“Sam, I’m going to miss you. I don’t have the words…”
“We don’t always need words. How about a hug?”
Kathleen was a child let out of the strictest parochial school. She sat in the back seat of the car and watched as Sam drove and Helen acted as co-pilot and tour guide. Today would be about the moment—no injury, no hand that wouldn’t open or close, and no nightmares.
Tour guide Helen said, “We’re taking a short detour. I want you to see Nanstein Castle. Sam, stop here,” she ordered. “Let’s get out of the car; this will give us a great view.”
Kathleen was taken away with the beauty of the ancient castle looming high above Landstuhl. Once needed as a protector for the city, it now provided incredible views of the storybook town below. Helen and Sam seemed more interested in each other than the view; sly looks and engaging smiles told Kathleen of their attraction. Like a child, she crossed her fingers, closed her eyes, and spoke a silent wish for their dreams to come true.
Narrow winding streets led them out of Landstuhl, toward the Palatinate Forest. The road curled around white painted buildings with red and brown roofs. The sidewalks were busy with men and women shopping for groceries or dining at outdoor cafes. They drove past regal hotels with lush green lawns and gushing fountains, and businesses with brightly colored flowers planted in weathered boxes. A train whistle echoed through the Palatinate Forest and followed them to the lake.
Kathleen stepped out of the car and breathed in the fresh country air. She smiled at Helen, balancing blankets and cushions, while Sam carried thermoses and an over-packed lunch basket. They sat under the pine trees, eating slowly, taking in the scenery, and enjoying small talk.
Sam moved closer to Helen and put his arm around her. He cleared his throat. “Since I’ve been here I, um… Helen and I have discovered how much we mean to each other, and we don’t want to waste another moment being apart.” Sam looked at Helen. “We’re in love, and we’ve decided to retire, so we can spend the rest of our lives together. We wanted you to be the first to know: We’re getting married!”
Kathleen scribbled in her journal with her left hand.
January 2, 2007 – Going to Walter Reed in four days. More tests scheduled for today. Why can’t I bend my hand? Crying.
Gary took her out to lunch. She felt as if she was twenty-one and she and Gary were on a pretend date. They sat at a quiet table toward the back of an Italian restaurant. I hope you don’t mind eating Italian food in Germany. I know how much you like lasagna, and well, this is one of my favorite places.
“Let’s start with some minestrone soup and, as your doctor, I’m ordering wine—for medicinal purposes only, of course.”
“Thanks, Gary—not only for lunch, but for everything.”
“Hey, you’re the girl who cleaned my bug-infested apartment. The least I could do is give you an arm and hand that works—well, sort of works.” Gary became serious and held her hand. “You have PTSD written all over you, and you haven’t fooled anyone. We can’t force you to confess, and I can understand why you don’t want to be labeled. When you get home, talk to someone off the record. Wear a Groucho Marx disguise, give a phony name, but deal with it.
“I couldn’t hope for better results from your tests, but you’re still healing. Let’s see, I’ve known you for what now? Eighteen years. You can’t pull the wool over my eyes. I know you have more pain than you’ll admit to. On a scale of one to ten, my guess is you’re at a six or seven. It’s from regenerating nerves and will probably last another six months, maybe longer. No medal for this kind of bravery. You know it can be treated. Think about it when you get to Walter Reed.
“The first six months after this type of injury are critical, and you’ve done better than I expected.” Gary paused and kissed Kathleen’s hand. “I wish I could give you a guarantee.”
She smiled. “No guarantees in life, ever.”
The waiter brought their soup and set a third place at the table. Kathleen looked puzzled.
Gary laughed. “Oh, honey, you’ve been out of circulation way too long. Look around.”
She hadn’t noticed. Same gender couples, talking quietly, some holding hands. She shook her head. “I wasn’t aware; it’s all so open and casual. So Gary, it isn’t just the Italian food that makes this your favorite restaurant, is it? But why the third setting?”
“You’ll see. Eat your soup before it gets cold.”
They sat quietly, Kathleen eating with her left hand, Gary barely eating at all. Gary stood up, walked toward the door, and was joined by another man. They returned to the table. “Kathleen, this is David Clement.”
“Hello, Kathleen, it’s good to meet you.” He smiled, sat down, looked at her and winked.
She was disappointed, not in Gary or the staff, but in herself. She could lift her arm, but couldn’t hold a fork. She could put her arm in a shirt, but not button it. See a therapist? She wasn’t walking into that one. She wanted the past to be where it belonged, buried.
There was a knock on the door and Helen walked in, carrying a massage table. “Thought you might want an extra massage. Out on the floor, we only have about twenty minutes. That’s barely a beginning for a real massage.”
Before she had a chance to say no, Helen, humming softly, unfolded the table and covered it with a sheet. Helen helped her onto the table, undressing and covering her in the same brisk moment.
Thank you for pretending that modesty still exists, Kathleen thought.
“I’m using Rosemary oil. It’s got a pungent scent, but it’s good for blood circulation to your arms and legs.” Helen drew the sheet down to Kathleen’s waist and started to massage her neck, shoulders, and upper back.
Kathleen sighed as she began to relax. “It’s quiet on the floor tonight.”
“I’ll bet you forgot. There’s a magic show going on in the group room. We’ve got the floor to ourselves.” Helen moved Kathleen’s arms alongside her head. “You could have gone, you know.”
Kathleen shook her head. She was drowsy and her words came out slower, thicker. “Is there still magic in the world?”
Helen didn’t answer, but began to change the intensity of her massage. “Let me know if this is too much.” Helen was going deeper, searching, finding muscles that felt like rocks. “You’re carrying all your tension in your shoulders.”
Kathleen gasped at the fierceness of the pain. It shot downward: from her shoulder, to her arm, to her hand. Her hand was on fire. She gasped again, but Helen didn’t release the pressure.
Kathleen moaned. The moan tore through her and echoed throughout the empty halls. She was a circus acrobat, dangling from a high wire without a net. She clutched the wire with her fists and squeezed, terrified she would fall to her death.
Helen opened Kathleen’s fist and put her hand in Kathleen’s. She urged, “Squeeze, Kathleen, squeeze.” Kathleen was sobbing; she had no control of her hand, but she felt it squeezing as if Helen was the magician and her only connection to life.
D-day finally arrived. Helen opened the door to her room, holding a large bag in her hands. “Supplements,” she said. “I ordered these for you. Directions are inside, and make sure you take them. They’ll be bringing a wheelchair for you in a few minutes.”
Kathleen put her arms around Helen. “I don’t know how to thank you for everything. You and Sam are perfect together, and I’m happy for both of you.”
“You take care of yourself,” Helen said with a catch in her voice.
When they broke the embrace, Kathleen’s smiling lips trembled as she said, “Helen, I want you to see something.” She held out her right hand and made a slight fist. “Look, it bends.”
If Landstuhl was boot camp, Walter Reed was maneuvers. She was used to the different types of physical therapy, but the mandatory group therapy had her spinning. They sat in a circle, eight of them. Some brought their own chairs—wheelchairs that would be theirs, in some cases, for the rest of their lives. They’re so young, Kathleen thought. She fel
t like a chaperone at the senior prom. They were boys and girls, proud of having served, but trying to make sense out of what happened. Struggling to find a new identity, knowing they would never be the same.
Kathleen was racked with self-doubt. I’ve only seen them wounded, lying down, having to look at body parts, not always at the whole person, making quick decisions. Did I make the right ones? She questioned the praise and respect her colleagues had heaped on her for her medical skills, now fallen into disuse, maybe never to be recovered. She felt guilty that perhaps she could have done more for those who died.
Sometimes the kids talked about their families, their sweethearts. What would it be like when they were no longer part of the military and had to face life as a civilian? Would they be stared at when they went to the grocery store? Would they have a flashback at a restaurant? Would anyone really understand?
It was her time to share. What could she possibly say? That her hand wasn’t perfect? Oh shit, the Marine who sat next to her didn’t have hands.
Should she tell them that she was tortured because she saved someone’s life, but now he doesn’t have a face? Had she done too much? She had taken an oath to preserve life and she had honored her oath. But what about the end results?
Anything she could offer would sound like a sob story, and these people had been through enough without listening to that kind of crap.
She sat quietly, tried to listen attentively, and when it was her turn to speak, she managed to mutter, “Everything’s pretty good. I’m making progress.”
The staff at her discharge planning meeting thought she was ready to continue treatment on an outpatient basis. She had regained some mobility in her hand, but the fine coordination that she needed as a physician was slow in returning. She knew and they knew, perhaps it never would. Her career in the Army was over and she would not be returning to duty.
Kathleen wanted to go home and be with Gayle and Robert. She needed to sleep in her own bed and try to sort things out. Her life would be as a civilian physician with undiagnosed PTSD and limited use of her hand. Her options appeared dismal.
She had a break of two hours between lunch and occupational therapy. Kathleen thought of it as naptime. Her floor would be quiet except for the sounds of patients sleeping, exhausted after a morning of intense therapy. She was sitting on her bed reading when she felt her head begin to nod. She saw herself, as a young girl, working in the garden with Mrs. Roth.
Boston, 1984
It promised to be a hot and humid summer day. Kathleen and Mrs. Roth began to weed the vegetable garden early in the day while the sun was still low in the sky. Kathleen wore a large floppy hat and a red bandana to shield her fair skin from the sun. She worked steadily, but every once in a while she glanced up at Mrs. Roth. Her gray hair and eyes that squinted in the sunlight reminded Kathleen of a small bird looking for a juicy worm for breakfast.
Mrs. Roth always wore long-sleeved blouses, but today, her sleeve inched its way up her arm. Kathleen saw something she had never seen before: blurry blue numbers on Mrs. Roth’s arm. Kathleen tried not to stare but her eyes remained fixed.
Mrs. Roth stopped weeding and wiped her forehead with her bandana. “My goodness, it’s getting hot. We should get out of the sun and have some lemonade.”
Kathleen smiled and relaxed. Mrs. Roth made the best lemonade she had ever tasted.
They sat on the glider on the porch, sipping their tangy drinks. Kathleen had learned many things from Mrs. Roth. For instance, you don’t need to gulp your drink because there will always be more. She also sensed from the way Mrs. Roth swung them in the glider, humming a bygone tune, that she was probably getting ready to tell a story, but she had to wait patiently until the story had “cooked” and Mrs. Roth was ready to serve it.
After a few minutes Mrs. Roth picked up her needlepoint and spoke gently. “I saw you looking at the numbers on my arm.”
Kathleen blushed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong. You were curious and that’s a good thing. Now I am going to tell you a story of how I got those numbers. Do you remember in class when we talked about World War II and the Holocaust?”
Kathleen nodded.
“I was a child when World War II began. I lived in Athens, Greece, with my family. My father and grandfather were both doctors and I was to become a doctor, as well. From the time I was a little girl my father took me from village to village, and taught me all that he knew. I watched as he examined patients, using his skills and intuition. First, he would listen to their heart with a stethoscope or check their breathing by resting his ear against their back. Then he would close his eyes and touch their body. His touch told him what was wrong, and he healed many patients this way.
“My father taught me how to take perfect stitches, and by the time I was eleven, I could take the smallest stitches on wounds without leaving a scar. Even though I was a child, parents wanted me to sew up their children’s wounds. After all, no parent wants their child to have scars.
“When I was thirteen…” She paused and looked at Kathleen. “I was your age when the Germans took control of Athens. All the Jews had to register their names and my family was sent to Auschwitz. Do you know about Auschwitz?”
“Yes, Mrs. Roth, it was a concentration camp. We saw a photo of it in our history book.”
Mrs. Roth nodded. “When we arrived, we were separated and I was tattooed with the numbers you saw on my arm. But, that is only the beginning of my story.
“A German officer saw me and waved me over. I was so very frightened. He took me to his house where there were several other girls my age. He asked me if I knew how to sew. I understood German and told him I could sew and stitch wounds. That interested him. He said, ‘You will stay here and help with the wounded soldiers. I have a daughter your age and I hope someone is looking after her.’ That German officer saved my life. For the next nine months, I helped care for the wounded. Do you know what I discovered?”
Kathleen shook her head.
“They were the same as you and me. They cried from their pain and they asked for their mommies. Even though they were killers, I learned to forgive them and feel for their humanness.” Mrs. Roth paused. “I believe there is a lesson to be learned from every experience, even the painful ones. You see, Kathleen, we can’t always choose the things that happen to us. We can let them destroy us, or we can let them make us stronger.”
Mrs. Roth picked up her glass of lemonade. “It’s like this lemonade. It’s sweet and a little tart at the same time. How do we make lemonade?”
“From lemons, then we add water and…” Kathleen paused, concerned about giving away Mrs. Roth’s lemonade secret. She lowered her voice. “We use agave instead of sugar. That gives it the special taste.”
Mrs. Roth sat back in the glider and smiled. “Yes, and agave comes from the cactus plant. From something sour, like the lemon, and something prickly, like the cactus, we make the most wonderful drink.” Mrs. Roth picked up the glass of lemonade and drank. “So satisfying on a hot day. The numbers on my arm are a reminder of the cruelty that exists in the world. They are also a reminder of the kindness that lives alongside the cruelty.”
The light in Kathleen’s hospital room brightened until everything seemed clearer; more focused. Mrs. Roth stood in front of her and smiled. “Sewing saved my life. Perhaps it can save yours.”
Kathleen came to herself with a start. Had she been dreaming?
She called Gayle and left a message on her phone: “Gayle, I’m going to start outpatient therapy in Los Angeles, probably in a couple of weeks. In my room, top shelf of the closet, is a sewing kit. Would you send it to me, overnight?”
She kept her embroidery and needlepoint with her, wherever she went. She thought of Mrs. Roth every time the needle missed the canvas and stuck her fingers.
She remembered the words she heard from Mrs. Roth on that hot summer day. “Sometimes, bad things happen. We don’t always under
stand why, but perhaps they are sent to us for a reason. It may be that we are meant to go in a different direction and find a new purpose in life.”
PART TWO
The Road to Canfield
CHAPTER 14
Kathleen settled into a new routine, living with Gayle and Robert in Los Angeles, and spending three days a week at the Veteran’s Hospital.
She changed into her bathing suit when she arrived and joined the group for aquatic therapy. She used the resistance bells and gradually moved from 40 percent resistance to 80 percent. Her shoulder was gaining mobility and strength. After showering and changing back into her street clothes, she took the elevator to the third floor and stepped into the world of occupational therapy. There were aids for everything: a hook to help her button a shirt, shoes without laces, and even a zipper pull.
She spent time in the practice kitchen learning to make her own lunches. She began by opening the cupboard and taking out a plastic plate. Beads of sweat covered her forehead as she learned to use a set of curved-handle utensils, designed for her limited hand movement. Her sandwiches were a disaster; the bread tore, peanut butter was lumped in the center, and jelly oozed out from every corner. She wanted to throw her lunch across the room, scream, “Fuck this,” and walk out. Instead she sat at one of the tables next to a veteran with traumatic brain injury. He stared at the utensils, trying to remember which was a knife, which was a fork. Despite her handicap, she managed to cut her sandwich, mangling it in the process, and shared it with him. He brought a smushed piece to his mouth and smiled vacantly at her compassion.
Kathleen progressed to loading and unloading the dishwasher. She removed the dishes one at a time, telling her brain to send messages to her hands: Flex your wrist and bend your fingers to lift a plate. Curve your fingers to remove a glass. Grasp tightly around the silverware and lift. She dropped the dishes, silverware scattered across the room, and glasses hit the floor. She picked each piece up, reloaded the dishwasher, and started over. Now she knew why plastic was invented.
Flowers from Iraq (The Storyteller and the Healer Book 1) Page 8