At eight o’clock on Monday morning, I report to Dr. Davis’ office as instructed. He’s not here yet, and I’m annoyed. All weekend I’ve been waiting to talk to him and find out more about my status.
I head to my own “office,” which is makeshift at best: a large, windowless supply closet that Dr. Davis set up with a desk and computer chair when I first started working for him. Neither he nor I have felt inspired to do anything else to improve it since then.
I look at the clock hanging rather haphazardly from the drab wall of my office and tap my foot impatiently. He’s late for our scheduled meeting.
While the rest of Dr. Davis’ offices are modern and elegant, my office is the only one lacking any kind of curb appeal. No one except Dr. Davis and I have to see it, though, because my job is to assist him and to talk to the patients who are scared of upcoming procedures, just as I once was.
He doesn’t pay me that well for the work, but it gives me something to do besides sit at home brooding over the fact that I can’t be back serving with the SEALs yet. Dr. Davis keeps telling me that my work will pay off tenfold once his patented technology is bought out and the stocks go public. At that point, he is going to give me a large share of the sale. He’s even mentioned the possibility of making me a partner in his business.
Finally, at quarter after eight, I hear him come through the front lobby. I give him a minute, thinking he will head back to my office, but he doesn’t. So, I walk back over to his.
“Jensen,” he says, as if he’s surprised to see me. “You make it home okay on Friday night?”
“Yes sir. I just…”
“Oh yes, you wanted to talk about your certification status.”
His eyes widen in recognition although it’s clear he had completely forgotten.
“Yes sir.”
“Have a seat.”
I sit down at the chair in front of his desk, trying to appear as patient as possible. He walks over to his locked filing cabinet and then retrieves my file, first having to search for a few seconds to find it. He had clearly forgotten about meeting with me, even though he was the one who had set it up.
“Now, I have some good news and some bad news.”
“Sure.”
My palms are sweaty and I can feel my own heartbeat racing. I don’t like the phrase “bad news.”
“The good news is that you are progressing remarkably well. As you know, you were at death’s door step and had significant physical injuries and brain trauma. But now you have come so far. I believe that you are ready to return to combat, but the Powers That Be don’t agree.”
“The Powers That Be?”
“Oh yes. You know, those in the military who look over your file and decide whether you’re fit to fight. They don’t think enough time has passed from your accident until now in order to be assured of your recovery, and they want to see and assess your continued improvement. So, that’s the bad news.”
“But you’ve worked with me this whole time, and everything is back on track,” I tell him. “What else could there possibly be to improve?”
“That’s what I told them,” he says, his hands up and his face showing a look of amazement. “But they don’t believe little old me. Probably because I’m not in the military.”
He holds his hands up and shrugs his shoulders, to double reinforce that it’s completely out of his control.
“So, I’ve decided to refer you out for physical therapy, so that another person will be on board and will be able to give you tests and assessments to independently verify that you’re fit to fight,” he says. “The physical therapy program is through one of the military’s own clinics— right here on the Air Force base— so I’m thinking they’ll have to give that person’s opinion more merit than they’re giving mine.”
“Okay. So where do I go for this treatment? I’d like to get it done as quickly as possible, to show them that you’re right, that I’m good to go back.”
I sigh, feeling completely defeated. I was hoping I might be able to join the rest of the SEALs on their next deployment but apparently, I’m not going back any time soon. I guess I have no choice but to jump through the hoops they’re setting up for me.
“Of course. One second and I’ll give you that information,” Dr. Davis says.
He types something into his computer and then writes down the name and address that comes up on Google.
“I’ve already set you up for an appointment there at 2 o’clock tomorrow,” he says. “They already know all about you because of the presentation last week, and they’re looking forward to meeting you.”
I think about saying, I wish I could say the feeling was mutual, but I decide against it.
“Now, let me fill you in on the patients we have coming in today,” Dr. Davis says, switching the subject of the conversation as if it was no big deal.
Except that to me, my world has ended, again. Without the SEALs, I’m nothing. Or worse— I’m stuck here being Dr. Davis’ pet project and trying to reassure other guys who are way worse off than I am that Dr. Davis can work miracles for them too.
It’s beginning to feel like I’ll never be back to my comfort zone. This set up with Dr. Davis might just be my new fate.