“Really?” said Dr. Akeson, peering at Jonas over his glasses from his chair next to the computer. He made a note of something in Jonas’s chart. “That’s good news. How is that working out? Are you having any problems with the socket fitting?”
“I-I’m not really sure,” he muttered. “It’s all a little much. I haven’t worked with a prosthesis much since the practice one I wore during those first weeks in physical therapy. To be honest, the main thing that’s bothering me is that I’ve had an increase in pain since I started trying to walk.”
“Does the pain mostly happen when you’re using the prosthesis or do you have it other times as well?”
Jonas thought about it a bit. “Mostly when I’m wearing it. Occasionally when I’m not, but I always had occasional phantom sensations before, so I guess that’s not really new. My leg’s been a bit sore; I think it’s just because it’s not used to bearing weight.”
“That would most likely be correct,” Dr. Akeson said. “It’s usually best to start slow with these things. Work up to it. Can you describe the pain you feel when you wear the prosthesis?”
“It’s sort of a shooting pain. Sometimes it feels kind of like a burning sensation, almost. But only when I’m putting weight on it, or sometimes just when I’m wearing it. I don’t know if maybe I’m walking wrong, or something. Like a misstep.”
He tapped his fingers on his leg again. In the ceiling, the air conditioning kicked on, ruffling Jonas’s hair. Dr. Akeson was making another note.
“There are a few possible explanations, but one stands out to me at this time, based on what you’ve said.” He scooted his stool forward a bit and gestured to Jonas’s leg. Jonas was used to this, even if it was his least favorite part of being in the doctor’s office. He stared straight ahead, refusing to look at his leg as Dr. Akeson shifted the gown and examined the fake leg and the socket, and then took the leg off, examining Jonas’s residual limb. He massaged a few places, stopping when Jonas winced in pain. “There it is,” the doctor murmured, as if to himself.
“What?” asked Jonas, massaging his leg again. Still not looking at it. Never looking at it (if he could help it.)
“I’m thinking it’s most likely a neuroma,” said his doctor, moving back to make another note on the computer. “Amputees are known to get them, especially in traumatic amputations, as yours was. Think of it like a tangle of hair, except in this case, it’s a tangle of nerve endings. It can be sensitive, especially to pressure.”
“Can it be fixed?”
“Usually it’s as simple as adjusting your prosthesis. In this case, you’ll just need another visit with your prosthetist. It would explain why the pain has only started now that you’re working on walking. It usually takes a few months after an amputation to show up, and if it hadn’t been exposed to pressure, it wouldn’t be a cause for concern. But since you’ve started wearing your prosthesis, it’s starting to put some pressure on it.”
He nodded toward Jonas’s leg. “Does that help?” he asked, watching Jonas massage a particular spot.
“Yes,” said Jonas. “It usually does.”
“That’s good,” he nodded. “Massage is one of the ways to relieve pain from a neuroma.”
The doctor stood, preparing to leave. “Just make sure to make an appointment with your prosthetist to get your socket refitted. Not only for the neuroma but, as time goes on, the residual limb atrophies a bit and the prosthesis can be too loose.” He paused, meeting Jonas’s eyes. “Additionally, if you’re going to start walking more frequently, it may be a good idea to see a physical therapist again.”
Jonas started to protest, but Dr. Akeson held up a hand. “Now I know you didn’t like the therapy when you did it after the initial amputation, but it’s something I would recommend now. It can be very helpful for amputees to work with someone.”
Jonas frowned. Dr. Akeson smiled. “I’m honestly glad to see that you’re starting to work toward walking, Jonas,” he said. “It’s always a good step.” He chuckled a little at his own pun, then picked up his papers and opened the door. He stopped one final time. “Follow up in another month,” he said. “I’d like to see you one more time before you head off to school.”
“Okay,” Jonas said. Dr. Akeson left the room, and Jonas got dressed once more, grabbing his crutches and making his way out to his mom, who immediately put down the magazine she was reading and came to his side.
“How’d it go?” she asked, smiling widely.
Jonas forced a smile. “Fine,” he said. “He says I should make an appointment with the prosthetist to get the socket fitting adjusted on my leg.”
“All right,” she said. “We’ll do that.”
They turned to leave. Once they were on the elevator, his mom turned to look at him. “Are you okay, Jonas?”
“Fine, Mom,” he said. Always fine. He was always fine. And then: “Dr. Akeson also thinks I should start physical therapy up again, before I go off to school.”
“Really?” she said. “Are you going to try to start walking again?” Jonas could tell she was trying not to sound too hopeful.
“Yeah,” he said, nonchalantly, as if this was nothing of consequence. He watched the floor number change as they went down. “I think I might.” His mom suddenly stepped forward and wrapped her arms tightly around him, almost knocking him over. He hadn’t realized how much taller he had gotten compared to her until she was there, standing a head shorter than him. Everything was so different now.
“Mom?” he asked her hesitantly. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said, stepping back and shaking her head, still smiling. “I’m just so proud of you.”
He almost rolled his eyes, somewhat embarrassed, but this was his mother. So he smiled instead, hesitantly. The most real smile he’d smiled in quite some time.
They went to the grocery store and he helped her get things off the high shelves instead of just following behind her like last time. When they went to the deli, he nonchalantly glanced around, looking for Brennan—for messy dark hair and big round glasses—but she wasn’t there.
10
brennan
Today, it was horrible.
It was on days like these that the anxiety would rise up and grab Brennan by the throat, choking her, making it seem like she couldn’t even breathe, let alone open her mouth and force words to come out. She worried that if she did open her mouth, all the sick feeling in her stomach would come out. It washed over her like waves, suppressed one moment, then overwhelming her the next, pulling her back into herself.
So she didn’t—open her mouth, that was. She was abnormally quiet, pacing back and forth in her bedroom, trying to distract herself from the churning in her stomach. Let me GO, she begged the anxiety that lived in her stomach, her mind. NEVER, it retorted.
In these moments, Brennan felt like she was just a body controlled by some parasite inside of her that fed off her emotions. She mentally ticked the counter in her head—Days Since Incident—back to zero.