to explain, “Despite what you might be thinking, phantom pain is absolutely real. Every amputee patient I’ve ever had has experienced it.” Dr. Owens turned toward Charlie again, emphasizing her point. “You’re not imagining it, Charlie.” She scribbled some notes on Charlie’s chart. “We can help relieve the pain with meds, Charlie, which I’m going to order right now. Experiencing any other symptoms?”

  Charlie shrugged. “It’s prob’ly nothing.”

  “Everything’s important, Charlie. Even things that may seem small to you, I want to know about.”

  “Well, I’m hot. All the time. Wish it could be cooler in here.”

  “As a matter of fact …” she paused as she w
rote again, “I was expecting you to tell me that very thing because circulation is very much affected by an amputation.” Dr. Owens put down the chart to give all three of them her full attention. “Here’s the problem: The body controls its temperature by cycling blood through your limbs. It distributes heat when your heart pumps the warm blood outward throughout your limbs. Then the returning blood—which has lost some of its heat—cools the rest of your body, your upper torso. Since you’ve lost your leg, Charlie, you can’t do that the same way you used to. So most amputees complain of feeling hot.”

  “So how do we fix that?” Charles asked.

  “Once Charlie’s home, keep that air conditioner running. I’ll ask Andrea to speak with maintenance about a cooler temp in here, but the way everything’s regulated by computers …” she trailed off, sighed. “We’ll give it our best shot. Any questions, Charlie?”

  Charlie chewed his lip a moment. Shrugged his shoulders.

  “Another issue we need to discuss is rehabilitation.” She glanced toward Fran and Charles, adding, “Mom and Dad, you need to take good mental notes. Be a part of Charlie’s team—his rehabilitation team. I’m going to have the therapist visit Charlie later today to begin teaching him exercises to strengthen his limb. Start the process to get him ready for a prosthesis.

  “I’ll be honest with you, Charlie: You have a lot of work ahead. But from what I’ve learned about you already, I absolutely don’t doubt your ability to do this.” She waited a few seconds, allowing the compliment to sink in.

  “How long before I get my leg?”

  “Depends. On how quickly you heal. Hey, go ahead and eat—I would, if I were you!”

  Charlie picked up a fork, began gingerly picking at his food.

  “Did your mom and dad tell you about the chemotherapy?”

  “Uh-huh. What will that be like?”

  “Dr. Chang can give you more details, but you’ll most likely come in for treatment for a couple weeks, then you’ll have a week or two off. Depends on how your body responds.”

  Charlie put down his fork as though about to ask another question. But he avoided Dr. Owens’s eyes, staring down at his food.

  “Anything else, Charlie?” Dr. Owens waited patiently.

  A few seconds ticked by before Charlie asked, in a barely audible voice, “Am I gonna die?”

  The question struck at Fran’s heart like a knife, and she felt the all-too-familiar tightening in her throat. Glancing toward Charles to gauge his reaction, she saw that he remained as closed to her—to them all—as though they were strangers.

  Dr. Owens’s voice was straightforward yet gentle at the same time, the tightrope walk of balancing hope with reality. “Charlie, we don’t know how you’re going to respond to chemotherapy. But we have every reason to believe you’ll do very well. And if so, then you should have an abundance of time to run around on that high tech leg of yours.”

  Charlie’s shoulders visibly relaxed. He nodded at Dr. Owens and then picked up his fork, sampling a small bite of eggs.

  “Okay. See you next time, my friend. I want to hear you’ve taken a stroll around the joint, okay? Check out the nurses. See if any are good-looking.”

  Charlie grinned at her, shyly ducking his head.

  “I heard that.” Andrea scurried in just then, handing Charlie his pain pills. Hands on hips, she quipped, “Some nerve these doctors have. They know who really does all the work around here.”

  “We sure do.” Dr. Owens laughed and waved as she walked out. “No way I’m denying that.”

  Charles also walked toward the door, jingling the coins and keys in his pocket again. He cleared his throat. “I’d best be going too, son. See you later this afternoon.”

  “Sure, Dad.” Charlie was picking at his French toast, mostly pushing it around on his plate.

  “French toast not so great?”

  Charlie shrugged. “Not nearly as good as Mom’s.”

  Charles laughed, and playfully punched Charlie’s shoulder. “Hey, that’s one politically correct answer.” He turned to go and then added, “I hope your walk goes great. Give it your best effort, okay?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Great. Well … I’ll see you two later.” Though Fran sought to make eye contact with him, he avoided her, leaving the room without even a backward glance.

  Later, nurses helped get Charlie out of bed and onto crutches. Every slight movement required a significant amount of time—plus physical and emotional energy. When removing his leg from the sling that kept the limb elevated, Charlie had to grit his teeth. Swipe at irritating, unwanted tears. Tackle whatever small movement he had to accomplish next to simply reach a standing position.

  Throughout the interminable process, Fran took in Charlie’s every grimace, any utterance of pain. She had to clamp her jaw shut to keep from crying out herself. From physically stopping what she considered torture. In contrast, the nurses offered nothing but encouragements: “You’re doing great, Charlie. Hang in there. We’re just about done with this part. You can do this.”

  Once he finally leaned on the crutches—the severed limb dangling oddly—Charlie barely had enough strength remaining to hobble out of his room. He took only a dozen steps down the hall before exhaustion overpowered his will.

  Even so, the staff had nothing but lavish praise for Charlie, which produced a huge smile of pride, paleness suddenly replaced by the flush of exertion and the glow of accomplishment. Once the star on his soccer team. Highest scoring player. Captain. Held in esteem by all his teammates. Now reduced to these few faltering steps.

  Though her heart knew a painful ambivalence, this time Fran joined the cheering section. “I’ve never been more proud of you, Charlie,” she told him.

  Charlie’s hospital days were filled with time-consuming routines and exercises; every movement tended to be laborious and pain-filled—from slowly raising the angle of his bed to a sitting position, to using the breathing machine that helped clear his lungs. Even hosting visitors sapped his strength. One afternoon the entire soccer team visited, although—per Andrea’s strict orders—only four boys were allowed in Charlie’s room at a time. They were all noticeably uncomfortable at first, but Charlie quickly put them at ease. As expected, they were curious concerning how long Charlie would be in the hospital, the treatments he’d get, and especially, about the artificial leg. By the time they left, Charlie was thoroughly exhausted.

  Fran noted his weariness and smoothed back the hair that hung over his forehead. “Seemed like that went well. You have a good time with everyone?”

  “Yup. I really did.” Charlie yawned, suddenly so sleepy that he could barely keep his eyes open. “It was cool they brought the championship trophy for me to see.”

  “Uh-huh. And now I think you need a nap. You’ve had quite the day and—” But Charlie was already drifting off to sleep; there was no need to convince him. Fran pulled a chair next to his bed and settled in, kicking off her shoes, tucking one foot up underneath her. She leaned back and rested her head against the back of the chair.

  Contentedly, she simply watched him sleep until Dr. Chang slipped in, motioning for Fran to join her in the hallway. “Charlie getting some needed rest?”

  Fran smiled. “Friends from his soccer team visited. They wore him out. And then he walked earlier today too—down to the end of the hallway and back this time.”

  “Wonderful. He’s working so hard, making great progress.” Dr. Chang’s smile suddenly dissipated and she gave Fran a straightforward look. “That’s why we think it’s a good time to operate on Charlie’s lung.”

  Fran felt the blood drain from her face. “So soon? I mean … I knew you planned to do that eventually. But is Charlie ready?”

  “We want to be as aggressive as possible with Charlie’s treatment,” she explained. “Since he’s doing so
well physically—Dr. Owens tells me she’s never had a patient heal so quickly—Dr. Owens and I think it’s the right time to do the surgery.”

  Charles arrived then, overhearing Dr. Chang’s comments concerning surgery. He noticeably raised his chin as he thrust out his hand to shake the doctor’s. “That’s my boy! Good afternoon, doctor. Absolutely, Charlie’s ready.”

  Dr. Chang smiled, nodding her head. “Our other concern is his emotional healing, however. How do you think he’s doing in that respect?”

  Simultaneously—as though synchronized, yet slightly off-beat—Charles and Fran replied:

  “He’s great.”

  “He’s struggling.”

  Both had been looking at Dr. Chang, but turned to stare into each other’s eyes. With reproach.

  “Charles, you don’t see him every day, all day, like I do. How could you possibly make that determination? That snap judgment?”

  “And how could you say he’s doing less than great?” Charles, immediately exasperated, pointed toward the nurses’ station. “They’re all saying Charlie’s doing fantastic. The nurses, the people who bring his meals, other patients even. You told me about his walk today, and how everyone he saw was amazed. Down to the end of the hall and back. Everyone notices how well he’s doing but you, Fran.”

  “I think we’re both too focused on Charlie’s physical healing, Charles. I don’t know that either of us really knows how to judge his emotional response to the amputation. The cancer. I just don’t know—”

  Dr. Chang broke into their exchange. “I haven’t noted any clinical signs of depression,” she interjected. “But that doesn’t mean he won’t get depressed later. I’m looking for more specifics. Say, uncontrolled weeping. Or the opposite—withdrawal of any display of feelings. As though Charlie’s shut down emotionally.” She raised her eyebrows, looking from Charles to Fran, expectantly.