Michael

Michael carefully pushed the walker a few feet ahead of him, took a deep breath, and then proceeded to inch his way toward it. Every step sent a bolt of pain shooting through his body from the bottom of his feet to the top of his head. It was like walking on glass, no, it was more like rolling in glass. He pushed the walker forward again and repeated the torture.

It pissed him off that he was using a walker. He was 36 for fuck’s sake. He hadn’t always been like this. Two years ago he was a rising star at one of the most prestigious architectural firms in the city. He had a beautiful wife and a three year old boy who planned to play for the Cubs some day. He had a life.

He was driving when the wreck occurred. They were just outside of Chicago on their way to visit Claire’s parents. He hit a patch of ice and the SUV slid into oncoming traffic. That was the last thing he remembered. He woke up in the hospital with a broken back and a cracked skull. Seems like they put little metal pins just about everywhere they could.

A few hours after he woke, a doctor came in and started to ask him a bunch of questions. Do you know where you are? Can you tell me what happened to you? That kind of stuff. Michael interrupted him. “Where the hell are Claire and Ronnie? I want to see them right now.”

The doctor stopped and looked around as if there were other people in the room. “You mean no one told you? Your wife and son died in the automobile accident. I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you.”

Michael screamed and tried to get out of bed. He couldn’t move his back and he could barely move his head without passing out so the doctor didn’t have to do much to restrain him. He moaned and blessedly passed out.

He slipped in and out of consciousness for ten days before he let himself into reality again. A grief counselor visited him at first, but he made it clear that he would grieve on his own and he would be just fine, damn it. After the counselor, a psychiatrist came to visit and talked about the signs and effects of depression. After losing his wife and son, depression was a real danger. He listened to her half heartedly, thinking that she looked a little like Claire.

Weeks later, a therapist came to take him to rehab. He hadn’t left his bed since waking up in it and he could not believe the amount of pain he felt just trying to roll out of bed. With a little help and a lot of pain, he managed to climb into a wheel chair. The therapist wheeled him to F wing where he entered the rehab unit and learned what real pain was all about.

First, the therapist helped him stand with the help of two rails about waist high on both sides of him. He managed to slowly drag his feet along the eight feet of floor below him and even turn around at the end before he passed out from the pain. He woke up in his bed again, hot, nauseas, and sure he was on fire. He pulled a water bottle off the tray next to him and poured water onto his face and head. It didn’t stop the burning sensation. Only unconsciousness seemed to do that.

He completed six weeks of rehabilitation and got to the point where he could walk again, but the pain never went away. His doctor ran an ungodly number of tests but could find no medical reason for Michael’s constant pain. He suggested very carefully that he might have developed a case of chronic pain brought on by his depression over the recent deaths of his wife and child. He explained what chronic pain was and how it affected the mind and body and it started to sound to Michael like the very thing that was torturing his every waking moment.

When he asked what they could do about it, the doctor did his little look around the room thing and even closed the door. As luck would have it, one of my colleagues is conducting a study right here at the hospital. If you’re interested, I can talk to him and probably get you in by the end of the week. With any luck, it may even be covered under your health plan. He smiled a little at that and then excused himself from the room.