Out on a Limb

I

            I wake up to the all too familiar ache in my left arm and groan as I push myself out of bed. Tossing my sweaty sheets aside I stumble into the bathroom to begin my daily routine: filling a Dixie cup with tap water, taking three pills out of the small bowls inside the medicine cabinet, and then I enjoy my morning cocktail of gabapentin, acetaminophen, and escitalopram oxalate. Next I step into the shower and rinse my skin, standing sideways to avoid the pins and needles that prick my left arm when it's directly under the showerhead. After a few minutes I towel myself off and slowly get dressed, an art I've spent almost 25 years perfecting. My morning ritual almost complete, I walk downstairs to the kitchen where Dani is sipping her coffee at the table.

            "Hey you," she calls. "There's some toast and a cup of coffee here with your name on it, come have a seat."

            As I walk past her I stop to kiss her on the head. "Mmm, thanks babe," I say and then continue to my seat and start eating. She watches me from across the table, her eyes peeking up over the rim of her coffee cup, studying my every move. She probably has something to say to me but I know better than to ask. You could ask Dani, 'Hey are you okay?' or, 'What's wrong honey?' a million times but her answer will always be the same: 'Oh I'm fine, don't worry about me.' It's best to just wait until she's ready to say what she wants to say. "Where are the boys?" I ask with a mouthful of toast and peanut butter. "Aren't they going to be late?"

            "They're already on the bus," she chuckles. "You're the one who got up late today, it's already 8:15." I turn to look at the clock on the stove and see that she's right. Usually I'm up at 7:00 and out the door by 8:00, a habit I owe to my father, my Drill Sergeant Daddy who decided that our home should be run like a boot camp.

            "Damn, that's weird..." I say, turning my attention back to the food on my plate.

            "Did you have a rough night?" she probes, preparing my mind for dissection. Sometimes I think she should have gone into some sort of research instead of real estate. I mean, the way she pins me down and opens me up is scientific; she uses her words like a scalpel, cutting through any facade of normalcy I try to construct and then shining a light on all the thoughts and feelings I try so hard to keep locked up. She's got a devilish head on those shoulders and she's damn good at using it.

            "No, not really," I say, attempting to shrug off her line of questioning and wishing I could disappear into my cup of coffee.

            "You were tossing and turning a lot last night though," she persists.

            "Oh, I guess I did then. Maybe I just didn't realize it or something," I say.

            "Were you having those dreams again?" she asks, tilting her head to the side slightly.

            "No, no," I begin, "I was probably jus–"

            "Jesus, don't bullshit me Rick," she says tartly. She turns her back on me, walks to the sink, and proceeds to vigorously scrub her mug.

            "Hey," I protest, "I'm not trying to bullshit you, come sit back down."

            "You know," she starts as she turns towards me, a soapy hand resting on her hip, "If you don't want to talk about something just say so. All I'm trying to do is help you, I don't need to be lied to." She returns to the dishes in the sink.

            "Danielle," I say. She ignores me. I let out a sigh as I lower my head and close my eyes. "You know, I can't even tell what kind of a dog it was anymore. It must have been a Pit bull or a Rottweiler but I can't see it. All that's there is a big blur, like a ball of fur with fangs speeding towards me. I can't hear anything either, it's like I go deaf. There's no growling or barking – I can't even hear my own screams as it sinks its teeth into my arm." I hear the tap shut off and open my eyes to see Dani standing in front of me, her face frozen in concentration while she listens. "Isn't it so weird that I can barely remember? I mean, this changed my entire life and all I get are little pieces: the speed, and the pain, those yellow eyes burning right through me. Sometimes I feel like my brain is just playing tricks on me, like my broken memory was just made up and none of that ever happened."

            "It did happen," she says, crouching down in front of me, "You know that."

            "I know, I know. I've just got this disconnect between what I know and what I feel. It's the weirdest thing and it makes no sense but that's just the way it is. I don't even know what I'm saying..." I say as my voice cracks and falters off.

            "Hey, it does make sense, there's nothing wrong with what you're saying or feeling," says Dani. She reaches out and lays her hand over mine. "Why didn't you want to tell me about this?" she asks, "You know, about the dreams and how you were feeling."

            "It's not that I didn't want to tell you, I just," I stop and stare at the wall as I think, formulating my next words. There's a family photo hanging there with the four of us: Dani, standing tall and smiling, holding our youngest up beside her while the other one pulls on her leg, and myself standing beside them with an awkward smile on my face. "I just don't want to talk about it all the time. I don't want every second of my life to be about my arm and my injury. Sometimes I just want to forget about it and let myself be distracted by everything else."

            "Honey," she says as she stands up, "You aren't defined by your injury. I mean look how much you've accomplished despite that: you have a family, and a job, you've found a way to live with it."

            "Yeah," I say flatly. She talks some more about how proud she is of me, how I've overcome adversity, how strong I am, but I don't really hear any of it. She kisses me and says, 'Have a good appointment!' as she walks out the door. I look back at the picture on the wall and wonder what it would be like to pick up my son like that.