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Getting Dylan into bed was harder than I thought. For at least a few days, until she can bear any weight on it again, she’s going to have to depend on me for everything. I’ll have to get her to the bathroom. I’ll have to shower her, which is always fine by me. I’ll have to usher her from room to room. The only thing is, I know that’s not okay with her.
Logically, she knows this is only temporary and what’s necessary. In her heart, she’s broken. In her mind, I wonder if she feels like it’s over. It’s like I was watching a roaring campfire when rain started to fall. Minute by minute, the flames begin to grow dimmer and dimmer with every twinge, bit of assistance, and time to process.
I’m glad the medication is offering her some comfort while her treatment is being decided. I put her on my side of the bed, so we don’t have as many obstacles or as far of a distance to go to get her anywhere she needs. I work away on my laptop while the pills take hold and bring her to as peaceful a slumber as she’s going to get. I don’t think, in fact, I know it won’t be that easy for me.
It’s about one in the morning before I power down my laptop. I decide to carefully slide off the bed and try a bit of gaming until I’m tired. Lord only knows when that will be. After the second period of the second game, I reach out to the one person who I feel like could have some practical advice for me.
With the game on pause, I send a text to my chess partner and bonus grandfather, David. I start typing what feels like the longest message of my life. My own emotions start pouring out of me… how I feel powerless to offer Dylan any meaningful encouragement, how I have no idea what to say or not to say, or what she might be trying to process along with the pain.
Within seconds upon hitting send, my phone lights up and vibrates on the couch cushion beside me. It’s David.
“I’m so sorry I woke you,” I tell him.
“Son, you know I don’t sleep much. I happened to roll over and see the screen light up. I had a feeling I should check and I’m glad I did. Poor girl. Where is she now?”
“She’s sleeping. The medication is helping her do that. I’ve got her propped up a little and her leg is also elevated. She usually sleeps wrapped around her pillow, so I’m amazed she’s sleeping at all.”
“So this happened today during a rehearsal?”
“David, I swear if I’d spent time thinking about what I witnessed, I don’t think I’d have been able to function. I felt like I was watching some football player plant his foot into the turf and the leg rotate in the opposite direction, except it was my wife.”
“Your wife knows something about watching her other half in pain. She did a phenomenal job holding her own. You will too.”
“This feels different to me. I know how much dancing means to her. It’s part of her soul. What if she can’t do it anymore?”
“Hold on now, son, just hold on. You can’t begin like this. She’ll never get what she needs if your belief isn’t strong. My girl went through this more than once and more than one limb. It never gets easier, but you learn something each time.”
“Learn something? Like what?”
“You learn more about yourself and your partner. You learn how to be that rock she can lean on when she’s got nothing left. She may not tell you if she’s sad or in pain or scared or anything. She may want you to move around like everything is fine. Let her. She’ll need to process each day in her own way.”
“I’m supposed to watch that happen? David, I can’t stand by and watch her struggle. That’s not who I am.”
“Son, I know it’s not, but it will make her stronger in the end. Her dancing is more about how she feels inside, feeding her God-given talent than the ability itself. She needs to remember she wants it, and she can still have it. If she heals and decides she doesn’t want it anymore, then that’s okay too. It’s all about her choices. Support her. Always let her know you’re there. When it’s safe, force her to do things for herself. She may struggle, as you say, but in the end, she’ll be grateful you let her feel her power. Do you understand?”
“I understand and hate it.”
“I know you do. I did too. I’m trying to give you the benefit of a few years and a whole bunch of trial and error. Loss is different for everyone. I know I don’t need to tell you that. There will be a grief process for what she’s missing of herself. You have to be ready for her to come out on the other side. She may be the same person that went in, but she might also be changed. I think I know you well enough to know that no matter what, your love for her will not. Let that love lead your choices.”
“This may not be the last phone call, my friend.”
“I’d be sad if it was. This is the last piece of advice I will give you at this hour. Shut off that gaming contraption of yours and go lie beside your wife. She’ll know you’re there.”
“David… thank you.”
“Pay it forward by letting me win the next game. Okay?”
I chuckle and shake my head. I know he can’t see it; however, his own laugh tells me he knows it’s there. “Good night, David.”
Luckily, we were able to get in with Dylan’s regular physician within forty-eight hours. I let her try and use the crutches to get around on her own. That seems to work for short distances and give her a little bit of privacy. She hasn’t been talking much. I keep thinking about what David said. She needs to feel what she’s going to feel. I need it to be known that it's breaking my heart.
The doctor pulled off the immobilizer and her knee seemed to swell before our eyes. I could see a wave of pain wash over Dylan as the doctor inserted a needle into her skin, in the hopes a cortisone injection would aid in reducing the swelling and allow her some relief.
Her hand gripped tightly on to mine until the doctor was finished. She held her breath the entire time. If I’m honest, I did too. The plan is for Dylan to rest until the end of next week, have a repeat examination, then, if she’s ready, begin the road of physical therapy. She can work from home starting on Monday, but until then it’s rest, ice, keeping the knee wrapped, and elevated as much as possible.
It seems like they’re doing nothing. None of what the doctor said seemed to surprise Dylan, so I held back. She stares blankly out the car window on the drive. I reach across for her hand. Even once in mine it lies limp and cold. “Is there anything you need, baby? We can stop for some food. I could drive by Wes’s place. I can carry you up to see Hayley.”
“No. I just want to go home.”
