Small Victories
For some reason, it's when you're driving alone in your car that things really seem to hit you the hardest. That is when you most perceive the difference between then and now. No longer is there an utterly unimpressed driver hunched over the steering wheel waiting to shuttle you around. There's no muscular security guard taking up more than his half of the seat and effectively squishing you against the door. There's no privacy shield or tinted windows to block out the outside world.
Not they could now anyway, because you're the one driving and you actually have to pay attention. You have to look out those clear windows and squint at the blurry road signs so you don't lose your way in the twisting and turning web of roads that has become your reality.
Most of the time, reality makes your stomach churn into disgruntled knots. There's this ever-present and wholly unsettling sensation that you're moving in slow motion while everything else blurs by in double time. And you couldn't catch up even if you could run a four-minute mile. It's too far beyond your grasp now.
You just have to watch as the cars zoom past and the pedestrians walk by hurriedly, clutching tight to their briefcases and bags. You can almost hear their grumblings about gas prices and rush hour traffic. You sneer your lips and fight the urge to scream at them because it all seems so goddamn self-absorbed and you can't help but resent them all.
Because you're pretty damn sure none of them are on their way to the hospital to visit their newly incapacitated boyfriend, who's will to live seems to swell and ebb as inconsistently as a Hollywood attention span. And darn it, none of them know the trouble YOU'VE seen. Well, forget them. And the cheesy songs that tick you off right along with them.
You remember the day it happened. Your mom greeting you at the door to your own house, face full of concern instead of joy. Staring at her blankly as she grabbed you and pulled you to the car, yelling at you to put your seatbelt on. You think she might have had to do it for you. The manic rush to the hospital – watching as people touched you with comforting strokes, but not actually feeling them. The words from familiar voices floating in and out of your consciousness.
Accident. Rain. Totalled. Know nothing. Sorry. Be okay.
You just blinked at them, no expression on your face as your eyes moved slowly from one person to another. You could see tears on some of their cheeks; red eyes and runny noses everywhere you turned. But for some reason you couldn't even figure out why. You just flat out could not conceive what had happened. There's no way this would happen – not to you. Not with your life.
You sat and stared out the window made blurry by the rain, refusing any comfort because that somehow meant admitting it had actually happened. There were no tears, no sobbing, not even a runny nose from you. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see your mom staring at you, biting her nails and waiting for you to crack and ready to catch you. But you ignored her. Hated her even – for believing that this had happened to you.
And then the waiting room door opened to reveal a middle-aged man in blue scrubs and a clipboard in hand. Everyone else in the room stood and hovered around him.
Everyone but you. You stood up with a start and shook your head.
"No." All eyes turned to you.
"No." You said more pointedly than before, looking dead into the eye of the stranger. You weren't going to hear this.
You saw your mom move towards you – reach for your arm and start to say something like
"oh, Emma…". But before you could hear what she was saying, your hands moved to tightly seal off your ears.
"No!" You shook your head and bee-lined for the door, twisting at the waist to move people out of your way to avoid your flying elbows. "No!"
You made it a few steps outside of the door and were just about to break into a full-fledged run. But then you stumbled and noticed a pair of strong arms wrapped tightly around you from behind. You struggled and kicked out, but you're no match he's twice your size. Before you knew it you were pressed up against the wall by his heavy body as your hands were peeled from your ears.
You shook your head violently because it was the only mobile part of your body at the moment. But then fingers were pressed forcefully into your cheeks and you had nowhere to go. Nothing left to move. And you were forced to stare directly into hard brown eyes.
Stupid Joey and all his Muscles!
"Emma," he said harshly.
You flared your nostrils and pursed your lips.
"Emma! You need to listen to me!"
He shook your head in his hands and your breath started coming in short, difficult gasps. You don't want to listen!
"Emma!"
That time your head made brief contact with the wall and your eyes flew wildly to his. His voice became pointed and even as his eyes bored steadily into yours.
"Emma. Craig was in an accident and he's hurt. Probably pretty bad. You're gonna have to deal with this. You're gonna have go back in there and listen to that doctor. Craig is going to need you. You don't have a choice. Do you hear me?"
You stared at him blankly, but this time you heard him. You heard. And you wanted to hurt him! He hurt you and you wanted to hurt him and you didn't give a damn that it made absolutely no sense. You convulsed your body to throw him off. You kicked out and tried to shove him away. He wasn't budging. You tried harder because you could feel your emotions surfacing and you had to outrun them.
"Let me go! Joey let me go! You're such a punk! Let! Me! Go!"
But you couldn't get him off you. And you couldn't miss the way your voice cracked.
"Joey. Please, Joey. Just let me go! Let me go…" Tears were welling in your eyes.
His fingers pressed back into your cheeks until your eyes met the steady gaze of his.
"Emma, we're going to go back in there and we're going to listen to what the doctor has to say. We're gonna find out what we're up against so that we can start to fight it!" His eyes were fire now. "You got me? Do you get me, Emma?"
You were trapped and now caught. The first tear escaped from your eye and slipped down your face and your lips started to tremble.
"Emma? Do you hear me?" he said more softly.
You swallowed with difficulty and then nodded your head mutely. Of all times for Joey to actually make sense. He sighed loudly and shrunk down from his combatant stance. "Okay," he said. "Okay, let's go." He snaked a hand around your waist and led you back inside.
Everyone froze upon your re-entry, but you refused to look up. You just rubbed at your nose with the palm of your hand.
"What? What is it?" you said dejectedly. And you felt everyone let out a collective sigh of relief. As much as the moment would allow.
You took in deep breaths tried not to lash out as the doctor spoke in a slow, steady voice. He obviously didn't get it. He obviously had no idea what the fuck was happening to your world with every word he said. And to top it all off, he knew nothing!
Craig's internal injuries had been repaired in surgery, but there was neurological damage. Apparent trauma to the spinal cord and brain – possibly swelling though perhaps worse. He hadn't been conscious since arrival.
"I'm sorry, but we'll just have to wait and see," he finished.
Wait and see. Wait and see?!?! Was he fucking joking!?!?
You turned and pounded your fists into the wall before resting your forehead between them and shaking your head. No. No, this could not be happening! You've never been known for patience. And now? This? No way. Now way this was happening!
And when you felt that familiar soft hand at the small of you back, you turned into your mother's shoulder and finally broke down in sobs.
Your world no longer made sense. In the snap of a finger – the crash of a car – all the glam, glitter and glory disappeared. It was your own personal ground zero.
The first time you saw him – hooked up to countless machines with more tubes and wires than you could bear to count – your stomach revolted. His hand was limp and pale at his side and you were afraid to even touch him. You had asked to go in alone, but you looked back at the door and wished you hadn't.
Your eyes blurred and your whole body shook as you reached for the stool next to the bed. You sat down slowly and lowered your forehead to the small section of sterile white sheet above his shoulder. And you wept. Because he was hurt. And because he was alive.
From then on, you sat diligently next to his bed for as long as they allowed. Karen rubbed your neck and whispered reminders of how much he loved you. You nodded your head as the tears streamed down your face and leaned into her side for comfort. She kissed the top of your head and you cried together.
But no one seemed to get it like you did – not even her. No one else seemed to understand how badly you hurt. And they all pissed you off because of it.
Another day, you ran into one of his nurses on your way in – felt her hand move to your forearm and gently squeeze. You drew your drooping eyes up from the floor to find sympathetic eyes and a reassuring smile.
"It'll be okay, sweetie," came the soft voice, almost like an echo.
You forced a smile, wondering if she thought she was the first person to say that to you. Because you'd heard it a million times already, but really…what the hell do any of these people know? Obviously nothing. CRAIG was still laying in that bed, practically dead.
You sat there for three days and there were no signs of life besides the constant beat of the heart monitor. You prayed and begged and pleaded for something. Any type of a change. Anything to let you know what was going on because it was driving you insane not to know. You were losing more than patience. You were starting to lose hope.
You couldn't imagine your life without him. Didn't know how you'd ever get along. You were really starting to get into the little pity party you were throwing yourself.
But then, as you sat there and stared at his pale face littered with bruises and contusions, and cursed your life, you saw it. A flutter of eyelids and a sliver of hazel. You gasped and then lost your breath and gaped in silence.
It seemed like an eternity before you remembered how to breathe and dared to whisper.
"CRAIG? CRAIG…CRAIG…are…do you…" You tried to blink away your tears. You grabbed for his thumb and squeezed gently.
Eye contact. Your heart stopped.
Your eyes crinkled in a smile, causing a tear to fall down your face.
"CRAIG" you whispered, leaning in close to him and brushing his matted hair from his forehead. He blinked.
You stood up then, leaning even closer and spoke cautiously, almost afraid of the answer.
"CRAIG? Can…can you hear me? Baby, can you hear me?"
Another blink.
You let out a muffled sound that was half sob and half laugh.
"You can? You can hear me?"
Another blink.
You started to cry steadily then, laughing at the same time and wanting nothing more than to wrap him in your arms and rock him back and forth. But you couldn't and restraining yourself to a whisper of a kiss to the forehead was one of the hardest things you've ever had to do.
A few days later, he scratched at the sheet with the pointer finger on his right hand. Movement. A victory. And you smiled. The next day, he curled the same finger around yours, barely and with no grip to speak of, but it was real contact! Contact initiated by him, and you had no idea how much you had missed it until the gentle brush of a single finger tore your heart in two.
God, you were happy. Joyous and rejoicing.
But you still hadn't seen him smile or frown. Hadn't heard the sound of his voice – that amazing voice you were enraptured by way before you knew you were in love. And you can't wrap him tightly in your arms the way you have ever since the day you finally did realize your feelings for him when beyond friends.
It's then you understood what a bittersweet world we live in.
Back in your car, you make the sharp curve that leads into the rehabilitation center Craig has been living at for the last two months. Three days there for every one in the hospital they tell you.
"He will recover, but he's gonna have to work for it."
You stared at the floor and nodded when they told you, and couldn't help but wonder how this all was going to pan out. Craig's one of the most stubborn people you've ever met. But you knew as well as anyone that it could work against you just as much as it could help.
And in the beginning, it was bad. Really bad. And you were pretty sure you weren't going to be able to handle it. There came a time you actually thought it might be best for you to just leave him alone for a while. Let him recover on his own – because it seemed to be what he wanted.
The first time the thought crossed your mind, you had walked into his room to find the male nurse getting ready to give Craig a bath. You smiled your 100-watt smile (though perhaps it was only half as bright and certainly out of use), and flirted until he relented to let you take the honors. You were well aware that Craig could be a prude around strangers.
You opened his door. You nudged him awake and huskily whispered what you had done, thinking he'd appreciate the gesture and take comfort in the familiar hands.
You were shocked when his eyes practically bugged out of his head and whimpers came from his throat. He didn't want you to. He'd rather have a stranger…? He didn't want you?!
You swallowed thickly and backed away in shock. You stared at him for several long minutes with your mouth hanging open and the same wide eyes he was sporting. You couldn't believe that he would actually choose someone else. He…he even seemed scared of you. How could he…? Why!?!?
As it all sunk in, you couldn't decide if you wanted to cry or throw up. Because in ten years of knowing him…you've never…you never even thought…that this…Oh God!
You gasped and bee lined for the door. You didn't notice the nurse you practically sent airborne as you brushed past him in the hallway. You were just gunning for the doors and the car that could take you far away from here. Because you could NOT deal with this!
It wasn't until you sunk back into the driver's seat of your car that you let out the breath you were holding. You pressed your forehead into the steering wheel and felt your body start to rock unconsciously.
You might have sat there for hours, looking out your window at a bleary day but not seeing anything at all. You brain couldn't let go of the image of his eyes from minutes ago…couldn't stop remembering how they used to look at you with such love and understanding, and how that no longer seemed to exist.
You couldn't handle life without him. You couldn't handle him pushing you away. You couldn't stand to be helpless
Your eyes wanted to cry. But your heart didn't listen and your pulse started to race – a reminder that it still knew. Still loved.
The beat pounded so loudly in your ears, you were sure it was invading your brain – screaming into your thoughts. Reminding you that this is a battle. It's a fight and you were never one to be a coward. And it wouldn't go away.
It screamed that this whole thing needed to stop being about you. You needed to get over yourself, because in twenty-one years, you never really had.
Now was the time.
You slammed your fists on the top of the steering wheel, and readied yourself for combat.
You're going to be a warrior. And so was he. You'd make him.
You finally pulled yourself out of the drivers seat and marched determinedly towards his room. You paused to take a deep breath before entering. This was gonna be big.
It's not that you think he doesn't have every reason to be upset and frustrated. He's always been such a physical person. He dances like a maniac, sings with his entire body, and needs a two foot cushion when talking to keep from knocking anyone out.
And he always took care of you.
He's not any of those things anymore. Not now, anyway. His body is the enemy – it gave out on him. Even now, he can't move unassisted. He can't feed himself without a steady hand at the elbow for support. He still can't seem to get his mouth to form words – it's like someone filled it with marbles.
Craig's first attempt at communicating beyond blinking and nods came a good month into his recovery. Just four letters scrawled messily across a dry-erase board with a shaky hand.
Trpd.
He could barely hold the thick marker, and it took you several minutes to figure out what was actually encrypted in those four letters. You watched his eyes as they flashed with desperation and perhaps a bit of resentment, yet still begging you to find the meaning. And that's when it hit you.
Trapped.
He felt trapped. You scanned the depths of his eyes once more and finally grasped the desperation. The frustration. The anger. Being able to take everything in but not being able to respond to any of it. Watching him, you thought that maybe it's the closest thing to actually being invisible.
You mentally added it to your list, underlining it, starring it, and highlighting it in yellow. Another battle.
When therapy started, Craig flat out refused to do anything. Wouldn't talk, wouldn't move, wouldn't budge. The Craig that used to be up for anything would now sit up in bed, stare dead in the eyes of the therapists, and do absolutely nothing. The doctors were at a loss, and looked to you.
And you had a hard time not being angry. After all, you knew him better than anyone in the world. And you knew…you knew…that this was his attempt at hanging on to the reigns. He had always been a control freak. Mr. In Charge. But now, he couldn't even control when he got out of bed, if he got out of bed, when he ate, what he ate and even who touched him.
He had no power over any of that any more, but he could just flat out refuse to cooperate. And in some twisted way that made him happy. Only it didn't, and you could tell.
But god, at the same time…could you really expect him to make sense right now? Why the hell should he be rational when nothing else had been in the last few months?
You paced his room in quick, sharp strides; running your hands through your hair and letting loud, exasperated sighs escape every few minutes. What were you going to do?
Finally, you stopped and turned to him with narrowed eyes and hands on your hips. You pursed your lips and grabbed at the chair next to his bed, jerking it flush against the bed. Your back was to the door and you were staring directly into his diverted eyes.
"Talk to me." Your voice was pointed and forced. Determined.
His eyes flashed to yours, wide at first and then narrowed.
"Talk. To me. CRAIG."
His nostrils flared.
"Fine, then. We'll sit here until you do." You folded your arms across your chest and kicked your feet up on the end table.
You sat for a half hour in total silence, neither of you looking away for even a split second. Eyes engaged in a silent, but fiery war.
The door jiggled and opened, but you didn't break the stare. You just bored twice as hard. Joey's voice flirted at the edge of you consciousness, but you didn't let it in.
"Go away, Joey" you interrupted firmly without bothering to look in his direction. Craig's face fell.
"Go. Away. Joey" you repeated, narrowing your eyes at Craig. He gave you that look – you knew it well.
"Oh? You want to know why?" you snorted, barely registering the click of the door behind you. You rose out of your chair and stood over him, your voice getting louder and more impassioned with each new thought.
"Well, I think someone needs to recognize when to accept a little help! I think someone needs to get his head in this! I think someone needs to quit being selfish and someone needs to start working and start fighting against all this. And someone needs to stop…God CRAIG! Someone needs to…"
Anger and sadness and desperation were all starting to crash in on you, causing your heart to hurt and your voice to soften with unshed tears.
"God, CRAIG" you continued, moving to the edge of his bed and leaning in towards him.
"CRAIG, someone really, really needs to hear the sound of her boyfriend's voice. Someone needs to know that this is going to be okay. That you're not going to give up."
You looked at him with watery eyes, his face expressionless. You waited and prayed and begged for a response.
It took you a minute to realize you had gotten it when your butt met the tiled floor with a thud. You gaped and stared at the still body on the bed as your brain fumbled for an answer.
What the heck…? Did he…? You were on the bed, and now you're on the floor, and…how? That was him? He…he kicked you? He actually threw his weight at you and pushed you off the damn bed? Oh my god!
You were delirious with joy. You jumped to your feet and grinned manically at him, but when you noticed the anger still in his eyes you decided to flee for the hallway before you pissed him off more.
You closed the door behind you with a flourish and jumped around like a maniac, fighting every urge not to squeal and shout and do a silly little dance.
Well…maybe a silly little dance would be okay.
You flailed your limbs in every direction with joyous abandon, and couldn't stifle the giggle as every single person around dropped what they were doing to stare. As you spun around, you spotted one of Craig's physical therapy doctors. You cupped his cheeks in your hands and grinned like a fool.
"He kicked me off the bed! He did! He kicked me right off! Can you believe it!?!?" You kissed him full on the lips and pumped your hands in victory.
There was a stunned silence at first, but then the corridor erupted in laughter. You smiled at them all and shared in the irony.
But…he kicked you off the bed! As good as you felt, you might as well have conquered a mountain.
Since the tactic worked once, you decided not to waver from the strategy. You just kept infuriating him until he got so angry he was compelled to action. It was weird to be fighting with him all the time, when he wasn't even himself -couldn't really fight back. You probably should've felt mean – like a bully or something – but you still left nearly everyday with a smile on you face. Because it was working. You were winning. You both were.
The first time he pulled himself out of bed on his own, it was only because you had withheld his dinner and refused to deliver it to him. He'd just have to come and get it himself, you decided. Or at least make the effort.
The first time the speech pathologist got him to work his lips around simple letters, it was only because you'd confiscated his music and held it over his head. If he wasn't going to speak words, he didn't deserve to listen to them either. That made you feel like a total jerk for the grand total of five minutes it took Craig to cooperate.
And the first time he smiled in months, it was because you somehow always managed to get a little ridiculous over senseless things. You'd forgotten he'd always gotten a kick out of that, or else you would've tried it sooner. Or on purpose, at least.
It was just a few weeks ago actually, and you were sitting next to him on his bed with one of those wooden learn-how-to-tie-your-shoe toys in your lap. You held a string in each hand and stared at it with furrowed brows and your tongue sticking out slightly in concentration. He sat next to you with his arms crossed across his chest.
"Craig?" you spoke absently, engrossed completely in your task. "Do you remember what that…you know…the…?" your voice drifted off as your brain hit at a possibility. You hummed and bopped your head to a rhythm in your brain, but then stopped and shook your head. No, that wasn't it.
"God, Craig. Don't you remember it? I can't believe I can't figure it out. It was really simple – it just went something like…" you tried another melody. Nope that wasn't it either. You sighed. "It was something about two bunnies, I think…" you say, biting at your bottom lip as you concentrated. "Or maybe just about their ears? God! Why can't I remember it? This is so stupid!" you cried out, pulling harshly at the shoestrings and about ready to throw the stupid thing at the wall.
You saw him turn to you with raised eyebrows and a slightly annoyed look on his face.
"Don't look at me like that, Craig" you warned "because I know there's some stupid song about some dumb bunnies and their ears and going around a mountain and through a hole or something. It's to, like, help you l earn how to tie your shoes. And I can't remember it and it's ticking me off!" By that point, you were wildly shaking a finger at him, and you could feel your face flush with heat.
He looked down to your finger and then back up at you. The corners of his eyes started to twitch first, then the pockets of his cheeks. His lips twisted and few times and his nose scrunched as if to fight it off. But it broke free.
A smile.
You slowly lowered your finger and the scowl fell from you face. You sat there, expressionless for a few moments as you processed what had just happened. You had gotten mad, and he was just smiling like a fool right back at you. Total role reversal.
You chuckled and shook your head slightly. It was just a silly, stupid little song. And it's not like he actually forgot how to tie his shoes, he just couldn't. You were really supposed to be working on his fine motor skills, and you just kinda lead the train right off the track yourself.
He seemed to take great enjoyment in that, because the smile was spreading even wider. You stared good and long at those plush pink lips, as they pulled taut across his teeth and spread across his face. God, they looked luscious. So you bent down and kissed them lightly.
You couldn't remember the last time you'd actually kissed his lips – not since he had moved into the center at least. You had been too busy trying to get him mad, and he had been too eager to comply.
His mouth was so soft, and you only lingered for a moment before pulling away slowly and opening your eyes. He looked up at you through lowered lashes, the smile suddenly shy and maybe even a tint of pink appeared on his cheeks.
It was like your first kiss. Or maybe it really was.
Your drive home was all goofy grins. Although deep down you still really wanted to know how in the heck those stupid bunnies tied their shoes.
And from that point on, things kept getting better – you didn't have to fight against him quite so much. You just had to make it clear you were fighting with him. He'd finally accepted your help.
When the Physical Therapist wanted him to try walking using the parallel bars, it didn't take you riling his feathers to get him to work. It just took you standing at the other end with open arms. And a Slurpee from 7-Eleven.
When he was struggling to pronounce letters and their sounds, you didn't have to threaten him anymore. You just had to sing with him. You'd start with a hum and he'd come in with the harmony. Then you'd open your mouth and move from one sound to another, waiting patiently as he found his way. The therapist mostly just sat back and watched.
And, as always, it was when you were singing that you knew things were working themselves out. You could never escape your connection when you were making music together – its how you first realized you loved him.
And today, as you finally put the car in park and make your way to his room, you can rejoice in the simple fact that he'll be there, and you can curl up beside him and you'll lay your head on his chest so he can run his fingers through your chestnut brown hair. Something you hadn't done in months. You don't think anything could make you happier than that.
You're even more convinced of it as you lay there with him on his bed, watching the Grammies on TV. You stare at the screen as your fellow musicians gather once again to collect those golden phonographs, and you can't help but remember the years before when you would've practically given an arm to have one on your shelf. Or at least a toe. The pinkie one. But you know better now.
You turn to him, wanting to say as much, but stop short when you see him already looking at you. You watch silently as his mouth begins to move. Stretch. Refamiliarize. A practice run with no sound.
Is he…? But he hasn't yet...
Oh. Yeah. Wow. Your heart stops and your breath catches and the next few seconds feel like hours. But finally it comes. Sound. Letters. Words. Shattering your heart into a million pieces and then binding them together again, twice as tight.
"I."
"Llll. Lllloovvve"
"Yyyou."
You catch the triumphant grin spreading across his face as you pull him in tight and bury your face in his neck. He points to his dry erase board, with his message already scrawled across it.
Hrd wk.
He grins, and the look in his eyes says you better appreciate his hard work.
You chuckle in appreciation as tears well in your eyes. You can't gather him close enough, although you keep squeezing harder. You sniffle and whimper and try everything you can to keep from flat out bawling as you place gentle kisses to his temple and cheek and forehead and nose, and finally his soft lips.
You pull away just enough to look in his eyes and share in his contagious grin. Nuzzling his nose, you tell him you feel the same. Will forever.
He sighs with contentment, and you move so you are once again curled against his chest watching the TV.
You grin and close your eyes, wrapping your arms around him tightly. You soak up the moment - remembering the arduous journey to get you back here.
A few months ago, he got you to run from his room. Six weeks ago, he kicked you out of this very bed. But you had made up your mind to keep fighting with every ounce of determination you had. And you'd get her to do it too.
And he did. He was such a fighter, and you loved that about him - even in the beginning when it meant he was fighting against you. Because at least he was battling.
Your smile is uncontrollable - you couldn't fight it if you wanted to. You're in heaven, here with him holding you in his arms and your heart bursting with joy.
You glance up at the TV and the last six years flash in front of your eyes. You've broken records, sold millions of albums and won countless awards - and they seemed like such a big deal at the time. You felt on top of the world.
But without hesitation, you know none of them will ever compare to this moment.
Sometimes, it's the smallest actions that are the biggest victories.