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Six months ago


In contrast to popular belief, I wasn’t often sick as a child.

It’s just that I got so sick once, my family treated me like I was made of glass. For reasons I didn’t understand back then, I suddenly wasn’t allowed to play soccer anymore, which at that time, I loved more than any other sport in the world. When I asked why, my parents would just declare that it was too dangerous.

Soon, everything seemed to become too dangerous for me to play. And although I hadn’t been sick for years, I could always clearly distinguish the fear in my mother’s eyes whenever I announced I would go and play basketball with some friends.

Later, much later, I’ve come to understand the irrational fears of my parents. It truly must be the worst thing that could happen to a parent when they are forced to watch their child slowly dying in a hospital.

I remember my Dad telling me one day about the total and utter helplessness he’d felt during that time. It is one of my worst nightmares if something like that would ever happen to my own son and I could do nothing but watch. It left a huge mark on the remainder of my childhood. The constant disapproval those first few years of me doing stuff other people would think nothing of was driving me insane. Why couldn’t I play sports the way other people played them, without my Mom worrying I would go into cardiac arrest or something?

Was I weak? Was that what they wanted me to believe?

Over the years, I’ve dedicated myself to proving that that was not the case. I was not weak. I was strong and agile and athletic. I played just about any sport in school, whether my parents approved or not, I didn’t really care at that time. And it was going perfect. I was as healthy as any child in my class, I had a bunch of friends. We built tree houses and played Star Wars and over time, it seemed my parents slowly loosened up on their worries. They grew proud of the solid determination I possessed and didn’t shy away from gloating about everything me and my brother achieved to other parents at school or at the church.

I try to remember that as a white hot pain travels menacingly through my left leg. It hurts so much that I think about just passing out for a moment and that would be that. I keep my shaky vision on the ground, my arms straining from the obvious weight I put on them and sweat surely dripping of my forehead like someone just emptied a glass of water over my head.

“Come on, Brian!” Desmond, my PT encourages, “You’re going great, you’re already halfway there, just a few more steps. Send me a postcard when you get there, alright?”

He says exactly the same things as he always does, I suddenly realize and glare at his two legs standing next to me and the support bars I use to hold myself upright with. He and his two legs. I wonder how he would like it to try and find proper balance on a practically broken leg. You wouldn’t like that, would you, Desmond?

The pity show is complete when my brother walks in, feigning the same enthusiasm as Desmond when he carefully plants the tray with glasses of water at the end of the bars. Is that supposed to be some kind of encouragement? Some kind of reward in that I finally get some water and rest when I make it to the end of these bars? I glare at Harold the Third, who carelessly smiles back at me. That malicious pleasure on his face makes me want to scratch his face up.

“What are you looking at?” I snarl at him, biting my lip firmly as I move my hands a little further, consequently forcing my leg to move as well. God this was torture. Four months and I still went at fifteen feet an hour.

“Where’s your leg?” Harold asks with a frown.

“I sent it back,” I answer, grunting as I slide a bit further again.

“W-Why?” He asks, perplexed.

“It was too short,” I say, panting now, “Can we discuss it when I’m done with this?”

“You can’t keep sending every single one of them back, Bri,” my brother comments, completely ignoring my request. Although I’m still looking at the ground, I can tell he’s scowling at me.

“If it fits, I won’t send it back,” I answer, annoyed.

My leg starts protesting in earnest now, sending sparks of pain through my spine whenever I put weight on it.

“I’m done,” I announce, out of breath.

“Oh come on, Brian, a little further, this will go on your record,” Desmond interrupts, his Australian accent as thick as ever.

“If it’s up to you, it’ll never fit,” Harold grumbles, still scowling.

I shake my head, watching a few drops of sweat make their way down, “I’m done,” I grunt, breathing hard.

Desmond nods, clearly disappointed and I roll my eyes.

I know I’m not making much progress here, but I can only go so far.

A loud yapping sound breaks the awkward silence and in a flash, a hairy, white ball of fury comes sprinting towards me, causing me to almost lose my balance.

“Baylee!” I yell through the gymnasium, “how many times do I have to tell you to keep that dog out of here?”

My twelve year old walks in, his ever-annoyed expression surely on his face and quickly grabs the over-excited Maltese, that is still running in mad circles around me. “Chill out Dad,” he comments, “She just wants to greet you, she always does when somebody gets home. Don’t you, Lucy?” he smiles, directing his attention at his dog now.

“I’ll try to remember her good intentions, when she runs me over next time,” I mutter, turning my head to stare at Desmond impatiently. The Australian therapist grabs my chair and places it next to me in one quick motion. With a few grunts and groans, I manage to get in, sighing as the weight is relieved from my arms. My left leg is throbbing and I moodily watch my son cooing to his dog.

“Desmond, you can leave now, thank you,” Harold speaks up before turning to stare down at me, “We need to talk, bro.”

I raise my eyebrows. What authority did he have to send my therapist away? What authority did he have to demand that we should talk? I wanted to start yelling at him, but refrained from lashing out in front of my son. My temper was rather easy to trigger lately and Harold was steadily getting on my nerves. He treated me like he’d always done; like a little kid. I glare at him as I try to ignore the throbbing pain, which certainly does not help in the process of keeping my anger in check.

“Bay, can you take your dog upstairs? Your Dad and I have something to talk over,” unbelievably, Harold dares to take charge again, ordering my kid around.

“You can stay if you want,” I interrupt, looking at my brother challengingly.

Baylee looks at each of us with a confused, but clearly annoyed, look on his face. He rolls his eyes, clears his throat and walks out. The fact that my own son prefers to listen to his uncle instead of his father pisses me off beyond belief. Harold wanted to treat me like I was six years old? Fine, I’ll act like I’m six years old.

“Who the hell do you think you are? You can’t just tell my son to get out!” I growl, leaning forward for emphasis.

“I figured he’d rather be someone else than here to see you snap at me,” My brother replies, irritatingly calm.

“Screw you!” I hiss.

“There you go.” Harold raises an eyebrow, not impressed.

“This is my house, you can’t just come in here and tell everyone what to do! That’s not up to you!” I spit back at him. Ever since he’s been staying over here, slowly but surely, he’s taking over the household. Sure, I may not be as mobile as ever, but this was still my house, my family. I tell him how I think about that in no uncertain terms and sit back, feeling myself shaking in anger.

My brother sits down, studying me patiently for a few seconds before he sighs, “Everyone here is just trying to help. You should start learning how to accept it, bro.”

“I don’t need your help,” I lie. I need nothing but help, and it drives me crazy. I’ve been home for two months and still spend more than half of my day in bed.

I wasn’t able to do anything or go anywhere without having people to help me move. I felt like I was going insane.

“Whatever, bro,” my brother answers in that degrading tone of his as he gets up, “and don’t send any legs back again. It costs a crapload of money whenever you do that.”

“I have a crapload of money!” I yell at his retreating back as he walks out.

Stupid brother. What did he know? Did he ever feel the searing humiliation of trying on a prosthetic leg? Only I could know if they fitted, and quite frankly, none of them did. It wasn’t like I could work with them until I had found enough balance on my other leg anyway.

Desmond had even confirmed that. What did Harold even know?