Miracle for the Neurosurgeon

by Lynne Marshall

  The man might be considered disabled by everyday standards, but he was also a skilled neurosurgeon, and the world still needed him. She couldn’t allow him to hide away in his gym day in and day out.

  It seemed he had to relearn how to be himself. The confident, outgoing guy he used to be. That was a task far beyond her physical therapist’s pay scale. All she could hope was for their once shared friendship and mutual respect to pull him back to what he’d been before the accident. Not the gym rat he’d become. Didn’t he know that true strength came from inside, not from muscles?

  Her phone rang. It was Alexandra. “How’d things go?”

  “A little rocky at first, but he’s agreed to let me stay for now.”

  “How does he look?”

  Great! Sexy as ever. “Determined, and obviously buffer than I’ve ever seen him.”

  “If anyone can get through to him, I know you can.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Promise?” Mommy! Mommy! Mary heard children’s voices in the background. With three kids, Alexandra never seemed to make it through a phone call without interruption.

  “Promise.”

  “I’m going to have to cut things short.”

  “I understand. I’ll keep you posted. Give those kids a hug from me, and two for Rosebud, okay?”

  “Can you believe little Rose is one now?”

  “Unreal.” She’d missed her birthday from being out of state, but had seen videos, and had also had face time with her on the computer when little Rosebud had opened the gift she’d sent—a small rocking horse that talked to the rider. Rose had loved it and the grin on her face when she’d opened the package had managed to wrap around Mary’s heart and change her life forever.

  They hung up, and Mary remembered the day she’d first held Rose when she was less than a week old. The tiny bundle, completely helpless, had still managed to get her needs across with grunts and stretches, cries and flailing pink spindly arms. And the newborn had felt more amazing than anything Mary had ever held in her life.

  Her education and traveling had kept her away from the births of Alexandra’s first two children, Oliver and Bailey. But she’d been given the honor of becoming Rose’s godmother so she couldn’t very well miss out on meeting her right off. That meet and greet had changed her life.

  A loving warmth fanned over her skin as she remembered how deeply she’d been moved by holding her goddaughter. How the tiny baby had reached into her heart and planted a need she’d never dared to dream of before.

  As she stared out of the two decent-sized windows of her tiny home, looking out toward the beach, she thought of her own situation. She was at a crossroads in life and, at nearly thirty-four, she finally admitted what she really wanted. More than anything. A child.

  It was little Rosebud’s fault. And Matthew’s, the sturdy little six-month-old she’d held just last week. Her patient, his mother, had been instructed to do some exercises and the baby had needed to be held. Mary had thought nothing of helping out until the sturdy boy with those chubby dimpled hands, two chins and a Buddha belly had looked into her eyes and squealed with joy. She’d never wanted to cuddle, squeeze and kiss a baby more in her life. Oh, yeah, she wanted one.

  Now she dreamed of having a child. Illogical, yes, with no man in her life. Living completely without roots. An inconsistent job that took her all over the country. Yet she’d finally heeded the whisperings of her body that had been building for years, and with the recent help of two little ones, that whisper had turned into a scream. She wanted to be a mother more than anything. To have a baby all her own…before it was too late.

  Finishing off her tea, she stood and walked the few short feet to her kitchen sink. How exactly did a woman go about such a task on her own?

  She glanced at the mansion up the walk, which may as well be a prison for its current purpose of shutting out the world for Wesley Van Allen, M.D. Then she put her yearning for a baby aside. Wes needed to be her first priority for now.

  She was adamant about setting a time limit with him, though. Two months. Tops. She’d allowed for the lapse in a paying job into her annual budget for exactly that amount of time. If she intended to pursue her dream of having a child on her own, she’d need to change jobs to one where she could settle down in one place in order to be a stable parent. It was her chance to provide for her baby what she’d never had herself. Permanence, unconditional love, protection and opportunity. And, father or no father, she wanted it with all of her might.

  She washed her teacup, deciding to take a walk on the gloriously beautiful beach. Maybe when she got back she’d crack open that bottle of wine she’d been saving, sit on her cozy front porch, have a toast to her latest post, and lift a glass to her future plans. Truth was, she could spend the entire evening daydreaming about becoming a mother, but…

  Right now, her long-ago—but never forgotten—first crush had to come first.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE NEXT MORNING, Rita met Mary at the door and escorted her as far as the stairs, which Mary took two at a time, priming herself for a fight when she reached the gym. Instead, she found Wesley dressed, freshly shaved, and with his hair tied up, waiting for her. Surprise.

  “This is a change.” She smiled, entering the workout room, but Wesley, dressed in a black T-shirt and grey sweatpants, didn’t exactly return it. At least he didn’t scowl.

  “The sooner we get on with this, the sooner…” He stopped himself.

  But she had a hunch what he’d planned on saying was, the sooner you’ll be gone. “Two months. Remember? Give me two months and you’ll be a different man.”

  Now came the deadpan stare. “I already am a different man.”

  She refused to take the bait. “You may be buffer than I ever remember, but there’s more work to be done, though the outcome will be less obvious…” she held up her index finger “…but necessary.” Without giving him a moment to protest, she grabbed a stool on wheels by the nearby wall in his top-of-the-line equipped gym and rolled over to his wheelchair. “I need to do a complete evaluation of your muscles and reflexes.”

  He pulled in his chin and his brows pushed down.

  “You didn’t think I was going to start you on exercises without first evaluating your motor and sensory status, did you?” From her large shoulder bag she pulled out a multi-paged form. “Let’s get started.”

  “I’ve already been through this.”

  She’d learned from his online records—which she’d been approved to view—that he’d had sufficient occupational training for activities of daily living. She’d also learned about his past and personal medical history, which, to be honest, prior to the accident had been uneventful. But if there was any health issue, she’d leave that part up to his primary physician. He certainly seemed independent from the looks of him, all dressed and ready to go so early in the morning.

  “Yes, but you haven’t had a thorough examination in several months, and I need to compare your current status with the last one.”

  Her plan was to measure muscles, grade their power, tone and level of flaccidity. She’d test modalities of sensation, both superficial and deep, above his injury and compare them to the American Spinal Injury Impairment Scale. He’d nearly severed his spinal cord at T11-12, which made him paraplegic but able to sit on his own, which he obviously handled like the Prince of Westwood, and that definitely helped with breathing and the ability to deep cough. Both important for general health and well-being.

  After the first part of the evaluation, which took a good half-hour, though impressed with his upper body strength and the fact he’d increased muscle mass since his last evaluation, she was most concerned about the decrease in the use of joints below his waist. With him being a doctor, she’d have thought he would have cared about such things, but she hadn’t taken into account his mental outlook. He was an achiever and worked like the devil on what he could change, in his case developing strength and muscles like a regular Adonis,
while ignoring the part he had zero control over—his hips and lower extremities.

  She continued with her examination and as she used her hands to feel and measure his thighs, she sensed his discomfort and decided to lighten the mood. “Hey, it’s not like you haven’t had women groping and crawling all over you before, right?”

  “They were usually naked.”

  He’d actually tried to make a joke—or a snide remark, but she preferred to think of it as a joke—and she couldn’t let his effort lie flat so she played along. “Are you asking me to take off my clothes?”

  She pinned Wesley’s caramel eyes with her own, wondering where she’d gotten the nerve to be so bold, but rode it out in spite of her inner cringing. Acting this way felt completely wrong. He didn’t look away and it sent a subtle shudder right down her middle.

  “That’s a thought,” he said, his voice a rough whisper that definitely wasn’t snide.

  She’d never pull something like this with a patient, and as long as she was here to help she’d expect nothing less from herself. “Excuse me, Wes. That was uncalled for. I apologize for crossing the line. You being an old friend shouldn’t make a difference.”

  He didn’t let her off the hook but studied her, his head tipped just so as he did. Inside, she squirmed, wishing she’d never pretended to be bold, waiting to see if she’d offended him and if he was going to let her have it.

  “I’m still considering your first offer.” His were now the eyes doing the pinning…and the teasing. The internal cringing doubled. He was testing her. She may as well be naked since she couldn’t hide the total body goose-bumps.

  “Gah! You win. I had no business acting all vampy with you. I’m the least sexy person on earth.”

  “Says who?”

  “Oh, trust me, I am. Anyway, you win. I bow to your poker face.” She went overboard, taking the ditzy route, hoping to keep him from realizing what she instantaneously had. He was paralyzed from the waist down. She felt safer with him. It was a sad truth she’d have to face herself with later in the mirror. She’d judged him without even realizing it, putting him in the “safe” male category, becoming gutsier as a result.

  For that one instant, she understood how he must feel about the rest of the world judging him as a man. She’d inadvertently labeled him as less of a threat and had acted differently than she would’ve with any other male patient, simply because he was a friend sitting in a wheelchair. Inwardly, she shook her head. Ashamed.

  He was an incredibly smart man, and intuitive, and, well, with friends like her, no wonder he’d become a recluse and an overachieving gym rat. Barbells didn’t judge!

  She took a deep breath and continued the examination using only the most impeccable professional skills from then onward.

  And her heart broke again as she discovered how stiff and nearly locked his hips, knees and ankle joints were. She had to get him back on track as this weakness would eventually impact on all the strength he’d developed above the waist. Not to mention his circulation and oxygen uptake. He might feel like “half” a man these days, but half of him was a lot, and the best parts, his brain and those strong shoulders and arms, would help keep the rest of him going. As long as he was willing. But he couldn’t ignore the parts that didn’t work.

  She glanced at him. He still stared her down, keeping her feeling naked without a place to hide.

  “So here’s what I propose.” She sat back on the rolling stool, and met him as close to knee to knee as she could get with his feet on the wheelchair footrests. “We work on a regimen to improve your lower body strength with passive range of motion exercises at first.”

  In response she got a blank stare.

  “We need to preserve your joints—your hips, your knees, your ankles. Heaven forbid you should develop foot drop.”

  “Why?”

  “For a better quality of life.” That went over like a conk on the head. “You know that.” More staring. “Or how about for when they finally figure out how to help paraplegics walk through nerve innervation.” Still no response. “Come on, Wes, you’re a neurosurgeon, you crack open people’s heads for a living and do all kinds of things to their brains. Surely you’ve thought about the future, right?”

  He shook his head. “These days I only think about the present.” End of topic? Not if she could help it. Besides, she detected his defense mechanism in full force.

  “Baloney. I believe there are hundreds of patients you’ve helped and saved who need you back on the job. I believe your future is still bright.”

  “Anyone ever tell you how annoying you are?”

  Wesley was impressed with Mary’s thoroughness, and also with her positive attitude, but wasn’t about to let her know that. Why give her the upper hand? His personal doctor had promised him a much rosier recovery than he’d had, and as far as he was concerned he’d done his part to get as strong as possible. Yet he’d never get out of this damn wheelchair.

  “I’m annoying?” She mocked surprise. “Yeah, all the time. I’m a physical therapist, what can I expect, I tick off all my patients. It’s part of my strategy.” Her expression went serious. “I know I’m bothering you, but I’m doing it because it’s important. And speaking of important, where’s your stationary bike?”

  He screwed up his face. “In case you haven’t noticed, I can’t use my legs.”

  “You need the aerobic exercise to enhance circulation and increase oxygen. Let me show you.” She dug into her shoulder bag and shoved a catalogue at him. “This is expensive, but from the looks of your house you can afford it.”

  He took a look, but wasn’t the least bit enthusiastic about what he saw. The bicycle strapped the legs and feet in place and stimulated the muscles as the patient rode it, or so said the product description. Completely high tech and necessary for paraplegics, according to some Norwegian study.

  “Since they did this study, I’ve recommended this bike to all of my paraplegic and even quadriplegic patients.”

  He tossed her his best “so what” face, straight out of the teenage contrarian handbook. It didn’t faze her.

  “You might think it does all the work, but this little baby will keep you in tip-top shape.” She stopped herself from saying more, but he understood she was about use the “D” word—“deteriorating”, and take the broad-brush approach for life expectancy in paraplegics.

  “Look, I get it, Mary. My tough-love doc showed me a video early on when all I wanted to do was shut down.”

  That notorious video, which he could tell from the change of expression on her face she knew of, used time-lapse photography to document a young man’s demise. Hell, she probably carried around a copy of it in her bottomless shoulder bag, to use on uncooperative patients like him.

  The patient in the video had been eighteen at the time of his skateboarding accident and had quickly given up on himself. The photographer had crunched ten years down to one minute. The brutal video transformed a young generally healthy man into a shadow of his former self and had shocked the defeat right out of Wes. Mission accomplished. From that day on he’d worked at his rehab with a vengeance. Never wanting to quit, even when hospital personnel pleaded with him to slow down, he’d refused to give up. Since he’d been home, if the rehab PT didn’t like his work ethic in the gym, he’d fire him or her. He didn’t care which gender they were, out they’d go.

  “So I don’t have to paint that graphic picture for you, right?” Little Miss Sunshine returned.

  “Right. I’ve seen it and I never want to go there.” The thought terrified him; his worst fears had been laid out before him by that video. Never, ever, did he want to wind up like that. Not without a good fight.

  “So I can order this for you, then? It says they can have a rush delivery here in a week to ten days.”

  The room went thick with silence as they carried out a staring contest. Why was she pushing this bike so hard? Did she have stock in the company, or know something he didn’t?

  Sh
e used her thumb and forefinger to pull back the hair above her forehead, a frustrated gesture, for sure. His stubbornness had gotten to her. “You’re still a doctor, Wesley. It’s completely possible for you to go back to being one and performing surgery again.”

  “Ha! That’s rich.” He let his honest reaction slip through the cracks. Been there, done that. Failed! Now he didn’t believe a word. She may as well be selling snake oil. “I’ve already tried to go back to work and it was a miserable failure. My department head sent me home.”

  “Because it was too soon. How can someone as smart as you be so dense?” He saw determination in her eyes as she sat straighter, and he let the slur slide. Maybe he needed to listen to her. “As long as we keep your motor skills intact and your mind alert, there’s nothing to stop you from going back when you’re ready. The key phrase being ‘when you’re ready’.”

  Mary went back to her large bag, which apparently held the world in it from everything she kept taking out. She lifted a stack of medical journals and handed them to him. “Here. Why not catch up on the latest in neurosurgery?”

  “Look, I appreciate your enthusiasm and concern, but I’ve got my own plan for getting back on the job.”

  “Sheer will and body sweat isn’t a plan, Wes. My plan can’t make you perfect again. No. But I guarantee it can and will help you improve and increase your chances of performing surgery again.”

  “How can you guarantee that?” He dug in, because he wanted what she preached so badly it hurt, but what if her promise never came to be? So far his Neanderthal workout-until-you-drop approach hadn’t panned out. Sure, he was buffer, but ready to go back to work? She was right. Not yet.