Page 3 of Fractured Grief (Hope’s Ridge #2)

Seb

F uck! I slapped the floor by my head where I’d fallen, again, trying to get out of bed to get to the fucking bathroom.

My brain seemed to forget about my injuries, and every morning, I fell on my face.

Pain radiated through my body, picking new ways to piss me off.

My body didn’t even feel like mine anymore.

I’d woken, yet again, to a tingling arm and completely numb leg.

And because speech was another thing I was struggling with, I rarely spoke, even to curse.

I could no longer do basic tasks I’d taken for granted.

I rolled over onto my back and looked up at the water-stained stucco ceiling, trying to gain control of myself and get up before someone came in and saw me splayed out on the floor.

Then they’d lecture me about using my walking aids, and if I didn’t do as they said, they’d label me as a fall risk—again—and even more of my independence would be taken away .

Sitting up carefully, so as not to aggravate my injuries further, I waited for my legs to catch up with my brain, then braced myself on the chair by the bed.

Gritting my teeth, I pulled myself into the wheelchair I was supposed to be using without too much additional agony.

I wheeled myself into the bathroom to take care of business.

Once I’d finished, I washed my hands and caught sight of myself in the scratched and cloudy mirror above the sink. I barely recognized the person looking back. The amount of weight and muscle mass I’d lost due to twelve days in a coma was staggering.

I used to be the biggest brother of the four of us.

Not anymore. I’d worked hard on my fitness and my body.

I ran every morning, lifted weights, hiked, and moved around car parts at work to gain the bulk I’d been known for.

Now I was weak and gaunt—a former shadow of myself.

My usually bronzed skin was sullen and sickly.

I had dark circles under my sunken eyes, and my thick beard was unruly.

My long, wavy hair was an absolute mess.

I looked like I’d been stranded on a deserted island for months. It was not a pretty picture.

Shaking my head, I rolled back to my bed to wait for my delicious breakfast of mush. Being here was draining my life force. Being stuck in a bed, with a body that wouldn’t cooperate, was slowly driving me insane.

It had been over a week in my new rehabilitation suite, and almost eight weeks since I’d been shot. My room was nicer than my previous, drab hospital room, but I felt trapped. I was still in a hospital, hurting, and surrounded by things that reminded me of my situation and broken body.

The walls were dark blue from the floor to about halfway up, then white to the ceiling. Everywhere you looked, there were mobility aids.

I fought the use of them in the hospital, but especially the wheelchair and walker that made me feel like I was one hundred years old.

I’d been so frustrated with my injuries and recovery that I’d resented all of it.

I’d become angry and irritated at the slightest thing.

Every time I looked at the battered and worn walker, a rage bubbled inside me that seemed to have a life of its own.

Apparently, I’d hit my head when I was shot, but I didn’t remember. This feeling of pulsing ire had settled inside me like a foreign body, flaring to the surface unexpectedly and sometimes for no reason at all.

My emotions were on a hair trigger, too. I’d mostly managed to hide these outbursts from Ma and my brothers, but the doctors and nurses had caught the brunt of it.

Speaking of Ma, she waltzed into my room.

She was finally back to her sunny and sophisticated self.

She wore one of her signature sundresses with a matching cardigan, leggings, and boots.

Her long hair was in a bun on the top of her head, and she wore minimal makeup.

She was a beautiful woman who never looked her age.

Even after the challenge of raising me and my three brothers, losing my father suddenly three years ago, and my recent hospital stay, she continued to be the ray of sunshine and positivity we all knew and loved .

“Kala xypnitouria gie mou,” she called out in Greek as she entered.

Quickly schooling my features, I tried to put on my best smile.

“Mor-ning, Ma,” I forced out, slowly, my voice rough from lack of use.

I had to focus to get the correct words out.

My stutter wasn’t a common side effect, just a lucky bonus.

Suffering from a stroke at thirty-two had completely fucked up my system.

“How are you feeling today?” Ma spoke as she shuffled around me and fussed with the pillows at my back.

Closing my eyes, I prayed for strength. “F-i-ne, Ma-a.”

“Don’t take that tone with me, young man,” Ma tsked . “You need to be honest, and there’s no point sitting here in pain if they could be doing more.”

“Sor-or-ry.” The closest thing to a genuine smile finally rose to my face at Ma’s over-the-top mothering and her insistence on calling each one of her children “young man,” no matter how old we were.

“Where’s Ya-Ya?” I asked, noting for the first time that my grandmother wasn’t with her. She’d been with Ma for every visit.

“Irémise.” Ma stopped fussing and sat in the chair by my bedside. “She’s doing some baking with Lyric and Bodhi. Trying to get them out of the house for a bit.”

We shared a knowing look. My youngest brother, Lyric, the family jokester and resident troublemaker, seemed to be struggling the most with my shooting and everything that had happened.

I had jumped into the line of fire to save my big brother from a bullet, and Lyric had saved everyone else by stopping the gunman.

But the act of violence that his heroism had taken seemed to have changed him, and we weren’t sure how to help.

Lyric seemed to have lost his mischievous edge since the incident. He’d become withdrawn and serious, which was so unlike him.

“He’ll b-b-ee okay. Lyric’s st-st-st-rong.” This was ridiculous, so I reached for my phone on the side table and typed what I was trying to say.

He’ll be a troublemaker again soon enough.

I passed her the phone to read, and my attempt at humor worked as a soft smile crossed her lips. “You’re probably right, but it’s so off-putting to see him this way.”

“Only b-een a c-couple of… months-s-s?” I paused for confirmation while raising two fingers to go with what I was trying to say.

I was already exhausted from the few words I’d been able to force out.

At Ma’s nod, I tried to continue. “So muuu-tccch.” A frustrated breath gushed out of me, and Ma laid a comforting hand on my shoulder.

She tapped the phone I was supposed to use when words became too hard.

So much has happened. I can’t imagine this has been easy for any of you. Let’s give him a little more time, and then we could approach him about seeing a therapist. I could ask Levi here. He’s really helped me .

Handing the phone to Ma, I waited while she read my words.

“That might be a good idea.” Ma grabbed my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Do you mind if I talk to the doctors about your progress again?”

Shaking my head, I whispered a “fine.” As she hustled off. I was left alone with my thoughts once again.

I’d seen so many specialists, doctors, and therapists that I’d become used to no privacy.

My most recent therapist, Levi, had been a huge surprise, though.

He’d been helpful and down-to-earth. I felt lucky to be assigned to his rotation in my last few weeks in the hospital and was able to keep seeing him now that I’d moved to the rehab center.

I had an appointment with him, and oddly enough, I was okay with it.

I was fortunate with my insurance, my family, and especially my hometown. I’d found out after my second surgery that the whole town had chipped in and gone above and beyond to help me get into this facility and assisted with the rather hefty bill .

Settling into the chair opposite Levi, I tried to get comfortable and prepared to start.

Levi was unusual. He had a styled mop of straight brown hair that fell over his eyes.

His haircut reminded me of Nick Carter and the nineties-style boy band dos.

It was an odd choice, but it fit him. He had a slight frame and skin that glowed with a summer tan, which made me think he must be an outdoorsy type.

He was significantly shorter than I was, but most people were.

He had a geeky vibe, especially when he wore his glasses, but he always had a leather jacket with him, and I was sure I’d spotted a motorcycle helmet in his office a time or two.

I couldn’t tell how old he was, and I knew better than to ask, but I’d say maybe a little older than my thirty-two years. All the other therapists I’d seen here were stuffy, old, and tired of the job. They didn’t seem to care. Levi had been a breath of fresh air his department desperately needed.

“So, how have you adjusted to your new digs?” He picked up his ever-present notebook and settled into his seat. “Met Alfred yet?”

I wrote my response on the whiteboard that my occupational therapist had provided.

The room is nice, and I’ve seen Alfred but haven’t spoken to him. We seem to be on an alternate schedule and are rarely in the room together or awake long enough to meet .

I wrote slowly, fighting my hand and brain to get the words down. My speech had improved a lot since the stroke, but it took a lot of concentration and energy, so for long appointments, the whiteboard was easier.

“He’s a character. I’m sure you’ll get along. Tell me, how’s your week been? How do you feel in your body now?” He dove right into things, no beating around the bush with Levi.

We went through my week, my pain, my updated schedule, and a variety of upcoming therapies.

Then, we came back to my newly diagnosed postsurgical body dysmorphia.

It was such an unusual diagnosis. I will admit to googling it after it had first been discussed, and I wasn’t a fan of the results.

It was uncommon with trauma surgeries and was normally linked to plastic surgeries and body image issues.

But when I got down to the hard definition of it, in a strange way, it made sense.

My body didn’t feel like mine anymore. All my insides felt like they were in the wrong place, and the physical changes to my physique depressed me.

The person looking back at me was a distorted version of what I’d once been.

I’d been told that with this diagnosis, what I see and think of my body is not the reality, but it was hard to see through the misery and distortion to find the me I used to be.

I no longer had my strength or the muscle definition I’d worked so hard to build, which had become a part of my identity. I’d lost a part of myself in that operating room and was struggling to find my way back .

The thing that had affected me, more than I cared to admit, was the damage to my various tattoos.

I had collected tattoos since I was seventeen, with permission from Pa, and they were all a part of me.

Most of my torso was covered, along with full sleeves on both arms. Some had been damaged over the years, but nothing like this.

The one that had nearly destroyed me and caused a few of my early setbacks due to my damaging reaction was the piece down my right side.

This one was my favorite and most treasured of all my tattoos.

It was the last one I’d gotten with Pa and the one that we’d designed together.

He’d died suddenly a week after I had the piece finished.

I couldn’t bring myself to look at the broken mess of scars.

It felt like I’d lost my Pa all over again. Like he’d been shot instead of me.

Tuning back into the present, I focused on Levi and his questions.

“How are you finding the CBT exercises? Do you feel they are helping change the way you think about your healing body?” he asked steadily, then paused to give me time to respond.

“It’s be-en ha-rd,” I stuttered before continuing to write out my response.

It’s hard to keep remembering to apply it. If I remember, it helps, but sometimes I’m too angry to see straight. I can’t even process the techniques I’m supposed to be working through .

I’d learned I had to be honest. Levi was very skilled at spotting deception, and he’d just quirk an eyebrow at me till I eventually told the truth. He was like a wizard with a truth-inducing stare.

“It’s good that you’ve been able to remember the tools, even just to identify the moment you need them.

When you feel the anger brewing, try the breathing techniques first. They should help take the edge off and allow you to implement the other exercises.

” Levi paused, his gaze assessing me. “You should be proud of how far you’ve come.

You’ve made great progress, both physically and mentally, this last month.

Now, before we conclude, Judy mentioned you’ve been resistant to choosing a fine motor skill activity.

Why is that? You know it’s all there to help you. ”

I winced. “I k-kn-now,” I sighed, resigned. I quickly wrote down my next thought as it made me too nervous to voice.

What if I can’t do whichever one I choose? Why add another failure to my routine?

“You know better than to think like that,” Levi said with an edge to his voice. “Judy would help you with whichever you choose, and like with me and your PT, we’ll help you with each step. Should we go through the list at your next appointment and decide together? Would that help?”

I nodded in defeat .

“Good, bring the list and we’ll choose then. I’ll let Judy know.” He stood, concluding our session, and brought over the wheelchair.

He waited for me to situate myself in the seat.

Until I got the all clear from my new physical therapist, I had to be wheeled from room to room and appointment to appointment so I wouldn’t cause myself more problems, or so I wouldn’t be late.

Admittedly, it would have taken me ages to walk to Levi’s office, even though it was only in the adjacent building.

I’d grumbled at first, but Levi had set me straight and told me to suck it up and stop whining.

It was part of the reason I liked him. He didn’t pussyfoot around.

He told the truth and didn’t pander to my sensibilities, unlike so many others who tended to.

He also wasn’t intimidated by my size or glare.

He wheeled me back to my room, where I was to wait to meet the physical therapist who would be taking over my case.

Great, another new practitioner to torture me.

Time to get this over with.