All's Well(16)

How are we doing? he’ll ask as I approach, but he’s already walking away from me toward the treatment room down the hall, my ever-fattening file tucked under his arm. Because he already knows how I am. No better, never any better. One of those patients. One of those sad cartoon brains who wants to live under a smudgy sky of her own making. Who refuses to believe in little victories. A fire he’s been valiantly trying to put out, but then I constantly, brazenly, insist upon erupting into flames again.

“Talk to me, Miranda,” Mark says to me now.

I think of the brain-pain video Mark sent me so long ago. The sad cartoon brain trailing nerves like jellyfish tentacles.

I want to tell Mark that I am capable of following instructions. That before Mark, there was Luke, and Matt. And I did everything they asked of me even though Luke was cruel and Matt a clueless sadist. How I followed Luke’s draconian program to a tee. His little hand-drawn illustrations of exercises, I did them, even though they made my spine and the nerves running down my leg scream. I also followed Matt’s, even though Matt looked very confused and afraid of me most of the time. All my questions and fears to which he had no clear response, no words. Umm, Matt would often say. Let me think about that.

And I have followed Mark’s program too.

I want to tell Mark that I can trust. I am a good patient. I am capable of placing myself in another person’s care for a reasonable period of time, weeks, even months. I’ve just been so disappointed in my experiences, and sadly, Mark is no exception. That’s why I started secretly seeing John on the side. Even though John isn’t especially good either. I have no idea where I am going with either of these relationships.

It’s all a journey, Mark says.

Pain is information, Mark says.

What can I even say to a man who says and believes these things? Believes them absolutely.

“Miranda,” Mark says again now.

“Yes?”

“Tell me.”

But the things I want to tell Mark—specific things, important things, I had a list somewhere—have all flown away from my brain or come apart.

“My leg is still stiff,” I tell Mark.

Mark nods. Of course it is.

“I can’t even bend it.”

Mark nods. Of course I can’t.

“And it hurts,” I tell him at last. “A lot.”

Mark nods. Of course it does. And that’s fine. Absolutely. Pain, after all, is information.

I watch him scratch his soul patch.

“Where does it hurt exactly?”

“Here and here and all down here,” I say. “Back here too. Oh, and it sort of wraps around here.”

Mark nods again. Sure. This is all part of it. Part of the journey Mark and I are taking together for the next nineteen minutes, hand in surgically gloved hand. Mark always likes to remind me that he has been hurt once too, oh yes. His lower back, in fact: Just like you, Miranda. A herniated disc. L4 L5, believe it or not. A common injury. His was so bad he had foot drop. He almost needed surgery. Yes, really. He went to see three different surgeons, Mark did, including one all the way in New York. This last New York surgeon told him, You’re lucky I’m a busy man, because looking at Mark’s MRI, he should’ve taken him into the OR that very minute. But because he was busy, the surgeon was going to try to let Mark cure himself. And Mark did cure himself, with back extensions. It took a few weeks, sure. But he improved, why? Because he believed he could improve. Little victories. Mind over matter. The mind is so powerful, Miranda.

“How does it hurt?” Mark asks now. He’s leaning in. So intent, so sincere, that for a moment I almost feel sorry for him. I almost feel like I’m faking.

“Can you describe the pain?” Mark says.

Suddenly I am so tired.

“I don’t know how to describe it,” I say at last. Shaking my head. I feel close to crying. But I won’t. I almost never do.

Mark nods at this too. It’s all so interesting. It’s all just more information.

“Try,” he says.

“I guess… sort of like a burning on this side? And a tightness on the other? And around here, a tightness and a burning too? Almost like the area… I don’t know… feels… red.”

“Red?” Mark repeats.

I nod. Yes. Red. “And pulsating.”

“Pulsating,” Mark says. “Interesting.”

“And my foot,” I add. “It’s like there’s a chair on it or something. It feels like it’s being crushed.”

“A chair.”

Yes.

“Hmm,” Mark says. He refolds his arms. He looks deeply into the middle distance. A chair. Red. Pulsating. He’s really thinking now. I feel hope swell up in spite of my bad faith. Perhaps Mark will have a new idea today.

“All right, why don’t we do some tests,” he says at last.

“Tests?” I feel the dread in my legs. The nerves already humming. How I used to love tests. Tests, yes, let’s do tests! I used to cry. That was back when I thought tests led to something. A diagnosis that led to a plan, a cure. But tests, I know now, never lead us anywhere. Tests are dark roads with no destinations, just leading to more dark.

I look at Mark, who looks so pleased that he came up with an activity for us, and I think, Fucking run. Don’t ever look back. But then I remind myself I can’t even walk. I picture myself hobbling away from him in defiance. Mark watching me drag my dead leg, shaking his head. You’ll be back.