“Not painful exactly, but uncomfortable. My legs will suddenly contract or jerk without my control, usually when I’m tired or stressed. It can be annoying, especially at night when I’m trying to sleep, but it’s manageable with medication.”
“Is there anything I should know? In case… I don’t know… in case something happens and you need help?”
Mary felt something warm move through her chest. He wasn’t asking out of morbid curiosity or pity. He was asking because he cared, because he wanted to be prepared to help if she ever needed it.
“The main thing is pressure sores,” she explained. “They’re one of the biggest complications for people with spinal cord injuries. Because I can’t feel pressure or pain in my legs, I could develop a sore without realizing it. That’s why I do pressure reliefs throughout the day and check my skin every night. If I ever mention redness that won’t fade or any skin breakdown, take it seriously. Pressure sores can become life-threatening if they get infected.”
“Noted,” Bert said seriously.
“And if you ever see my legs spasming and I seem unconcerned, don’t panic. It’s just the spasticity. It looks dramatic, but it’s not dangerous.” Mary smiled slightly. “Though if my legs are spasming and I am concerned, then yeah, something’s wrong, and I probably need help.”
“Got it. Trust your assessment of the situation.”
“Exactly.” She looked at him, this man who’d voluntarily spent two hours in a waiting room just to be there for her, who asked thoughtful questions without making her feel like a medical curiosity and seemed genuinely interested in understanding her reality. “Thank you for coming today. I know it probably seemed boring?—”
“It wasn’t boring,” he assured. “And even if it had been, I wanted to be here. This is part of your life, part of what you manage every day. I want to understand that.”
“Well, friend,” Mary said, laughing, “I’m starving. Want to grab dinner? My treat.”
“Absolutely.” Bert started the truck. “Your choice of restaurant, but I pay.”
As they drove toward town, talking about nothing and everything, she relaxed, realizing that for the first time after leaving one of her medical appointments, she was smiling.
8
Bert kept his eyes on the road as they drove away from the rehabilitation center, but his mind was still in that waiting room, still processing everything he’d observed and everything Mary had just shared with him.
Two hours. She’d been in there for two hours, being examined and tested and put through physical therapy exercises that were designed not to improve her condition but simply to prevent it from getting worse. And she did these every three months and would continue doing them for the rest of her life.
The weight of that reality settled over Bert, making his chest tight. She would spend the rest of her life doing pressure reliefs every thirty minutes, checking her skin every night for sores she couldn’t feel developing, managing spasticity, and a thousand other unglamorous details that most people never had to think about.
And she did it all with such matter-of-fact competence that it was easy to forget how hard it must be. How exhausting it must be to maintain that level of vigilance every single day, knowing that one slip could lead to complications serious enough to land her in the hospital.
Bert’s hands tightened on the steering wheel.
He’d seen combat injuries during his time as a SEAL. Had watched teammates deal with traumatic amputations, burns, and brain injuries. With his hearing loss, he understood what it meant to live with a permanent disability. But it was nothing compared to what she lived every day.
Mary wasn’t suffering. That was important to recognize. She’d built a good life, had meaningful work, had friends and independence and joy. The wheelchair hadn’t diminished her. If anything, it had revealed just how strong she really was.
But Bert wished she didn’t have to be that strong. He wished the world was built for her, rather than her having to constantly adapt to one that wasn’t designed with her needs in mind.
And he felt a fierce, protective surge of emotion that surprised him with its intensity. He wanted to make things easier for her. Wanted to learn everything he could about spinal cord injuries so he could anticipate her needs. Wanted to be the kind of person she could rely on without having to explain, or justify, or educate.
“You’re quiet,” Mary said, pulling Bert from his thoughts.
He glanced at her, found her watching him with those perceptive eyes that seemed to see right through him. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
He considered deflecting, but Mary had been honest with him. She deserved the same in return.
“About how much you have to manage every day,” he said carefully. “How much work it takes just to maintain your health. And how you do it all without complaining, without making it seem like a big deal, when it’s actually a huge deal.”
She was quiet for a moment, her gaze shifting to the mountains passing by outside the window. “It’s my normal now. I don’t think about it as managing a disability most of the time. I just think about it as... living my life. The pressure reliefs and skin checks are as routine as brushing my teeth. I don’t sit around feeling sorry for myself because that doesn’t change anything.”
“I know. I admire the hell out of you for that. But it’s okay to acknowledge that it’s hard sometimes. That it’s work you didn’t ask for and wouldn’t choose if you had the option.”
“Of course it’s hard sometimes,” Mary said, her voice soft. “Of course there are days when I’m tired of the routines, tired of the vigilance, tired of having to plan everything around accessibility. But those days don’t define me. And I refuse to let the injury be the most interesting thing about me.”