I’m sitting in my wheelchair in an exam room at the neurologist’s office, trying not to think about work or what’s going on at work while I’ve taken an unexpected afternoon off for this doctor’s appointment. Adam is still holding my hand, and gives me a supportive smile when I look up at him, but I can see the worry in his eyes. I’m worried too. I don’t know why I’m so nervous, but I am.
What could possibly be wrong? There have been a few things I’ve thought about, not the least of which was the possibility of a problem with my spinal fusion, like broken hardware or something shifting and impinging on a nerve. I’m a pretty active guy, so it’s possible, but it doesn’t really make any sense, given the problems I’ve been having. My spinal cord injury is at T4, and my fusion runs from T2 to T6, so there isn’t any hardware in an area that should affect my fingers or my hands.
Maybe it’s a pinched nerve in my arm. Maybe I did something wrong at the gym. Not that I’ve been going there too often lately -- I haven’t had much time. But I’ve tried to go when I can, though now, with this hand issue, it’s just about impossible for me to do the workout I’ve become accustomed to.
The options that would include a problem with my brain, I don’t even want to think about. But that possibility is there as well.
The doctor examines me, talks to me briefly, then sends me for an MRI and a CT scan, which we’d already scheduled ahead of time, given what I was calling about. So that initiates a few more days of waiting and wondering, until the results come in.
Meanwhile, I’m just trying to keep my head above water at work. Thankfully, I don’t have to get on any planes this week. It’s just a “quiet” week at the office, whatever that means at this point. I try to get out of the office whenever I can and go to a nearby coffee shop, so I can people watch while I work. But I’m distracted -- I can’t really focus on the people around me or my work, because my brain is too busy thinking about the phone call I should be getting any day now to let me know what’s wrong with me, so we can hopefully fix it.
I meet Brian for lunch one day, but I’m distracted there too, and he notices it right away.
“Hey,” he says. “What’s up with you?”
“Nothing,” I say, and I can hear in my voice how exhausted I sound, despite my best efforts to appear normal. “I’m just really tired. I’ve got a lot going on at work.”
“You sound like you need a vacation.”
“I wish I could take one. But I can’t. There’s no one who can cover for me, and I’ve got travel scheduled for every week next month.” My hand trembles a little as I hold my water glass. I can feel the chill of the ice and the wetness of the condensation against my fingers though, which to me is a good thing, because that’s more than I could feel yesterday. I’ll take any sort of improvement I can get, because that lends credence to my theory -- or my insistence, rather -- that this is nothing. That everything is fine, and it’ll resolve on its own just as soon as I’m able to catch my breath, whenever the hell that is.
“What was that you were telling me a couple of years back? That nothing is worth my health, and it can all wait?” Brian raises an eyebrow, watching me as I take a sip of my water and concentrate harder than I should have to on holding onto the damn glass and not spilling it on myself.
I sigh, knowing that he’s right. I did tell him that, and I still believe wholeheartedly in those words. And I’ve been trying my best to continue to live them in my own life, but I’m struggling. “I’m trying,” I say, shrugging, carefully setting my glass back down on the table before I drop it and end up raising Brian’s suspicions as well. Luckily, I’ve been able to hold the fork today, and it hasn’t slipped through my fingers even once. I say a silent prayer that continues, partially because I don’t need Brian to worry about me too, and partially because I need for things to be improving. Again, more evidence to support my theory that everything is fine. Although I’ll switch to picking up my glass with my left hand from here on out, just to be safe.
“You should come work for me,” he says casually, as he spears a piece of chicken and pops it in his mouth.
“Doing what?” I laugh, and it feels good to do that. “I’m in sales, not advertising.” But I do know this is how Brian solves problems for people -- he throws money at them -- so I’m not particularly surprised that he’s suggesting this, even though I think the idea is laughable.
“Two sides of the same coin. You’re still trying to convince people that they need what you’ve got, you’re just doing it in a different way.”
“Maybe so, but I don’t have a marketing degree.”
“You’ve been working in sales for what, almost twenty years?”
“Seventeen.”
“Okay, my point still stands. You know how to sell a product. That’s all you need to know how to do. Sell your product, and sell yourself and your services to the client. I’ve got staff to take care of the rest.”
“Yeah, but I sell one very specific type of product to one very specific set of clients. You sell everything to everybody.”
“You’re smart. You’d learn fast.”
“Well, thanks for the vote of confidence, but I think I’ll stay where I am. I’ve got so much time in now, I’ve got good retirement, and this can’t last forever. It has to get better.”
Brian shrugs and says, “Suit yourself,” then changes the subject, telling me about an art show Justin has coming up -- something else I’ll have to miss because I’ll be traveling.
I make it through the rest of the meal without dropping my fork, and without letting on that anything is wrong besides being just plain exhausted. I give Brian a hug as we go our separate ways outside the cafe, and he tells me to take some of my own advice and take care of myself, and I nod and say, “I know.” Because I do know. I swear I’m not pulling a Brian and just giving myself over to work, throwing myself into it in some ill-advised attempt at distracting myself from a larger issue -- I really am trying my best.
Later that afternoon, I’m in a meeting when my cell phone starts buzzing in my shirt pocket. I pull it out and see that it’s my neurologist, so I politely excuse myself to take the call, trying to ignore the irritated look I get from my boss, John, when I do so.
I breathe a sigh of relief right there in the hallway when he tells me that my MRI is clear -- he doesn’t see any problems with either my hardware or my spine -- and so is the CT scan, so there’s nothing going on with my brain either. Then he tells me he thinks I’m just overworking -- I need more breaks, more time out of my everyday chair, more time in my standing chair or my standing frame, and more time to relax. He reminds me that I only have one body and I need to take care of it. I’ve been living with this injury for more than 25 years now, and I know he’s right. But the pressures of life are strong, and I can’t just decide to take a break whenever I want to anymore. I hate that, but that’s the situation I’m dealing with.
I thank him, and I hang up the phone and go back into my meeting, again ignoring the looks I’m getting from across the conference room table. Running my fingers back and forth over my pen, I note that at the moment, they feel almost normal. Maybe having a week without travel has helped. Maybe the doctor is right -- I just need more breaks, and I’ll be fine. When I get back to my office, I switch to my standing chair and raise my fancy, adjustable desk to standing height so I can work while bearing some weight on my legs and getting my body into the position it was designed for.
I stay in my standing chair for the rest of the afternoon, only lowering it down when I need to move around my office or the building. It feels good to do that, and my hand feels okay, so I make up my mind that this is what I need. I start thinking about my calendar and trying to figure out whether or not it would be possible to take my standing chair with me to Omaha next week.
Once I know school is dismissed for the day, I call Adam to tell him my “good” news -- that there’s nothing wrong with my spine or my brain. He agrees with the doctor that I need to slow down a little, and I know they’re both right, but I’m still in the process of figuring out how I can do that without pissing off the wrong person and putting my job in jeopardy.
I make it out of the office at my regular time, and I’m thankful to be able to do that, because it’s been much too long since I’ve been able to. It feels so good to come home when Adam is still cooking dinner, to be able to roll up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist from behind and have him turn around and kiss me, his lips tasting ever-so-slightly of the vegetable stew he’s been cooking.
Esme seems to have made up her mind that she’s going to be vegetarian now, and as a result, we hardly ever eat any meat at dinner anymore. I’ve always eaten pretty healthfully -- at least, for the past twenty years or so -- but now I’m eating even more vegetables than before, which I’m sure has to be helping me get through this stressful time at work.
Sitting down to a home-cooked meal at the table with my family feels so good -- just catching up and talking about the day. Adam is watching me, like he’s trying not to but can’t help himself. He’s still worried; I can tell. I give him a reassuring smile as I hold my fork more firmly than I have in days, maybe weeks, trying to show him that I’m fine.
I help the girls with their homework -- though I’m not even sure why they have it since there are only a few days left in the school year -- thinking all the while about how much I missed this ordinary task that many parents might dread, and that I used to dread myself. For the first time in a long while, I feel useful -- like I’m being a good partner to my husband, who is probably the best, most understanding, even-keel person I know. But even though he’d never complain, I don’t want him to feel like he’s a single parent here and I’m married to my job instead of him.
After the girls are in bed and I’ve kissed them both goodnight, Adam and I settle onto the sofa in the living room to watch the ten o’clock news and just be with each other. He rubs my shoulders and my neck, and it feels so good that one thing leads to another and we end up together in the shower, our bodies connected in the most intimate way. I’ve missed that, too.
Later that night, in bed, Adam kisses me with the tenderness that is just so him, and I think about how lucky I am to have him. I always try to remember that, no matter what. I feel like I have the best partner in the world. He lays against my side, his fingers trailing lightly over my chest, as he looks at me, and I stare up at the ceiling, lost in thought. Dreading getting up in the morning and having to go to work and repeat the cycle all over again.
“We should take a vacation,” he says, his voice soft in the darkness. “Maybe just the two of us. School will be done on Thursday, and Mom’s already coming up on Saturday; I’m sure she’d love to have the girls to herself for a whole week. I can make sure I get my grades in over the weekend, and we can just go.”
I laugh a little, thinking about how Brian had just told me earlier that afternoon that what I needed was a vacation. But somehow now that, plus the doctor’s diagnosis, plus Adam bringing it up again, gets me thinking that maybe they’re right. Maybe I should take this as a sign from the universe that a break is what I need. Adam and I haven’t taken a trip with just the two of us in years -- not since we adopted the girls.
Right then, I make a decision that I’m going to figure it out. Brian was right -- no, I was right -- nothing is worth my health. Everything can wait. I’ll send my best sales rep to Omaha in my place, and I’ll take next week off. Adam and I will go on a vacation -- spur of the moment, throw caution to the wind. Why not? It might be just what the doctor ordered.