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Yes, technically, she's the one that picked up my bat and hit him with it, but it was my fault. I put us in that position. I ignored my gut about someone, and she paid for it. I will never forgive myself for that. Cara should never have had to do what she did. Maybe if I'd walked away sooner, he wouldn't have flipped out. Maybe we could have gone our separate ways peacefully.
I have a hard time with the maybes. Some days...the regret eats at me.
The rest of my day is routine. I help people. People with hip replacements, heart attacks, posture-related shoulder issues, and torn ligaments round out the rest of the day. All people I've been working with for a few weeks. I build deep relationships with people, helping them through some of their weakest moments, and then I never see them again. It feels weird to invest so much into people, and then have them walk away, but that's the nature of the job.
I grab my last file of the day and page through it. Below the knee amputation, thirty-six years old. I've worked with lots of amputees, but never one this young. I turn the corner to my curtained-off table, and spot my newest patient.
Striking. Powerful. Beautiful. From his ice-blue eyes, to his bunched powerful shoulders, everything about him screams I don't want to be here.
I give him a small professional smile, sit on the rolling stool, and place his file on the treatment table next to his expensive prosthetic leg.
"Hi, Gabe," I say, extending my hand. "I'm Bree." He doesn't move for a few moments and then takes my hand in an almost painful grip. I don't let anything show on my face. "I see from your file you were injured a year ago. I'm guessing you had PT back then?" I wait for his nod. "Good. So what brings you to me today?"
His voice is gruff when he answers. "My grandmother booked the appointment."
"Your grandmother..." The man looks like he would rather be anywhere but here. But he shows because his grandma wants him here. I can work with that.
I take a deep breath, trying to ease the tension in the room. "Okay then, let's start with what happened."
Gabe shifts his gaze away from mine, looking out the window as he talks about his back-country skiing accident that left him an amputee. He describes it without emotion, like he's trying to distance himself from it and block out any feelings associated with it. I understand that feeling too well.
"I need you to walk around the room so I can assess your gait. It'll help me understand what's not working for you right now." He hesitates for a moment, looking unsure before finally standing up. His face is tight with tension, and his gaze avoids mine as he moves. His body language makes it clear that he is trying to be stoic, but underneath the facade, I see a deep reluctance in his eyes as he cautiously takes each step.
His posture is stiff and his movements slow, as if he had to mentally will himself to make the journey around the room. His eyes are focused on the ground, never looking up to meet mine.
It's clear that he is struggling with the prosthetic. His movements are jerky and awkward as he tries to adjust himself to it.
"That's enough, thank you." I wait for him to settle back on my table. "Can I take a look at your stump? It's important for me to get an understanding of the mechanics of how you move so that I can best help you. I want to make sure that you're not putting too much strain on one area."
Gabe's jaw tightens, but he nods his head and pulls up his sweatpants to reveal the full prosthetic. He pulls it off, then peels off the sock underneath.
I touch him gently and begin my assessment. His muscles are tense and tight, which makes sense considering what he's been through. He winces when I press into certain areas, telling me there is still some inflammation. It's also clear, by the slight snarl on his face, that he really doesn't like me touching his stump, or even looking at it.
Finally, I pull back, jotting down some notes.
"Okay, Gabe. From what I can tell, your body is still adjusting to the prosthetic and the changes it has caused. You don't have to be in this much pain. You don't have to feel like you can't depend on that leg." Something sparks in his eyes. A faint hope, maybe. "We're going to need to focus on pain management in the short term, gait training, strengthening exercises for both your legs and core training. All of this will help you adjust better to the prosthetic and make sure that you aren't putting too much strain on any one area."
I give him a reassuring smile. "We'll take things slowly at first and then build up over time as we assess your progress."
Gabe nods his head, looking slightly relieved that I have a plan of action for him.
"We need to monitor your progress with each exercise to determine if any adjustments are needed or if we should continue working on it until you feel comfortable," I explain. "We'll also be using massage and heat to help manage any discomfort or inflammation in your stump and leg muscles."
I pause before finishing my thought. "Your hard work will pay off. Eventually, you'll be able to move freely without pain or strain from your prosthetic. It doesn't have to hold you back."
Gabe exhales slowly before finally looking up at me and giving me a guarded nod. He's fighting it, but I see a glimmer of hope in his eyes. Hope that he won't always have to live in pain. A little trust built, he lets me work on him for a bit, loosening his muscles. The lines around his eyes seem less pronounced by the time I'm done.
He nods goodbye before standing up and making his way to the door. He moves slowly, but with a renewed sense of purpose as he steps out of the clinic and into the parking lot. His truck is parked in an accessible stall, and for a moment he pauses to glare at the sign before finally getting in.
He starts up the engine and guns it, the roar of his truck's engine echoing through the parking lot.
My mind still on Gabe, with his forced smile and shadowed eyes, I wave a distracted goodbye to my coworkers and head for the parkade. Keys in my hand, I walk slowly toward my vehicle and do a wide circle around it, looking for anything out of place. Then I get closer and peek in the windows of my Jeep. I hate this part. Every horror movie I've ever seen urges me not to look. But my paranoia won't let me just unlock the doors and hop on in.
I didn't used to be this scared, and it's a little dumb. The person who hurt me wasn't a stranger. But stranger danger feels very top of mind for me now, so I check. Every single time.
Finally satisfied that no one is in my car, I click the locks, hop in, and lock the doors immediately. I used to sit in the car and decompress after a day of work. Not anymore. Now I'm jumping in the car and peeling out in seconds. Nascar pit crews have nothing on my speed.
Normally, I'd be heading to a softball game or a soccer game. Or even curling with a particularly boozy group of friends, but tonight is a rare night off. So I turn toward the lake, toward the expensive part of town. Toward home.
