Moving Forward in Reverse Read Free Page B

was
missing out and needed to see the show, then I turned around, and what do you
know? His eyes were open! If I had known all he was waiting for were some girls
to show a little skin, I’d have tuned it to a channel other than ESPN long
ago.’
    Ha. Ha. Ha, I thought. Real funny.
Pick on the guy who can’t fight back, why don’t you? But as I looked around
the room at the smiles and chuckles, I knew Lindy’s story had finished what
Jim’s comment had started. It seemed as though the room itself finally released
its consummate breath and was at last ready to move on.
    Just as everyone was
beginning to slacken their reserve, Dr. Henrickson strode into the room and
took up his post at the foot of my bed. I felt an involuntary surge of dread at
the memory of what his last visit had done to my concept of my reality: But
quick to allay it was a flicker of hope. Will you finally tell me if I’m
expected to walk again, doc?
    ‘Hello,’ he said, eyes
surveying the small crowd gathered in my room. ‘Everything seems to be going
well in here. I thought now would be a good time to lay out the plan for the
next few days while you all are in attendance.’
    Like a well-trained militia,
the people stationed around my bed came to attention at Dr. Henrickson’s
summons. Everyone was eager to hear what was in store for my future, but none
so much as I. I had a college soccer program to get back to and by my calculations,
it was now August, which meant preseason training was about to get underway.
    ‘First,’ Dr. Henrickson
began, ‘I anticipate the intubation tube to be removed sometime tomorrow
morning. Your kidneys seem to be in good shape, Scott. We’re going to do one
more day of dialysis treatment with the expectation that you’ll be producing
urine on your own afterwards. If that is the case, then you will have made it
past the renal failure.’ I felt a clench in my chest and clamminess in my palms
that was reminiscent of starting a college exam at this first big test of my
recovery. Then everything went still as I realized my error.
    I have no hands to become
clammy.
    So this was a phantom
sensation. I wobbled on the edge of a mental cliff as I sat with that thought for
a second. Lean too far one way and I’d fall into thin air, but too far the
other would cause me to crash into the hard ground. I couldn’t contemplate
these things right now, not when I was on the cusp of moving forward. As I
forced my attention back to Dr. Henrickson, I resolved not to allow myself to
dwell on the negatives – as many as there may be. If it couldn’t aid my
recovery, it had no business taking up my time. Of course, this was easy to
commit oneself to when surrounded by family and optimisms for one’s recovery.
    ‘He’s out of the woods in
terms of the infection, Betty,’ Dr. Henrickson told my mom. ‘Now the next step
is to focus on getting Scott strong enough to transfer to the rehabilitation
unit.’
    Turning to me he added, ‘The
road is still long, Scott. While your body was fighting off the infection your
muscles atrophied severely. I estimate you’ve dropped around forty pounds, most
of it muscle. It won’t be easy rebuilding what you’ve lost...’ He let his words
drift off. They hovered, faded, and were lost to silence, but the tacit vote of
confidence hung in the air as perceivable as that which was said.
    ‘How long do you estimate
before he can be transferred?’ Mom asked. She was watching Dr. Henrickson with
such intensity it was almost frightening. There was a reserve in her expression
and desperation in the forward set of her shoulders, but her eyes were alight
with a determination I knew well.
    ‘Two to three weeks,’ he
replied, then turned to me once again. ‘But with the right patient - sooner.’
    I met his eyes and held them. Yes, sir. His meaning was clear: A challenge had been issued and I had
every intention of rising to the occasion. I had been in this godforsaken bed
for long enough. The sooner