Chapter 8

Other than visiting at mealtimes, when her schedule allowed, Alba watched over Wesley closely for the next few days but from a distance. She caught several times where he'd been handed a bright green drink and saw the look of chagrin on his face as he was forced to drink it. Not that anybody stood over him, but they were waiting. And that obviously alone was something Wesley did not like. Neither did he like the green drink.

She walked up to him three days later and smiled. "You're looking so much better. Must be all those green drinks," she teased.

He shot her a look. "Those things are nasty," he murmured.

"They aren't that bad," she argued, with a headshake. "Whenever there's a spare, I get one myself."

He stared at her in shock. "You mean, you willingly have one of those?"

She smiled and laughed. "Absolutely."

"You're nuts. Those things are nasty."

"I wonder if they put more things in yours than they do in ours," she murmured. "The fact of the matter is, you're depleted, and your system needs more nourishment."

"Which is why I have to drink those nasty green concoctions all the time," he muttered. "But, so far, nobody's convinced me that they're good for me because I'm not seeing any results, and they really do taste awful." He thought about it for a moment. "I suppose they probably are adding extra to mine."

"If that makes you feel better, it's all good," she noted cheerfully. She pointed toward the dining room. "Are you heading in there?"

"No, I was heading down to you."

"I was going to grab a coffee before our session," she said, checking her watch. "You're a little early."

"I know, but, timing-wise, I didn't want to just sit in my room."

"Makes sense," she said. "So come on. Let's go get a coffee, and we can take it back to my office."

He nodded, and they fell in together, heading down the hallway. At the dining room she poured coffee for two and looked over to see him with his hand dancing between two large cookies.

"I'll take the one you don't want," she offered.

He looked up, gave her a fat smile, and declared, "I was planning on both of them."

She burst out laughing. "In that case, have at it."

She walked over and scooped up one, an oatmeal cookie, and said, "I'll meet you back at the office."

She walked away deliberately. She didn't want to wait. She didn't want to help him per se. She just wanted to see how he would handle it. He came up behind her, and, as he coasted up close, she realized he really did have two cookies between his last two fingers.

She shook her head, a chuckle escaping. "What is there about cookies and men?"

"What is there about cookies and everyone," he clarified. "Let's not get sexist over this. Cookies are cookies. They should be a main food group." He took a big bite, even as he coasted toward her office. Then, with a happy sigh, he added, "These really are good cookies."

"I think all the food here is good."

"Agreed, and it's really hard when people ask, Hey, what's your favorite dish? I just… I can't narrow it down to just one thing," he stated, with a headshake. "It's all just so good."

"And that should be a good thing overall," she added, looking at him.

"It is, but some things are just that much better than good."

"Meaning that anything that counts as a cookie is that much better?" she quipped.

"Well, I hadn't thought that I was quite so particular about my sweets," he conceded, "but I must admit that cookies do take the cake."

She had a good laugh about that. Now at her office, she quickly led the way inside. "Grab your seat."

"Meaning, just roll up and park," he murmured.

"How's the leg doing?"

"The leg's not bad," he shared. "The sore on the underside's healed up."

"Still tender from too much pressure? I understand that you're getting the modified prosthetic for your leg adjusted."

"They're coming to do a fitting soon," he stated, with a nod. "Shane wants to be there to confirm that the pressure points will be where he wants them."

"Oh, good," she said. "In that case I have no doubt you'll be in good hands."

"It seems as if Shane's into so many different things," Wesley noted. "He's a little bit everywhere."

"And that's because the work he does is a little bit everywhere. He started off as straight physio, but he's done so much extra training that he's pretty well involved in all aspects of recovery now."

"Except yours."

"Except mine," she agreed, "but, having said that, mine is very much integrated with everything that they see too."

"I get that," Wesley noted. Then he picked up the second cookie and let out a contented sigh. "Really glad I got a second one."

"At the moment I'm kinda jealous," she admitted, laughing. "You're enjoying it so much that you make me want a second one."

He offered, "I'll share it with you."

She shook her head. "No, I'm good. I don't really have any reason to eat a second one."

"Luckily I don't need a reason," he stated, and he chomped down with a decided crunch.

"What kind is that one?" she asked curiously.

"A gingersnap."

She raised an eyebrow. "I didn't see those there."

"That's why I was having so much trouble deciding what to get," he explained. "It was there, and I couldn't resist." He was busy eating away again.

She asked him, "Now that we've dealt with the leg, how's the arm?"

He looked down at it and flapped it in the air. "It's here," he noted, "though it's not exactly much stronger."

"The new program that Shane's given you, is that helping?"

He shrugged. "Maybe."

"And maybe not?"

"And maybe not," he agreed, with a nod. "It's kinda hard. I want it to do so much more, but I'm limited."

"Of course you are, yet a lot of that limitation is in your head."

He winced at that. "I get that. Yet you have to also understand that this limitation is also very physical."

"Absolutely," she declared. "So what will you do about it?"

"I'll talk to the prosthetic guys, when they come for the fitting on my leg, and see what options I have for the arm."

"Oh, that sounds good," she replied, feeling happier about that. At least he wasn't walking away from it, but he was at least looking at what he had for possibilities. "You had an arm prosthetic before, correct?"

"Yes, but it was almost more work than it was worth."

"How are the nerve endings on that stump?"

"I did have extra surgery to build up a good pad there," he shared. "And the last arm prosthetic was temporary, so I'm hoping that there will be something that will improve on that one."

"And yet they're only coming to look at your leg?" she asked curiously.

"Yeah, one thing at a time. Shane says the arm is not really strong enough yet to support a prosthetic."

"Well then, you should listen to Shane."

"It doesn't mean that I can't see what my options are though," he murmured. "That might keep me a little more positive than anything."

"It can," she noted, "as long as you realize that you're in a state of flux, constantly improving and getting stronger, so keep that in mind."

"You mean, if I don't get an answer that I like when they visit?"

"Yep, absolutely. If they say they can do nothing more, how will you feel?"

"I'll feel shocked," he admitted. "That's not what I want to hear."

"Of course not, and it doesn't mean that that will be what you hear. It just means that it's not what you want to hear."

At that, he nodded. "It still would suck though."

"But it doesn't have to be the be-all and end-all."

*

However, it wouldbe, but Wesley didn't dare say that. "Maybe not." And he stared off into the distance. "I imagine, if I don't get a good prognosis, then I will probably end up back here in tears." He was so blunt and matter of fact about it that he couldn't consider anything else.

"In that case, do you want to book an appointment for afterward?" she suggested.

"No, I'm still hoping that I get good news."

"And if you don't? I think you need to accept the fact that you might need a second opinion."

He looked at her in surprise and then beamed. "For a moment there I was afraid you would say that I might need to accept the limitations of what I have."

"I wouldn't say that," she declared. "I think you just have to accept that it'll be a journey."

"Definitely a journey," he agreed. "And some journeys are okay. Others just plain suck."

She grinned. "You don't exactly get to refund your ticket on this journey," she murmured. "So, how about we go through some of the things that you can do with your arm as it is, and then some of the things that a prosthetic would help you with."

"Depending on what's available on the market for prosthetics," he began, "I could get full functionality back."

"Are you in dreamland right now?" she asked.

"I would hope not, but I guess it's possible," he conceded.

"Have you done any research on it?"

He nodded. "That woman in New Mexico does some pretty spectacular things."

"And that won't be covered by insurance, I suppose."

"No, of course not," he replied, raising his good hand. "What'll be covered will be a generic one, just like what I had, with maybe a slight improvement."

"And what about funds?" she asked. "Have you contacted this woman to get a ballpark estimate? A time line estimate on making one?"

"I can contact her," he replied. "Doesn't mean she can help me or isn't booked up for two years or something."

"Maybe you should send her your medical records and see."

He stared at her, his gaze lighting up. "Maybe I will."

"All she can do is give you an idea of what might be possible, and I think, at the moment, that's what you're really looking for, to know what could be the best outcome, and then maybe an idea of what reality will look like. It could be that best outcome, but it could also be something completely different but better in some way."

"But the thing is," he admitted, "as long as I don't make those calls, there's hope."

"Ah," she murmured, with a long-drawn-out sigh. "Very true. As long as you have hope, you have everything, don't you?"

He nodded. "And I don't want to lose that."

"And yet you're afraid to move forward because you're afraid to lose that."

"It's not that I'm afraid to move forward because I'll lose hope," he clarified. "I just feel as if maybe I'm not ready."

"Not ready to hear the truth?"

"I didn't say that," he protested.

"But you did, though," she replied, studying him intently. "The question is, whether finding out the truth will be something you believe."

"Of course I'll believe it."

"What about a second opinion?"

"Oh,… right."

"I guess that's what you're saying, isn't it? That, even if this woman, who apparently does so much of this specialty work, if she can't help you, maybe that's not the end result."

"Right," he acknowledged, his fingers strumming away on the arm of his wheelchair. "Still, it's scary."

"It's all scary," she agreed, with a head tilt. "That doesn't mean it's not worth doing."

"Sure, but again, if it's back to that bad news thing, I'm not sure I want it."

"Maybe you aren't ready, but maybe it'll help you to decide to do better with what you've got."

"No." He shook his head. "I don't think it will. I think it'll make me angry."

"Angry because of your circumstances?"

"Sure. It'll just make me angry that I can't have what I want." And, with that, he announced, "I'm done for today." And he turned and wheeled out of the room.