26 and Change

by Deacon Rie

  "Stephen, in those times just hold her. Just hold her, man."

  "Yeah, okay. I'll see about that. So what do I do, you know, for me?" Stephen asked somewhat sheepishly.

  Encouraged with the way their brief introductory session had gone and concerned to not push his new patient away, Ray decided to hold off from exploring some of the lingering effects of Stephen's darker struggles. He felt confident they could journey down those roads in their next sessions, extremely confident there would be another session. "You need time."

  "Time?" Stephen replied, lacking any confidence.

  "Time. And maybe something else." A thought formed in Ray's mind that brought a grin to his face. "You say you feel like running away, right?"

  "Well, I feel that way sometimes. But it's just a feeling. I wouldn't ever abandon my family."

  "Right. What if instead of running away from something, you ran towards something?"

  "Okay, but running towards what?" Stephen requested

  "Stephen, in the Army you had a mission, right?"

  "Of course."

  "In the Army, you were told exactly what to do, when to do it and where you should be when the mission is complete."

  "Yeah, of course. We don't move without orders." Stephen answered.

  Ray continued, "Life isn't much different, it's just that you are the one who has to call the missions of your own life. Sometimes you have a choice in which missions you take. Sometimes you don't. And just like most missions, the plan changes once the action starts. But you're still moving towards a series of designated outcomes; be it recovering from a health crisis, growing a business, working to achieve a happy marriage. You might get past a particular outcome but your missions don't end, you'll always have a new mission. And the most important missions include your family. Those are the ones that focus on their physical health, their mental health, and yes- even their spiritual health. But before you can lead them, you need to know you can lead yourself. Once you have that, you'll get rid of a lot of the anxiousness that comes with the insecurities we all carry. Get rid of that and you'll find yourself enjoying things a lot more. Once you have a few small wins, you'll get your feet under you and start to take some joy from the mission."

  "Sounds intriguing. Let me see if I got this, get a hold of the big picture, learn to appreciate the journey and smile at life's little moments. Is that the plan? Then yeah, I can see where you're going with this. Doesn’t sound like brain surgery. I don’t think."

  "You need to remind yourself that you're executing a mission. And you're doing whatever needs to be done to accomplish that mission. If something doesn't go according to plan, that's okay; adapt and overcome. But you have to be able to accept that not everything has to go according to plan in order to achieve the mission but that's okay."

  "Alright, let’s say I’m on board with this concept. So how do I get there?"

  Ray sat back in his padded chair and folded his hands across his flat stomach. "I want to propose a challenge to you. Something that will test you physically. But more than physical it will probably test you at a greater degree mentally."

  "I thought you were going to say we need to start doing sessions. You know, discuss the messed up stuff in my brain and work through my 'issues'."

  Ray insisted, "Oh no, don't for a minute think we're going to skip that fun. We're going to spend all kinds of time in that scrambled brain of yours."

  "That's going to be fun." Stephen sighed.

  "But first, I want to give you a mission. You'll have to work towards this objective. But when you're done," Ray's rocked in his chair as white teeth flashed in satisfaction, "I'm pretty certain you'll be at a point where you can start to appreciate accomplishments. Who knows, maybe that's the breakthrough you’ve been needing to start seeing all the great things you've got going in your life."

  "How do I know when I'm at that point?"

  "You'll know alright."

  Surprised by Ray's assurance, Stephen questioned him, "You make it sound as if there will be a big sign that'll tell me I'm healed or something."

  "Oh, there will be." Ray smiled mischievously, "In big bold letters. And it'll be marked FINISH LINE."

  Mile 18

  Another white sign slowly came into view on the ground ahead. The number eighteen written on it gave Stephen a small burst of encouragement in knowing he was approaching the latter miles of the race. The momentary encouragement was rudely interrupted by a sharp stiffness in his lower back which forced him to arch toward the rear and into an awkward angle. Feeling a twinge of relief, he continued running in the odd position. He felt he probably could have finished the race in this contorted position but Stephen assumed that he looked so outrageous it would entice a course photographer to make him the poster child for the post-race gag reel. He declared vanity the victor and straightened his back, immediately causing the tightness to return.

  While his pace slowed significantly from earlier in the morning, he was now passing several other runners. He inadvertently stared at some of the pained expressions people were making with each step. It occurred to him that he had been running all morning and was just now passing these individuals. While he knew there were some people who chose to walk the marathon, they couldn't have been this far ahead of him. Instead, he realized that these were runners who had switched to walking and it did not appear to be by choice.

  The road, seemingly conscience of an opportunity exposed by Stephen's weariness, curved to the right and shifted into a steep incline. Stephen made the turn with an excessive bodily lean that would have made even the best special effects artist jealous. Rounding out the turn and straightening his posture, he stared in disbelief at the scene before him.

  Both sides of the road ahead of him were littered with broken down runners in a strange apocalyptic version of the race course. They were scattered and separate but seemed close enough together for Stephen to wonder if something had impacted them as a group. He saw some people leaning over the side of the road in the obvious aftermath of reliving every ounce of food they had consumed over the previous twelve hours. Others appeared to be attempting some modified version of a calf stretch; which, based upon the expressions on their face, seemed to look more like a self-induced torture session. While a few of the runners were getting assistance from others, most were left to suffer on their own, sprawled across the curbs while others lay helplessly out along the grassy perimeters.

  There was a bike on the side of the road marked "EMT." Stephen knew things had gone poorly for some runner when all he could see was the back of the medic crouched on the ground taking the pulse of a woman lying flat on her back. Her friend was speaking calmly to her and the medic looked as though he was pulling the radio from his back pocket.

  Making the call for backup. Never a good sign.

  Stephen knew the end of her race had arrived. He selfishly wondered if the medic would continue to ride ahead after the lady was picked up. Not that he felt he needed it right then, but Stephen had become quite familiar with the value of having a good medic nearby and he wasn't overly confident about running too far ahead of this one.

  Stephen had served with several medics before his deployment and his faith in them had always been high. In a post- September 11th world, training routines for Cavalry troops were no normal day at the office as injuries increased with their drilling intensity. Even over his weekend stints with the National Guard, the constant presence of a medic gave him a comfort, if not a little extra shot of bravery. But it wasn’t until Iraq that Stephen came to fully appreciate the heart that drives a medic to do their work.

  Stephen pained to remember that young medic who looked over him before chunks of that building began falling on their makeshift medical site. Just the site of that kid's pale face had given him a boost of courage in the scariest moment of his life. Despite his young age, the boy had comforted Stephen and given him hope through his calm and professional demeanor. When the rubble came down from that errant mortar round,
the medic had instinctively joined Mayweather and provided a human shield to protect his patients. It had worked. He had saved the life of the unconscious Darnell Waters. At that pivotal moment, the medic had written a check for the protection of the soldiers entrusted into his care. It was a check written for the amount of his life. It was a check, which on that day, was cashed.

  Stephen was later informed that a heavy piece of the building's concrete hit the brave medic in the back of his neck and caused a cervical fracture. This led to a sudden loss of nerve supply throughout the entire body, including the heart and blood vessels, causing his blood pressure to drop below a sustainable level. "Spinal Shock", they had told him. But Stephen had seen the look in those bright blue eyes and knew the cause of his death was nothing less than willful sacrifice.

  Stephen had received a broken finger from the mortar episode, which was icing on the cake after the plethora of injuries he had sustained from the ambush inside that hell house. Nevertheless, the inequity of loss from the mortar had disturbed Stephen. His ability to write well, compared to Mayweather's ability to ever walk again, or the medic's life was difficult for him to reconcile. But war was about inequities and that was something he would have to grips with if he was to honor the sacrifices made.

  Stephen would often bend the finger as far as it could go, knowing it would forever be limited to a range of about half of what it should be. He didn't mind too much. It was more of a memory than an impediment. That's not to say that a broken pointer finger wasn't an annoying hindrance to a person's everyday life. In the digital age where typing is frequently necessary to engage in society’s daily communication, the lack of one’s index finger could be a major nuisance. Attempts at cooking, playing sports, or simply reading a book all become reminders of just how important the dangly digit was. But when a person emerges from a mountain of concrete and devastated bodies with lacerations, a punctured lung caused by three broken ribs and a bullet hole in the leg, the broken pointer finger does not cause a lot of stress. During his time in recovery, Stephen had often forgotten about the two inch brace securing his pointer to his middle finger.

  He often used the finger as an analogy for explaining their journey with Hailey's health. It helped supportive loved ones to understand that families of cancer survivors always had to have their antennas on high alert. It was a habit learned during the high-risk period of treatment and even during remission, the extreme diligence against germs was not a switch easily turned off. So when Hailey's treatment for her second round with cancer was nearly completed, the family was still on high alert. After she became sick with a cold for nearly a week her physician agreed with Sarah's urging and quickly admitted her to the hospital. It turned out to be a wise call as the stubborn case of bronchitis had quickly developed into pneumonia. But to the Lantz family, pneumonia was like that broken finger. It was something to be taken seriously. But even when treatment included additional tests to ensure the cancer had not spread into her vital organs, pneumonia, like a broken finger, was not a death sentence.

  Stephen and Sarah alternated nights at the hospital over the next few days while Hailey rested and remained under observation. After the first night's full rest on some powerful steroids, Hailey had been feeling well again. Nevertheless, another couple of nights at the hospital were ordered by a cautious doctor who had more concern over his patient's medical history than the cost of hospital beds or the preferences of non-medical decision-makers in the business office. The Lantzes didn't put up too much of a fuss, especially since insurance deductibles were usually met within the first couple of months each year.

  That Friday evening found some good friends with kids Hailey's age able to convince them to take an evening off while they brought over board games and sleeping bags for an overnight stay with Hailey at the hospital. Stephen relented as Sarah reminded him that their daughter was 11 years old now and needed more than friendly staff and periodic visits by the orderly who made balloon animals to keep her spirits high. Besides, Hailey would be coming home on Sunday and her parents needed their rest. Adding to the list of reasons to take a break; Stephen was training for a marathon and had a long training run planned for that Saturday morning. Sarah commented that he had been so dedicated to running the upcoming marathon that there was genuine concern he would take to logging his training miles among the halls of the hospital. Hailey's doctor suggested the hospital wasn't equipped for the way Stephen would smell after a three hour run and adamantly gave his blessing to their friends' offer for Stephen and Sarah to go home.

  There was a hint of guilt among the Lantz household as they ate well without Hailey. Sarah had composed a tasty penne-pasta dinner for Stephen and his parents. She spent the afternoon making a meatless marinara brought together a symphony of colors: thin slices of red, green and orange bell peppers were mixed with mushrooms. Mixed into the medley were thin garlic slivers and sautéed spinach with minced sun-dried tomatoes. Stephen enjoyed his wife's rejuvenated interest for cooking. Providing an over-exaggerated rub of his waistline, he commented on the need to run the marathon just to keep pace with Sarah's culinary explorations. Then he grabbed seconds.

  Dinner closed out earlier than normal as Rebecca wasn't feeling particularly well and Stephen had preparations to make. Before the night closed out, he jumped in the car and mapped out the route for the next day's run. Along the path, he found a partially broken brick wall at the end of a poorly lit road which seemed to serve no apparent purpose other than being good spot for him to leave a bottle of water and sports drink for when he planned to refuel during the next morning’s run.

  Arriving home, the comedy of errors began to unfold. Getting to bed early for a full night’s rest did not seem to be too ambitious of a plan. But the military had taught him plans were only good until the shooting began, or in Stephen’s case, until a high-need customer called. Which for this particular customer, on this particular night, might as well have been incoming sniper fire. It took a little over an hour to get the customer’s crisis resolved. From there, he made a mad dash to close out the evening and make it to bed by his predetermined hour. When he finally tucked in for the night, he was only running half an hour behind schedule.

  The house logged a couple hours of peace and quiet before a battery in a random smoke alarm expired at 2am; this being, of course, the only time of day at which smoke alarm batteries were permitted to expire. The first chirp was just enough to disturb his slumber, the second beep arrived twenty minutes later and he was able to willfully ignore it. But it was the third and certainly the loudest, which woke him completely. After walking the halls in a concerned, yet unsuccessful effort to determine which alarm was the source of disturbance, he convinced himself that he had imagined the whole thing and went back to bed.

  Around 3am that morning, the detector made another chirp followed by a two-second siren that sent Stephen into a frenzy. He immediately identified the blaring culprit, grabbed a ladder and yanked 9v battery from the alarm's encasement. Heart pounding from the abrupt awakening, he promised himself he would replace the battery the next day. As he climbed off the step ladder, the device defiantly chirped again.

  He quickly darted up the ladder and then came down as though he was descending Mount Doom from Tolkien’s Mordor. Stephen stepped off the ladder, this time in his hand he held the smoke detector, wires protruding as a result of its violent separation from the wall. Feeling his body falling asleep as he rested both feet on the solid hardwood ground, he wearily rested the detector on the hallway credenza and made the conscience decision to leave the ladder in the middle of the hallway; thoroughly convincing himself it was so that he would remember the alarm in the morning and not just because he was too lazy to put it back in the closet.

  At 3:45 am, Sarah woke, startled, to the sight of the window in their bedroom being opened and her husband hurling something deep into the night air. In a shocked and nervous voice she asked Stephen what was going on. His response was a groggy murmur and the only
phrase she could make out was something about a promise to look for a smoke detector tomorrow. Still unsure if her husband was sleep walking, Sarah watched him spill back into their bed.

  Suddenly, Sarah’s attention darted to the window. It was a single high pitched beep coming from outside.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “No. I did not hear anything.” Stephen’s head was so far under his pillow that his voice muffled through the fibers.

  “I’m pretty sure I heard a beeping noise.” Sarah’s voice peaked with her curiosity.

  “No. You didn’t hear anything,” the rose the voice again.

  “Stephen, I think it’s a smoke alarm beeping.”

  His head emerged with disheveled hair, “Is it still illegal to use a firearm in a residential neighborhood?”

  “What?”

  “Cause if that smoke alarm is still beeping, the only thing I haven’t tried is blowing it away.” He lifted his pillow and smashed it atop his head as if he were permanently putting himself out of his misery.

  Sarah looked at her exhausted husband. She leaned over and gave the top of the pillow a kiss.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing, my sweet.” She smiled and rested her own head gently onto her own pillow.

  According to plan, Stephen’s alarm clock went off at six the next morning.

  Towards the end of the next morning's training run, he lifted his shirt to wipe the sweat out of his eyes. He thought about the prior night's chaos and found himself surprised that the sleep deprivation did not affect his running ability at all. He was tired but he easily chalked that up to the fact that he was about to finish an 18 mile run. Stephen turned the final corner and began daydreaming about the International House of Pancakes he passed about five miles back. His thoughts quickly drifted toward the elaborate breakfast he had just earned. Eggs Benedict, Belgium waffles, sausage links, a Denver omelet smothered in cheddar cheese. There were so many choices to consider that his indecisiveness only made him hungrier.