A Wish for Christmas

by Thomas Kinkade

  “Right here.” David raised his hand then lifted himself up on his walker.

  The man smiled and waited by the door, holding it open while David made his way over. “Hello, David. How are you doing today?”

  “Okay, I guess.” David hated it when these medical people asked that question, as if they were reading from a script. David knew this guy saw a hundred patients a day and doubted he cared one way or the other.

  “I’m George Henson. Just follow me, and we’ll get you started with your appointment.”

  “Sure. No problem.” David was eager to ask the new therapist a few questions, but he was having enough trouble keeping up with the walker.

  Finally, they reached a large, open space where David saw several leather-covered tables, separated by curtains, lined up against each wall. The middle of the room was filled with exercise stations—bikes, tread-mills, weights, traction devices, and a padded walking track with a railing on either side. In another corner, David saw a Jacuzzi tub.

  Several patients were working with therapists. One guy, working on a weight machine, was missing an arm. But David noticed he had pretty impressive biceps on his other arm and a large tattoo.

  George led him to one of the leather tables and pulled the curtain to one side. “I’d like you to sit up here,” he said. “Need some help?”

  David thought he did need help but didn’t want to admit it. “I’m okay,” he said. With a mighty push on his arms, he managed to hoist himself up, though the effort hurt his hip.

  “So you’ve had some operations? Two on your right hip?” George asked.

  “Right. The first didn’t work out that well. They had to go in again.”

  “I see. Have you had any PT yet?”

  David nodded. “For a few weeks after my first surgery, back in September. But none after the second.”

  George nodded and made a note on a chart. “Okay. Gena will be right with you. She’s just finishing with another patient.”

  “Gena? Who’s Gena?”

  “Your therapist, Gena Reyes.”

  “I thought you were my therapist.”

  George smiled and shook his head. “I’m a nurse here. You’ve been assigned to Gena for your therapy. I work with her. Didn’t someone at reception give you her name?”

  David shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

  The receptionist might have given him a name when he checked in. David had not been paying attention. He didn’t listen to half of what people said to him these days, just sort of zoned out.

  David glanced at George, who was looking through his medical history folder. He felt foolish for automatically assuming that a man would be a doctor or therapist and a woman would be a nurse.

  Okay, his therapist was female. He could handle that. It might even be fun on some level. If anything about this deal could be pleasant.

  While he considered this unexpected twist, a small, dark-haired woman whisked the curtain aside and looked straight at him. She had large brown eyes and long hair, pulled back in a tight ponytail. Her smooth skin and fine features were bare of makeup, and the only jewelry she wore was a pair of tiny gold earrings. She was in her early thirties, David guessed.

  Not bad, he thought, even in her baggy medical uniform. But how was this little woman going to lift him, move him, help him exercise? He didn’t mean to be a chauvinist, but he doubted she was strong enough. Maybe that’s where George came in.

  “Hello, Mr. Sawyer. I’m Gena Reyes, your new therapist.” She extended her hand and he shook it. Her grip was firm and strong. “May I call you David?” she asked politely.

  “Sure.”

  “Please call me Gena,” she replied. Despite the offer to go with first names, her demeanor was serious, totally professional.

  George handed her the file, and she began skimming David’s records. “So you haven’t been to therapy since October. Is that correct?”

  “I needed a second operation on my hip. And I didn’t start up again after that one. I’ve lost feeling in my right foot. I need to wear this support.” He pulled up his pants leg to show her the prosthesis. “And I can’t really get around without the walker.”

  “Have you experienced any return of feeling in your foot lately? Any tingling or even a pins-and-needles sensation?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  She made a note on the file. “Do you perform any exercises at home? Any stretching or the exercises you were shown?”

  “Not really.”

  She lifted her head and looked at him. Her expression showed nothing, but David did notice a spark in her dark eyes. “What’s ‘not really’? Can you be a little more specific, please? Not at all? Or did you try, and feel too much discomfort to continue?”

  “I did try once or twice,” David replied, put on the spot. In truth, he really hadn’t tried at all. “I thought I wasn’t doing it correctly. I didn’t want to hurt myself or throw the hip out of whack.”

  She didn’t say anything. Just looked at him briefly then made another note on the chart.

  She would sure look a lot better if she lost that deadpan expression. It was just physical therapy for goodness’ sake, not brain surgery.

  “All right. I need to evaluate your condition, and then we can talk about a plan for therapy. Can you get down on your own?”

  “No problem,” David replied, though he knew he had to be careful to land on his good foot or he might fall over.

  However, in his eagerness to show Gena Reyes he was not a total mess, he miscalculated and his numb foot slipped out from under him. David would have hit the floor if not for George, who swiftly stepped forward and caught him. “Whoa there, buddy,” George said with a grin.

  David felt like an idiot. A lame idiot. He managed to smile back at the big man. “Thanks. I’m okay.”

  With both feet on the ground, not even bothering to look at Gena, he took hold of his walker again.

  Gena watched him fumble a bit, which made him feel even more self-conscious and clumsy. “Okay, come with me,” she said, making no move to help him. “Out to the exercise area. Let’s get a better idea of what we’re dealing with.”

  “Yes, let’s,” David replied tartly.

  He would have liked to watch Gena the way she was watching him, which he couldn’t do, of course, without falling on his face. He couldn’t get a read on her. She wasn’t exactly the warm and nurturing type. In fact, he had known a few drill sergeants who exuded more charm.

  Out in the exercise area, David did the best he could as Gena asked him to execute certain movements—travel across the room and back with the walker, pick up an object from the table and then from the floor. Sit and rise from a chair. Attempt sit-ups, modified push-ups, and leg raises. Stretch to touch his toes. He knew this was a necessary part of the process . . . so why did he feel as if she was purposely making it hard for him? Why did he feel like some sort of trained animal being put through its paces? This didn’t bode well for the future, he thought grimly. If Gena was such a taskmaster during a basic evaluation, what was she like during the real therapy?

  “Is that as far as you can stretch, David? Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, that’s it,” David grunted. He sat up straight, feeling beads of sweat break out on his forehead. Man, was he out of shape. And when was the last time he had broken a sweat like this? He couldn’t remember.

  “I’d like you to try walking without the walker, using the handrails over here.” Gena directed him to an exercise station where two parallel handrails were set up about waist high, a lane of matted flooring between them.

  David parked his walker and positioned himself between the rails, then tried to take a few steps, mainly supporting himself with his arms. It was hard work to maneuver his bad leg. He could hardly make it down the lane. About halfway through, he had to stop, taking deep breaths to try to ease the pain.

  “Okay, that’s enough. George will help you now.”

  David was about to insist he could reach t
he end but found he didn’t have the energy to argue. Feeling beat down and embarrassed, he allowed George to help him off the rails and get back in the walker.

  “You can rest up on the table,” Gena told him. “Do you want some help?”

  “I can do it, thanks,” David insisted. He slowly made his way back to the table, exhausted and hanging on to his walker like a life preserver. He didn’t want to admit that he needed help but realized if someone didn’t give him a hand, he might end up on the floor. For real this time.

  As he reached the table he looked toward George, but Gena stepped up and before he knew what was happening, she wrapped his arm around her shoulder, put her arm around his waist, and easily lifted him up so he was sitting on the table.

  Man, she was strong. He had about an entire foot of height and sixty or even seventy pounds on her. How had she done it? It was like a magic trick.

  When he looked down at her, the corner of her mouth had edged up just a tiny bit. It wasn’t what you would call a smile, not even close. But David could tell his shock had amused her.

  “What’s the matter, David? Do you feel all right?”

  He nodded and quickly looked down at his sneakers, realizing he had been staring at her. “I’m fine.”

  “Would you like some water?”

  “Yes, I would. Thanks.”

  She took a frosty water bottle off the side table and handed it to him, then continued to write on his chart as he drank.

  He had to say one thing for this routine. He wasn’t staring out a window, lost in a fog. He felt more alert and focused than he had for weeks.

  When Gena finally looked back at him, he expected her to give him an assessment of his condition. Instead, she started asking more questions—questions about his injuries, his operations, and how long it took to recover from each.

  “Let’s see, I’ll start from the top and go down,” he began. He had been asked these same questions so many times, he felt like a recorded announcement. Was she too lazy to just read the chart? “I had a fractured skull and a concussion, dislocated shoulder, broken collarbone and arm ...”

  “Right arm?” she said, her eyes scanning his file.

  “That’s correct. It was fractured. I needed a plate in there. A few broken ribs, punctured lung. All that wasn’t so bad. The legs, that was the worst of it,” he said. “Both of them got smashed when the Humvee turned over.”

  “You were fired on?” she asked.

  “Yeah. I was in the motor pool, a mechanic. My team was sent to service a vehicle not too far from the base.” But any time you left base, there was danger of an attack, even on well-patrolled roads. “The Humvee we were traveling in was fired on.” David paused. It was still hard to recount the story without getting emotional. “We were hit, and it turned over.”

  Gena cast him a rare, sympathetic look. “You were lucky you got out alive.”

  “Yes, I was. My sergeant pulled me out before the whole thing exploded. He was a real hero.”

  Not me, David thought. I didn’t do very much. Just managed to come back in one piece. Sort of. It made him uncomfortable when people praised his service, as if he had been incredibly brave over there. He knew what real courage was. What real sacrifice was. He didn’t feel he deserved to be called anything like that, not next to a man like Nolan.

  Gena held him in her dark, steady gaze. “So you sustained substantial injury to both legs. And on the right, the hip as well.”

  “Correct. The right leg seems the worst of it. Even though the left one’s still pretty messed up.”

  Not a very precise medical description, he knew, but it about covered his condition.

  “How did you feel after the hip replacement surgery?”

  “The first or the second?” he asked. “They screwed something up the first time. The wrong size ball joint or something. They had to take a do-over.”

  “Right. A second surgery. How did you feel after that one?”

  “I was in pain. I still am,” he added. “And no feeling at all in my foot. But you know that already, right?”

  She ignored his question. “I see you’re taking medication. What about your diet? Are you eating well—a balanced diet, nutritious foods?”

  “If it was up to my father and stepmother, I’d be eating ten meals a day. I’d be big as a barn.” He looked down at his body, which was not only thinner but much less muscular than it had been months ago when he shipped out of Fort Bragg.

  Gena’s mouth twisted in a half smile. “What’s your social life been like since you’ve come back?”

  “Social life? What’s that?”

  Her eyebrows went up a notch. “Do you see any friends? Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “No . . . nothing going on like that right now. I lost touch with the guys I went to high school with. Most of them have moved away. I wouldn’t have much to say to them now anyway.”

  He thought of Christine. She was a friend. But seeing her that one time wasn’t what Gena meant, and David was sure he wouldn’t be seeing Christine again anytime soon.

  “Friends from the army?”

  “Once in a while there’s an e-mail. My life is pretty dull. I don’t have too much to say. Most of the guys I was tight with in my squad are still over there . . . except our sergeant. He died that night we got hit.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said sincerely. “I’m sorry you lost your friend.”

  David shrugged. He didn’t know what else to tell her. He hadn’t known those guys too long. But they had grown tight, especially the nine guys in his squad. They had depended on each other for their very survival. Training together, sleeping together, eating together, going through life-threatening experiences together—he felt a bond with them that he had never felt with anyone before. And never expected to feel again.

  It had been pure, blind chance he had not died when the Humvee was hit and later, when it exploded. He knew that there was nothing he could have done to save Sergeant Nolan. To change the flip of that coin. But he still felt a nagging guilt, as if he had somehow betrayed the man by surviving him.

  “Any trouble sleeping?” Gena asked.

  He paused, wondering how truthful he should be. “Not great,” he admitted.

  “Because of the pain?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Any other reasons?” she persisted. “Headaches? Nightmares?”

  “Yeah, sometimes. But that’s pretty common, I hear, for someone like me.” He looked up at her. “Are you a shrink, too? It was my understanding that you just covered the physical repairs. I didn’t know you were qualified to get into my head.”

  His question held a challenging edge. If he wanted to see a psychiatrist, he would make an appointment with one. Why did she need to ask him all these questions?

  She tucked the folder under her arm and met his gaze. “Everything’s connected, David. Your emotional state, your attitude, your body. Your physical recovery is greatly impacted by your psychological state. And so is any work that we do together.”

  “Well, maybe, but it seems to me if I go to a gym and press weights for a month, I still get a muscle in my arm. Whether I’m smiling or crying.”

  She tilted her head. “Maybe. But this is different. This isn’t just body-building. It’s healing, inside and out. Have you met with a counselor at any point to talk about your night traumas or your feelings about the friends you’ve lost?”

  David sighed and sat back. She wouldn’t give up, would she? “Yeah, once or twice. I didn’t get much out of it. I’m okay,” he insisted. “I mean, considering what I went through. Hey, anybody would feel down, a little messed up. I need to start walking again. That’s what I need. Talking isn’t going to help me. Walking is.”

  He knew he sounded angry but he couldn’t stop himself. She had pushed his buttons with all her questions.

  “If that’s how you feel, counseling probably won’t help you,” she agreed. “But you ought to think about it, reconsider.”

  �
�Okay, I will,” he said just to close the subject. “What do you think about my condition? About my physical therapy? Any ideas about that?”

  She took a moment before answering. “If all you want to talk about is your body, I’d say you ought to consider yourself lucky. You didn’t come out of it badly at all.”

  David knew that was true. All he had to do was look around at his fellow patients. Take the guy on the next table, who was missing an arm, for instance. What would it be like coming home in that condition?

  He took another swallow of water, feeling like a self-absorbed slug. “Listen,” he said, “I know everybody’s got a story. I know I’m damn lucky to have come back in one piece. You don’t have to tell me that. But it still stinks to be trapped inside this walker, dragging a half-dead foot.”

  She nodded, the same, serious expression that didn’t reveal one hint of emotion or what was really going on in her head.

  She thought he was a spoiled, whining baby, David decided. Well, so what if she did?

  “You want to get rid of the walker. Is that your priority?”

  “My priority? Actually, no. My priority would be to have my legs working again. To be able to apply for a job as a cop or a firefighter, which was my plan once my enlistment was up. Until I got hit.”

  David quickly realized that somewhere during his explanation his voice had grown progressively louder. He was practically shouting at her. As if this physical therapist had anything to do with his condition, any say in what would be.

  Well, she had asked him the question hadn’t she?

  He stared at her, feeling awkward. He should apologize, he knew. But Gena seemed unfazed, unmoved by the angry, crazy, disabled soldier yelling at her. She probably got that all the time.

  “I read the medical report,” she answered evenly. “There’s still some chance you could regain feeling in your foot. But we have to assume that you won’t and build up other muscles so that you can manage with a cane and the brace.” She waited a moment for him to reply. When he didn’t she continued. “It appears, at this time anyway, that any job with demanding physical requirements is off the table. I’m sorry.”

  David was not shocked by this assessment. He had heard this prognosis before from his doctors. But it was still discouraging to be reminded of his losses.