All That I Dread

by Linda J White

  When I joined Battlefield, I had to fill out a medical emergency form. SAR is dangerous. I used my mother as my emergency contact. I had no idea that Nate had designated me. Of course, he had no family. But still.

  So there I was at the hospital, exhausted and brain-dead, staring at a form authorizing a surgeon to amputate Nate’s leg.

  “Just if they need to,” the nurse said.

  I was horrified. Losing a leg would be a huge adjustment for Nate. It would mean a whole new type of rehab. A lot of pain. The end of SAR, probably.

  But he would be alive. He’d still be here. He’d still have Sprite, and she would have him.

  More to the point, I’d have him too. We all would. The world without Nate was unimaginable to me.

  My confusion must have been apparent. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” the nurse said, patting my hand.

  Was I being selfish? Condemning him to another round of terrible pain? Would Nate want to live with one leg? Would he be able to do the things he enjoyed? Would he be able to work?

  Conflicted, I did something I’d never done before—never imagined myself doing. I prayed to a God I didn’t believe in on behalf of my friend who very definitely believed. Help me know what to do. Help me make the right choice. For Nate, who loves you.

  I sat there for a few minutes. And then I signed the form.

  Why? Because something Nate said to me came to mind. Sometimes the devil will try to convince you life ain’t worth livin’. That’s a lie, a damnable lie.

  After the nurse left with the signed form, I tried to get comfortable on the waiting room couch, snuggled in the corner, using my jacket as a pillow. At the truck stop I had changed into the relatively clean jeans in the back of my Jeep. As I scooched around, I felt something in the back pocket. I pulled it out. It was my Dad’s little black book.

  I was too tired to read it, too stressed to deal with its contents. But I curled around the hand that held that little black book and let the memory of Dad and his mysterious connection to the Gospel of John comfort me. Soon I fell asleep.

  Ninety minutes later, the nurse woke me. The surgeon would see me in Consultation Room 1. Shaking with nerves, I used the restroom, washed my face, and found that room.

  “Your friend,” Dr. Chichester said, “sustained a severe crush injury plus third-degree burns on his lower left leg.” He showed me an X-ray on his laptop. There was no piece of bone in Nate’s lower leg that was larger than a dollar. Most were smaller than a half dollar. Even his ankle was broken. “I consulted with a limb preservation specialist, but he agreed. The combination of the crush injury and the serious burns, well, it made it impossible to save his leg.”

  My heart sank.

  “The good news is, his injuries were localized. He has a few other burns, but nothing that would need hospitalization. His lungs are compromised from smoke inhalation, and we’ll have to watch his kidney function, but I think there’s a good chance he will fully recover.”

  “He’ll need rehab—”

  “Of course, and eventually, a prosthesis, but a lot of people are living these days with amputations.”

  I thought of his friend, Peter Turner, the double amp.

  The whole time the surgeon was talking to me, I was either coughing or suppressing a cough. He finally cocked his head and said, “Were you in that same fire?”

  “Yes.”

  He took a deep breath, something at that moment I couldn’t do. “Tell you what. It’ll be about two hours before you can see him. How about you go down to the ER and get yourself checked out? Smoke inhalation is nothing to fool with.”

  I could see myself sitting in the ER waiting room a lot longer than two hours. I hesitated, but he anticipated my objection. “I’ll call down and grease the skids,” he said. “You won’t have to wait.”

  True to his word, Dr. Chichester got me in and out of the ER in record time. Armed with a new inhaler, orders to drink lots of fluids, and symptoms to watch for if my lungs got worse, I caught up with Nate in ICU.

  Heavily sedated, he lay on the bed intubated, with multiple monitors, an IV in his right arm, and an empty space under the covers where his lower left leg should have been. Tears came to my eyes when I saw that.

  I pulled up a chair, took his left hand in mine, and began to tell him how brave he was, how much I admired him. I told him we were all safe, including my sister and Laney.

  While I was sitting there, Scott kept texting me updates. The girls were fine, at least physically. My parents were with Brooke. Deputy Foster was injured, but he’d make it, and so would his dog.

  Jones was in the hospital but well enough to be interviewed. Apparently, he never got over the relationship with the girlfriend from three years ago and kept trying to recreate it. Of course, the girls he abducted were resistant, terrified, and so they ended up dead. Detectives found carved statues in his house when they searched it. Jones was, as Brooke had said, of limited mental capacity. Paranoid after killing the women, he had rigged the barn with explosives in case the cops came after him.

  I told Scott about the doctor insisting I get my lungs checked, and I suggested he do the same. “Smoke inhalation is nothing to fool with,” I said, quoting the doctor.

  Scott said he would. His last text message brought tears to my eyes. I’ll come to you as soon as I can.

  And so began a very intense period. Nate was sedated heavily for four days. They were trying to give his lungs time to heal.

  Scott showed up as promised on the second day and visited frequently after that. We talked quietly in Nate’s ICU corner. He told me all about his sister, and I told him about Lee Park. We both cried. That’s when I realized how much this man lying in the bed had changed us both.

  On the fifth day, they decided to lighten up on Nate’s sedation. I was holding his hand when his eyes opened. He looked over at me and squeezed my hand. Then he frowned and raised his eyebrows, and I knew he wanted to know what had happened.

  I told him about the barn fire and his compromised lung function. “That’s why you’re intubated. They want to make sure you’re getting enough oxygen.” I told him about Brooke and Laney and the dogs and Scott. I mentioned Foster and his dog. “You saved them,” I told him. I did not tell him about his leg.

  But he knew. Later that day he kept shifting his hips in bed, restless. The nurse told me the doctor was on the way. Thank goodness.

  Dr. Chichester stepped through the curtain and introduced himself to Nate. I moved, and he came and stood next to Nate’s bed, right where I had been sitting.

  I knew what was coming.

  The doctor told Nate about his injuries. He said his lung function had improved, and they would try taking out the breathing tube tomorrow. “You’ll be able to talk and eat normally.” He said lots of other positive things. Then he calmly told Nate about his leg.

  I held my breath, but Nate seemed to take the news in stride, closing his eyes as he listened.

  “I expect you to make a full recovery,” Dr. Chichester said. “Eventually, you’ll get fitted for a prosthesis and get back to your normal life.” He patted Nate’s arm. “You’re a strong man, I can tell. You’re going to make it.”

  Nate nodded.

  As Dr. Chichester left, I went back to Nate, taking his hand in mine. I saw a single tear slide out of Nate’s beautiful blue eyes. “You’ll figure it out, Nate,” I said. “You’ll be okay. You still have your anchor.”

  He squeezed my hand. Then I felt him tremble.

  I didn’t know what to do. If he were in my place, he’d pray, or sing, or say wise, encouraging things.

  I had none of those resources. But I did think of one thing that might get his mind off his leg. I said, “Nate, you want me to read to you?”

  His eyes lit up, and he nodded.

  I only had one book.

  I pulled the Gospel of John out of my back pocket, lingering over my father’s signature. I turned the page and began reading. And as I suspected, as the words
flowed out of my mouth, Nate’s trembling stopped. He held my left hand while I held the book in my right. I read through that confusing first chapter, on past the born-again business, and on to that poor adulterous woman. I kept looking up to see if Nate was asleep.

  He wasn’t. He squeezed my hand, encouraging me to continue. And somewhere between Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead, and “I go to prepare a place for you,” (a verse my father had underlined) something changed in me. Like the man born blind, I began to see. It was fuzzy at first, but then it became clear, and suddenly, I knew what I was reading was true.

  The person most shocked by that was me.

  Over the next few days, Nate made good progress. He got moved to a regular room and started physical therapy.

  I took my role as Nate’s designated medical emergency contact seriously. I watched as a physician assistant taught him how to clean and dress his stump, in case I ever had to do it for him. (Yes, at first I wanted to throw up, but by the second or third time, I was used to it.) I listened carefully as the prosthetist talked to him about an artificial leg. I advocated for him when he decided to wean himself off the heavy-duty pain meds. I cheered him on in physical therapy.

  I also watched for depression, which is common after limb loss. Mostly what I saw in Nate was a gritty determination to recover and gratitude for the people who were helping him.

  His doctor told me privately that attitude was a significant determinate of recovery. “I’ve seen people give up the will to live,” he told me, “and just die. I don’t believe your friend will do that.”

  When I told Scott that, he told me about an FBI agent, badly wounded in a gun battle, who said later, “If you lie down to die, you will die.”

  I believe that now.

  One day, however, Nate had a setback. He had been exercising, walking the loop around the nurses’ station on crutches, when someone emerged from a patient’s room and plowed right into him. Nate fell, landing on his stump, sending waves of agonizing pain through his whole body. Then he couldn’t get up, and the frustration and pain overwhelmed him.

  I arrived just as the staff was helping Nate get from a wheelchair back in bed. The nurse told me what happened. Nate couldn’t talk. He was focused on dealing with the pain, his brow furrowed, his fists clenching and unclenching as if he was trying to let go of it. When he finally asked for pain meds, I knew he had to feel defeated.

  Over the next few hours, Nate drifted in and out of sleep, moving restlessly in the bed. Twice I saw his body jerk and his eyes fly open, as if he was having a mini panic attack. I could imagine it: the fire, the pain, his leg, the terror of it all enveloping him again. Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I left.

  When I returned an hour later, I carried a gym bag in my left hand. I strode past the nurses’ station without making eye contact, and walked into Nate’s room. He opened his eyes. I unzipped the bag and put a wiggling, happy Sprite in bed with him.

  “Sprite!” Nate said. “Hey, girl, hey girl. How are you? Oh, baby girl!”

  The two of them were a sight. Sprite wagging her tail like crazy and turning in circles, licking his hands and face, Nate petting her all over, tears in his eyes, grinning for the first time that day. “Thank you!” he said, shooting me a glance..

  “You’re welcome.” I sat down in the chair, a wide smile on my face. The dog man needed his dog. Obviously.

  After a while, Sprite settled down, lying with her body pressed up to Nate’s, her head resting on what remained of his left leg. Nate’s hand moved over her body, petting her. A nurse came in to check on him and startled at the sight of the dog. “Oh, my!” she said, raising her eyebrows.

  I tensed up. Was she going to kick the dog out? I got ready to fight.

  “This here,” Nate said, his hand stroking Sprite’s head, “is better than any pain med or any anti-depressant you have.”

  “Well, then,” she said, smiling, “I’ll make sure this therapy is noted and authorized in your chart.”

  The tension left the room. From then on, Sprite became a regular visitor.

  Nate also had a steady stream of human visitors—Emily, Susan, and the rest of the SAR group, including, surprisingly, Kevin. Friends from work, people from his church … I had no idea he was so popular. Even my parents came, along with Brooke. He spent most the time telling them what a wonderful person I was.

  I still hadn’t told him, or anybody else, about the change in me. I honestly didn’t quite know what to do with it.

  But one day, I was hanging out in his room while Nate and Sprite slept after physical therapy. I spied his Bible on the side table, picked it up, and opened it to where he’d placed his bookmark, at Acts 12. I wanted to read what he was reading. I needed to know more.

  So I began, and I soon became absorbed by the crazy stories. James killed. Peter arrested. An angel shows up. Chains fall off. And then I almost laughed out loud when a servant girl left Peter standing at the gate, she was so shocked to see him.

  When I looked up, Nate’s eyes, crinkled with amusement, were fixed on me. “What are you reading?” he asked innocently.

  For some reason, I felt embarrassed. I closed the book. And then I finally told him. “Somehow I began to believe,” I said. A tremor of fear ran through me. What was I getting into?

  “Aw, Jess,” he said. He sat straight up and swung his leg over the side of the bed. “Come here.” Tears filled his eyes. He hugged me. “This is the best news!”

  “I still have a lot of questions,” I said, hedging my bets.

  “That’s okay. Can I pray with you?”

  I said yes.

  It didn’t kill me.

  Scott alternated between visiting Nate and taking care of his house, cutting the grass and making sure the garden was kept up. I slept there some nights, with both dogs. I thought Sprite would like being in her own home.

  I started seeing Sarah Pennington again, as her office was near the hospital. But things were different this time. I no longer expected four steps to a better me. I was learning about processing shame and grief. I was learning about giving and receiving love. Surprisingly, I found receiving harder.

  Nate progressed well. Because he lived alone, doctors decided he should go from the hospital to the rehab center next door for a while. That gave us time to execute a plan of mine. Working together along with members of Battlefield SAR and some friends of Scott’s, a group of us built a ramp from Nate’s driveway to his back door, one he could easily navigate with crutches, a wheelchair, or a cane. I couldn’t wait to surprise him.

  But then I had another idea as well. I talked to Scott about it over lunch one day, and he was all in. He told me if I’d do the research, he’d take some time off and carry out the plan.

  A couple of weeks later, I was at the rehab center next to the hospital, watching Nate as he did PT. I’d brought Sprite, and she was scampering around him, encouraging him as he used parallel bars to walk with his temporary prosthesis.

  I was so excited I could barely suppress my smile.

  “What’s got into you?” Nate said as he wiped the sweat off his face.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Track down one of your fugitives?” he suggested.

  I decided to go with his idea. “Yes, I did. Somebody who’s been missing a long time.”

  He insisted on walking back to his room instead of letting me push him in the wheelchair. Nate could be a stubborn man. The slow pace nearly killed me. Eventually, we arrived, he got back in bed, Sprite jumped up next to him, and I adopted a pose in the chair that I hoped looked relaxed.

  “Don’t you need to get home to Luke?” he asked me.

  I had to think fast. “Sprite and Luke played so hard before I came I think he’ll be out for a while.”

  He didn’t quite buy that. I could tell by his look.

  Finally, I heard Scott’s characteristic tap, tap on the door. He stuck his head in. “You up for a visitor?”

  “Sure,” Nate said, p
etting Sprite with his left hand.

  Scott walked in. He was a tall man and broad-shouldered, and he easily blocked the view of the person behind him. Once he was inside the room, he stepped aside.

  Nate’s eyes shifted as the second person entered. I stood up, unable to stay in my chair. His eyes got wide and his mouth dropped open. He sat up straight in bed. Sprite alerted too. Nate looked at me, then back at the woman. She stood next to Scott, tears in her eyes.

  “Laura?” he said. “Laura O’Brien?”

  “Nate,” said the woman in his wallet, and she went to him and wrapped her arms around him. “It’s been so long.”

  She was still beautiful, still had her long, dark hair. An elementary school librarian, she wore tailored slacks, a light-blue silk blouse, and a little beige jacket. She’d never been married, despite what Nate had heard, and hadn’t moved more than thirty miles from home; that’s how I’d found her so easily. When I’d contacted her and told her why I was calling, she’d cried.

  “Are you sure he’d want to see me?” she’d asked.

  “Oh, I’m quite sure,” I’d told her.

  Now, looking at the tears in Nate’s eyes, I knew I’d guessed right. He still loved her. I whipped out my phone and took some pictures.

  Nate looked at me. “You are a rascal!” he said, but his grin said the opposite.

  I pocketed my phone and moved back next to Scott. “Good job,” he said, and he put his arm around my waist and gave me a side hug. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.

  We watched the two old friends for a few minutes, enjoying their happiness, laughing as Sprite tried to lick them both. Then Scott nudged me. “Let’s take the dog for a walk.” So I called Sprite and leashed her up.

  As we walked out of the building, I saw a poster on the wall I’d not noticed before. It read, “Your scars can give someone else hope.” And I thought of the dog man, and his beautiful scars, and the twisted road he’d been on, and still was on, and I thought of his tattoo in memory of Peter, and of Laura, the long-lost love he now embraced.