Author's Note: Hello yes, this was posted on tumblr, but as I stated over there I said I was going to post the story here and add to it. This story was co-written with a good friend of mine, (you can see that as well on tumblr), and was a request I got a while ago. My spring semester of college is about to begin, so I apologize in advance if my updates begin to get slow. Fools is still my main fic at this point, so that one is my number one priority to finish and update. If you're not already, follow me on tumblr at heidipoo-xox, and send me some requests if you like. Enjoy, and thanks for reading.
An individual licensed by the physical therapy section has a responsibility to report any organization or entity that provides or holds itself out to deliver physical therapy services that places the licensee in a position of compromise with this code of ethical conduct. A licensee shall not engage in any sexual relationship or conduct, including dating, with any patient, or engage in any conduct that may reasonably be interpreted by the patient to be sexual, whether consensual or nonconsensual, while a therapist/patient relationship exists.
It was said by some to be the injury of the year, and Brock would have agreed with them if he weren't so damn stubborn. Rugby was his life, or had been his life before he'd torn ligaments, strained his muscles, and nearly dislocated his shoulder. They told him to stop, take it easy, that if he didn't keep pushing himself, he'd get hurt, but Brock didn't listen, he never did. He kept playing for the sake of his team, for the sake of his love of rugby, and he wouldn't stop. He hated himself for that, absolutely bathed in self loathing because he never listened to his coaches, never took their advice. Maybe if he had, he wouldn't have fractured his arm, he wouldn't have broken his shoulder, and he wouldn't have had to stop playing rugby because of his injuries.
He dreamed of the accident often. The sounds of his bones crunching still echoing in his head during the late night hours. The crowd going absolutely silent, and his team running to his side to make sure he wasn't badly hurt. It was over a month ago, but he remembered each detail, each particular part like it had happened mere hours ago. They carried him off the field, and the only thing he could feel besides pain, was shame and regret. He remembered feeling like he should have stopped when they told him to. He can still hear the hustle and bustle of the hospital, the reverberation of the morphine drip as it was hooked into his skin; he could still smell the antiseptic on his skin as they prepared him for an operation.
And the worst part? The heart wrenching feeling when the doctors told him he would never play rugby ever again. Brock couldn't lift his right arm up anymore, couldn't move his shoulder in the right ways, hell, he couldn't do anything with it anymore, surgery or not. His team was empathetic in every single way, and made sure he was taken care of, but Brock didn't care. He was angry, he was bitter, and he barely left his house after the accident. He was a cripple, and he didn't want people to see him like that. After all, he brought it on himself because of the simple fact that he couldn't listen to the people who cared about him, the people who warned him when enough was enough.
He spent about three days in the hospital after his operation, and it drove him absolutely mad. After the hospital, he stayed home as often as he could, collecting the newspaper clippings, watching the news, the headlines from the accident nearly engraved into his damn brain. He had too much free time; no rugby, no life, or at least that's how he saw it. He couldn't take up new hobbies, couldn't find anything to do with his spare time. He couldn't and he didn't want to. All he did was wallow in his own self pity, ignoring phone calls, visitors, and whatever else he could muster. If he couldn't play rugby, then what the hell was point? No matter what anybody tried to do for him, it was useless, he was useless. The accident had changed him, and even Brock knew that he wasn't the same anymore.
Brock's check up appointment was scheduled soon, and if he hadn't gotten multiple text messages from his friends and former teammates reminding him about it, he wouldn't have went. He was tired of the doctors, tired of hospitals, tired of feeling vulnerable and being treated like he couldn't do anything for himself. Evan after all this time, he still wasn't used to it. But after living the life that he had been living, who would be used to it? So with a tired sigh, he knew he had to get himself out of bed and get ready for the doctor. He hadn't showered in a while, so that was step one on the list. He got cleaned up, and tidied his house before heading to meet his physician. At least he could still drive, that was one thing that made him feel at least somewhat normal.
The waiting room seemed tiny, or maybe it was because he was so huge. Nevertheless, he waited almost rather impatiently for the nurse to walk out of the back and call his name so he could get this damned appointment over with. He didn't know what the big deal was about follow up appointments. The doctor would poke and probe at him all over again just to tell him the same thing. He'd never play rugby again, his arm was in bad condition, blah blah blah. The man rolled his eyes just thinking about it. He hated the doctors, he hated appointments, he hated everything right about now as he sat in the waiting room tapping his foot against the generic carpeted floors.
"Brock?"
"Finally," He muttered before pushing himself out of the small chair and heading back with the nurse. His shoulder ached, but he wouldn't tell them that. That only meant more medication, more medical procedures that he was too exhausted to deal with. He just wanted to get this over as fast as he could, get the hell out of here, go home and go back to sleep. His bed was calling his name, and truth be told, ever since the incident, doctor's offices always made him quite uncomfortable. He was so afraid that he would get more bad news, get more doctors telling him things that he didn't want to hear. The twisting of his gut wouldn't go away until he was back in his home, safely away from this place.
"Good morning, Brock, how are you feeling?" Dr. Fong greeted him.
Brock stayed silent a while before replying with a sarcastic, "Terrific!"
Dr. Fong replied with an equally sarcastic, "Okay!" Before approaching Brock. "Now, Brock, this will be just like the other appointments. The usual exercises to see if your arm is getting the flexibility it had before and to check that the muscle is healing properly. Try to mimic my movements, okay?" Brock sighed inwardly before doing as told. He couldn't quite keep up as he would suddenly get sharp pains in his arm and shoulder. Doctor Fong pursed his lips as he saw that Brock was pushing himself to move his arm, most likely injuring himself more. "That's enough now, you seem to have not made much progress since I last saw you. We'll need to get you a physical therapist." He added, jotting down notes on his clipboard in hand.
"Physical therapy?" Brock questioned. "You're kidding."
The asian doctor simply shook his head, "I think it would really help."
Brock stood up, trying his hardest not to become angry. "You told me I would never play rugby again, and now you want me to go to physical therapy? What for? If I can't play rugby then I don't need it." He managed to get out, not being able to look the doctor in the eye. How dare he! And what good would physical therapy do? It's not like he'd magically gain feeling and movement back in his arm. It would be a waste of time, and Brock wasn't going to waste his breath trying to explain that to the doctor, who was already scribbling something down on a piece of paper.
"Here." He said simply, handing him the paper. "I can't make you go, but it would definitely improve the abilities in your arm. I'll call them and let them know to be expecting you, in case you decide to show up." Dr. Fong finished as he wrote a few more notes on Brock's charts. "I'll see you next month, Brock." He added, before gathering his things and leaving the room. With a tired sigh, Brock glanced down at the paper in his hand, that had physical therapy center written on it, along with a name and an address, as well as a phone number. His doctor was crazy if he thought he was actually going to go through with it.
His shoulder ached, and he was more than ready to go home. He crumpled the piece of paper and shoved it into his back pocket before leaving the office and heading out to his car. The tiredness had really hit him on his drive home and Brock was ready for bed. However, when he finally got to lie down, he couldn't sleep, and Dr. Fong's words lingered in his cluttered mind. If his muscles and arm got better, would he be able to play rugby again? Or was he just overthinking, making a too big deal out of this? Brock rolled over, careful of his shoulder, and willed his mind to stop thinking and fell into a dreamless sleep.
The paper still remained in his back pocket, but Brock didn't forget about it. Sometimes his thoughts would drift. What would happen if he did go to physical therapy? It wouldn't hurt anything, only help. He had nothing to lose; he already couldn't move his arm that well, anything would be an improvement. And then his words that he said at the appointment filtered through his mind and he felt bad again. He pretty much yelled at Dr. Fong saying that it would be a waste of time, but what if it wasn't? What if Dr. Fong was right and what if it did help him move his arm again? There was only one reasonable answer here, and Brock knew that he would have to go to physical therapy; it was inevitable. Regardless if it was a waste of time or not, he knew nothing but good things could come out of this, and he was willing to experience that.
Author's Note: To be continued...?
