Page 13 of Broken Dream (Steel Legends #3)

Chapter Twelve

Jason

I sit in Dr. Louisa Matthews’s office, my nerves antsy under my skin.

A new technique for a nerve transplant.

Fresh hope.

Nerve conduction studies. MRI scans.

The nerve graft is extracted from a cadaver but reanimated using living cells from my body.

Science fiction.

Or just science?

Whatever it is, I need to hear Louisa and her colleague out.

“Jason!” Louisa swooshes into the room. She’s in her sixties but doesn’t look a day over forty, with light-blond hair and sparkly blue eyes.

Following her is a beautiful young woman with dark-brown eyes and light-brown skin. She smiles at me.

“Jason, meet Dr. Gita Patel.”

Dr. Patel barely looks out of her twenties. Somehow her white coat looks all wrong on her. She should be wearing lingerie on a runway somewhere. But Louisa says she’s a pioneer in her field.

I rise. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Patel.”

“Please,” she says, “call me Gita. It’s an honor. When Louisa mentioned you to me, I took the liberty of reading some of your papers.” She flashes a smile at me. “I’m impressed, Dr. Lansing. And I’m not easily impressed.”

“Thank you. And call me Jason.”

“Of course.”

Gita sits down in the chair next to mine while Louisa takes a seat behind her desk.

“Gita and I have discussed your case at length, Jason,” Louisa says. “And I agree with her assessment that you may be a candidate for her revolutionary nerve-transplant procedure.”

I glance down at my right hand.

The tremor is so slight that most people don’t notice it, but I know it’s there. I can feel the unsteadiness. The nerve injury that stole my surgical career from me.

From the accident that stole so much more.

“We’ll begin with some new scans,” Gita says. “We need to assess the extent of the damage, understand how it has evolved since your last evaluation. Then we have to map out the path for the new nerves.”

My heart races. “And if the scans are promising?”

“Then we prepare for the procedure,” Louisa says. “The nerve graft will take some time to prepare, given its complexity. It’s not just a simple transplant, Jason. We’re talking about creating a conduit between your living cells and a harvested graft.”

“Yes.” Gita nods, her gaze steady. “The sooner we begin, the better.”

Louisa leans forward on her desk. “Jason, this isn’t without its risks. Gita’s technique is groundbreaking, and though she’s seen one success, it’s still considered experimental. There could be complications.”

I look back down at my hand—my unreliable, traitorous hand. The hand that once performed intricate surgeries.

“I understand,” I say after a moment. “But what do I have to lose?”

Gita looks at Louisa and nods. Then she turns to me. “Jason, there’s a chance this might not work. There’s a chance that your condition might even worsen. But there’s also a chance that you could regain full functionality of your hand, possibly even enough to operate again.”

I glance back down at my hand, now trembling slightly more than before—or maybe it’s just my imagination. The scars on my palm are a constant reminder of everything I’ve lost.

My condition could worsen, she said.

But so what? I’ll be no worse off than I am now—unable to perform surgery.

Fuck it.

“I’m in,” I say.

“Very well.” Gita stands and extends her hand to me. “Jason, we will do everything in our power to bring back your steadiness and your precision. I can’t promise miracles, but Louisa and I can promise our absolute commitment.”

“And I promise my commitment as well,” I say.

“If the transplant takes,” Gita says, “there will be months of physical therapy. You’ll need to relearn how to use your hand. The nerves will have to grow accustomed to their new home.”

I know it won’t be easy, but for the chance to reclaim part of what I’ve lost? It’s worth it to me.

So worth it.

“And if this works…” Louisa begins, her eyes bright. “If this works, Jason, you could open doors for countless other people suffering from nerve damage. You could change medicine.”

Silence for a moment.

Then I ask the question.

“When do we start?”

“Today,” Gita says. “I want to see your scans as quickly as possible. Finding the right cadaver nerve will take time, so every moment counts.”

I look at my hand again, imagining it steady and sure. I nod to them. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

Louisa rises and extends her hand to me across the desk. “Let’s get you back in the operating room, Dr. Lansing.”

Gita gives me a reassuring pat on the shoulder as she walks out the door, Louisa following her.

I stand, alone, in Louisa’s office. We’re friends and colleagues, so I know I can stay as long as I need to. I glance at her degrees on the wall, at all her awards. She’s a world-class neurologist, and if she believes in Gita’s work, then so do I.

A soft knock on the open door brings me back. Louisa’s physician’s assistant, James, peeks in. “Ready when you are, Dr. Lansing.”

“Thank you,” I say, following him.

“We’re going to radiology to get your MRI,” he says.

“Great.” I’m not sure what else to say, so I’m silent as we walk through the maze of hospital corridors until we arrive at the radiology department.

James leaves me in the capable hands of a technician. I change into a hospital gown and then settle into the cold, sterile MRI machine. I stare at the white ceiling tiles and breathe.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

I was never claustrophobic before the accident.

Now, I hate being closed in.

Breathe.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Minutes pass like hours as the hum of the machine whirs around me, echoing the anxious beat of my thoughts. My mind spins with what-ifs and maybes.

Finally, after what seems both like hours and no time at all, the machine quiets and I’m helped up by the technician, who offers a smile. “We’ll have these to Dr. Matthews and Dr. Patel shortly.”

I nod my appreciation and leave the room. The cool hallways do nothing to calm my heated mind.

I make a pit stop at the small hospital café and buy myself a cup of bitter coffee that I barely taste as I continue back toward Louisa’s office.

I knock.

“Come on in,” Louisa calls.

As I step back into the office, I find Gita and Louisa, now joined by a third figure I recognize as Dr. Luke Belmont, a respected colleague and an attending neurosurgeon. They’re staring at a computer screen, which, mostly likely, has my scans pulled up.

“Jason,” Louisa says without looking up. “We’ve been studying your scans.”

Gita takes a deep breath. “These images show the extent of the nerve damage caused by your injury. Come take a look.”

I rise and join the others in front of the computer screen.

On the black-and-white display, the intricate anatomy of my hand unfolds.

The bones stand out sharply, and I can pick out each metacarpal and phalanx perfectly.

Tendons arch through the scan like taut cables.

But I home my focus in on the nerves. Those are what took away my ability to cut.

“As you can see, near the base of your palm, there’s a darkened line of disruption that fractures the continuity of the median nerve,” Gita says.

I nod. I’ve seen scans of my hand before. Swollen and irregular, it looks almost like a river obstructed by debris.

“These bright patches flaring along the nerve’s length show us areas of inflammation or scarring,” Gita continues. “And we can see your muscles around the nerve look thinner than they should, due to the lack of use since your accident as well as their disconnection from the brain’s signals.”

My heart falls. I’ve heard this speech before. And it always ends with “I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do, Jason.”

“As you can see,” Gita says, “the damage is significant.”

I nod slowly. “I understand.”

Gita holds up a finger, her eyes bright. “But it’s also isolated.”

I look up. “You mean…”

Louisa nods. “Your injury hasn’t spread or worsened since your last scans. This allows us a clear path for Gita’s procedure.”

“We can work with this, Jason,” Gita continues. “We can use the graft to bridge the gap between the healthy nerves and those affected by the injury. It will be challenging, yes, but it’s not impossible.”

What?

A moment passes before I process Gita’s words.

Then, for the first time in three years, a tiny ray of light shines through the darkness clouding my mind. Is there actually hope for a better future? Could this truly be possible?

I want to respond to what Gita and Louisa are saying, but I can’t find the right words to express my gratitude.

Belmont chimes in. “The key will be ensuring that the graft takes. If your body rejects it, or if complications arise during the procedure, we’ll have to reconsider our options.”

I listen. I hear their words.

It might not work. I get it. But the possibility of regaining what I’ve lost is worth risking the uncertainty that lies ahead.

“I understand,” I reply. “I trust you all implicitly.”

Louisa smiles. “We’re going to do everything we can for you, Jason. We know what this means to you, and we’re going to fight for every inch of progress.”

“Absolutely,” Gita says. “Dr. Belmont will assist me in the OR, and of course Louisa will see to your neurology care as she always has.”

“Then let’s get started,” I say.

“As soon as we find a suitable graft, we’ll schedule the surgery,” Gita says. “We have a top team researching and searching. It could take a couple of weeks…or it might be tomorrow. We just can’t predict it.”

“Until then,” Belmont adds, “we’ll devise a comprehensive physiotherapy plan that you’ll begin immediately after surgery. The sooner we stimulate nerve regrowth, the better.”

I nod. The waiting game begins again, but this time it’s different.

This time I have cautious optimism.

And this time…

I won’t let my own mind defeat me.