It’s been a day since my first therapy session with Whitney, but I still can’t forget about it. I’m at my “office” at Dr. Davis’ facilities but in my mind I’m still in that room with Whitney. I’m wishing I had bent her over the barre and taken her from behind. I’m sure that would have made her forget all about her putz of an ex.
“Harlow, there’s a patient I need you to speak to,” Dr. Davis says, quite gruffly, stepping into my office without knocking.
“All right.” I look up at Dr. Davis’ large frame looming above my seated position.
I hope my annoyance isn’t too obvious.
“He’s an airman,” Dr. Davis continues, “who is undergoing phase 1 of his reconstructive surgery tomorrow.”
I help Dr. Davis with administrative tasks but my main job is to talk to the patients who are scared of upcoming procedures. I tell them that I too was once in their position, and was also scared, but that everything turned out great.
When I meet with this patient, he looks like a deer in headlights, as they often do. But he’s also happy to see me, which is also a common reaction.
“Hello, Harlow, I’m Jesse Morrow,” he says, shaking my hand.
“Harlow Bradford,” I say, and then immediately feel foolish. “But I guess you already know that.”
“I’m so glad to talk to you,” he says, after Dr. Davis formally introduces us and leaves the room. “And to have the opportunity to work with Dr. Davis just like you did.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I tell him, looking him straight in the eye, or at least the piece of skin that is covering what used to be his eye. “Are there any questions I could try to answer for you?”
I know how awful it felt to never have anyone look at me. At first Dr. Davis gave me a mask to wear while “in transition” between my wounded face and my “fixed” face, but it looked pretty obviously fake. I never knew which was worse— my horrible scarred and mutilated face, or my fake face.
“How long did it take you to get back to normal?” he asks. “You seemed to have made such a quick rebound.”
“I guess I did,” I say, looking at him thoughtfully. “I’m really not sure how to answer that question because my memory immediately after the accident and upon waking up is very fuzzy.”
I remember lying bed- bound at Walter Reed wishing I would have just died. I remember being too embarrassed when even my brothers or mother came to visit me. I felt that I had let them down, let everyone down. I worried I’d never walk again, although walking didn’t end up being too much of an issue.
“I feared the worst for a while, which is normal after trauma,” I tell him, trying to spin my message to be as uplifting and positive as I can.
Dr. Davis has made it clear that my job is to help reassure the patients, not further depress them. Although I can still remember and relate to the depression phase all too well. “But everything worked out fine.”
I have seen the videos— of course, since Dr. Davis plays them all the time— of my initial attempts to do simple tasks such as eat, talk or write. But luckily, although the humiliation is forever recorded, it doesn’t take up a large amount of room in my memory.
Dr. Davis has explained that the human brain has protection mechanisms to shield itself from things that would be too powerful to handle. Kind of like when victims can’t remember being abused. My body can’t remember being that helpless. Thank God, or I might not ever have found the will to be strong again.
“So how is it being back with your unit?” Jesse asks, his eyes searching my face for a happy reunion story. “Was the transition hard? Were they happy to have you back?”
“Actually…” I begin.
How do I put a positive spin on this, the one thing I still feel so negatively about? The one thing I have not been able to achieve despite my greatest attempts? “The whole unit has been so supportive, and helpful. I see them often, but…”
I look at his eager face, not wanting to tell him that I still haven’t been cleared for duty. I’m sure he’ll ask how that can be the case, with all the progress I’ve made. And I really wouldn’t have an answer for him.
I hate not having the answers for everyone, but it’s part of the job. Just like when they ask me if their results will be the same as mine. Of course I try to be encouraging but no two patients are equal.
In fact, I don’t know of anyone who has had such a successful comeback as I have managed to have, and I don’t want to fill them with false hope. It’s a delicate balance to try to dispense the right amount of hope.
Dr. Davis swoops into the room and saves me from having to go into an awkward explanation of my current duty status.
“I’m glad you boys hit it off, but it’s time to wrap it up,” he says, and I’m annoyed at the paternal tone his voice takes on yet again. “There are pre-op duties to attend to.”
“Nice to have chatted with you…” I begin, but Jesse grabs my arm and won’t let go.
“Can you be there when I get out of surgery?” he asks.
It’s an odd request, and one I haven’t heard before. But I’ve certainly heard that tone before, and I know what it really means. What tough, strong soldiers are thinking but will not say. I’m scared. And lonely. Please stay by my side.
Dr. Davis is shaking his head, but I had already said “I’ll see what I can do” before I noticed. He frowns, but Jesse is happy. He squeezes my forearm.
“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”