Page 4 of Fractured Grief
Handing the phone to Ma, I waited while she read my words.
“That might be a good idea.” Ma grabbed my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Do you mind if I talk to the doctors about your progress again?”
Shaking my head, I whispered a “fine.” As she hustled off. I was left alone with my thoughts once again.
I’d seen so many specialists, doctors, and therapists that I’d become used to no privacy. My most recent therapist, Levi, had been a huge surprise, though. He’d been helpful and down-to-earth. I felt lucky to be assigned to his rotation in my last few weeks in the hospital and was able to keep seeing him now that I’d moved to the rehab center. I had an appointment with him, and oddly enough, I was okay with it.
I was fortunate with my insurance, my family, and especially my hometown. I’d found out after my second surgery that the whole town had chipped in and gone above and beyond to help me get into this facility and assisted with the rather hefty bill.
Settling into the chair opposite Levi, I tried to get comfortable and prepared to start.
Levi was unusual. He had a styled mop of straight brown hair that fell over his eyes. His haircut reminded me of Nick Carter and the nineties-style boy band dos. It was an odd choice, but it fit him. He had a slight frame and skin that glowed with a summer tan, which made me think he must be an outdoorsy type. He was significantly shorter than I was, but most people were.
He had a geeky vibe, especially when he wore his glasses, but he always had a leather jacket with him, and I was sure I’d spotted a motorcycle helmet in his office a time or two.
I couldn’t tell how old he was, and I knew better than to ask, but I’d say maybe a little older than my thirty-two years. All the other therapists I’d seen here were stuffy, old, and tired of the job. They didn’t seem to care. Levi had been a breath of fresh air his department desperately needed.
“So, how have you adjusted to your new digs?” He picked up his ever-present notebook and settled into his seat. “Met Alfred yet?”
I wrote my response on the whiteboard that my occupational therapist had provided.
The room is nice, and I’ve seen Alfred but haven’t spoken to him. We seem to be on an alternate schedule and are rarely in the room together or awake long enough to meet.
I wrote slowly, fighting my hand and brain to get the words down. My speech had improved a lot since the stroke, but it took a lot of concentration and energy, so for long appointments, the whiteboard was easier.
“He’s a character. I’m sure you’ll get along. Tell me, how’s your week been? How do you feel in your body now?” He dove right into things, no beating around the bush with Levi.
We went through my week, my pain, my updated schedule, and a variety of upcoming therapies. Then, we came back to my newly diagnosed postsurgical body dysmorphia. It was such an unusual diagnosis. I will admit to googling it after it had first been discussed, and I wasn’t a fan of the results. It was uncommon with trauma surgeries and was normally linked to plastic surgeries and body image issues. But when I got down to the hard definition of it, in a strange way, it made sense. My body didn’t feel like mine anymore. All my insides felt like they were in the wrong place, and the physical changes to my physique depressed me. The person looking back at me was a distorted version of what I’d once been. I’d been told that with this diagnosis, what I see and think of my body is not the reality, but it was hard to see through the misery and distortion to find the me I used to be.
I no longer had my strength or the muscle definition I’d worked so hard to build, which had become a part of my identity. I’d lost a part of myself in that operating room and was struggling to find my way back.
The thing that had affected me, more than I cared to admit, was the damage to my various tattoos. I had collected tattoos since I was seventeen, with permission from Pa, and they were all a part of me. Most of my torso was covered, along with full sleeves on both arms. Some had been damaged over the years, but nothing like this. The one that had nearly destroyed me and caused a few of my early setbacks due to my damaging reaction was the piece down my right side.
This one was my favorite and most treasured of all my tattoos. It was the last one I’d gotten with Pa and the one that we’d designed together. He’d died suddenly a week after I had the piece finished. I couldn’t bring myself to look at the broken mess of scars. It felt like I’d lost my Pa all over again. Like he’d been shot instead of me.
Tuning back into the present, I focused on Levi and his questions.
“How are you finding the CBT exercises? Do you feel they are helping change the way you think about your healing body?” he asked steadily, then paused to give me time to respond.
“It’s be-en ha-rd,” I stuttered before continuing to write out my response.
It’s hard to keep remembering to apply it. If I remember, it helps, but sometimes I’m too angry to see straight. I can’t even process the techniques I’m supposed to be working through.
I’d learned I had to be honest. Levi was very skilled at spotting deception, and he’d just quirk an eyebrow at me till I eventually told the truth. He was like a wizard with a truth-inducing stare.
“It’s good that you’ve been able to remember the tools, even just to identify the moment you need them. When you feel the anger brewing, try the breathing techniques first. They should help take the edge off and allow you to implement the other exercises.” Levi paused, his gaze assessing me. “You should be proud of how far you’ve come. You’ve made great progress, both physically and mentally, this last month. Now, before we conclude, Judy mentioned you’ve been resistant to choosing a fine motor skill activity. Why is that? You know it’s all there to help you.”
I winced. “I k-kn-now,” I sighed, resigned. I quickly wrote down my next thought as it made me too nervous to voice.
What if I can’t do whichever one I choose? Why add another failure to my routine?
“You know better than to think like that,” Levi said with an edge to his voice. “Judy would help you with whichever you choose, and like with me and your PT, we’ll help you with each step. Should we go through the list at your next appointment and decide together? Would that help?”
I nodded in defeat.
“Good, bring the list and we’ll choose then. I’ll let Judy know.” He stood, concluding our session, and brought over the wheelchair.
He waited for me to situate myself in the seat. Until I got the all clear from my new physical therapist, I had to be wheeled from room to room and appointment to appointment so I wouldn’t cause myself more problems, or so I wouldn’t be late. Admittedly, it would have taken me ages to walk to Levi’s office, even though it was only in the adjacent building.
