Callie closed the door and slumped against its frame. She had spent three weeks working up the nerve to dare her tough-love routine and it had failed. Miserably. Every day she flip-flopped between feeling overwhelming guilt and violent anger. She may have been responsible for Arizona's loss, but she was fucking trying to save her life. She knew she was supposed to be patient. But everyone has their limits. Callie was close to hers, if she hadn't already crossed it 45 seconds before.
She went back to the kitchen to pour herself another cup of coffee. She had been on the couch for the four weeks since Arizona arrived home. Arizona refused to share the bed with her. Out of anger, or embarrassment, or both, Callie was not sure. So the nights were mostly sleepless, and coffee had become a daily crutch.
Crutch, she thought to herself. She shouldn't use that word. Arizona's forearm crutches leaned against the bedroom wall, untouched. She refused to do the work she needed to do to build upper-body strength to be able to support herself between the crutches and her right leg. She was consigned to the chair, when she even was willing to leave the bed at all. If it weren't for the fact that the catheter and colostomy bag had not come home with her, Callie was sure she would have refused to leave the bed, too.
She gulped the coffee, it almost burning her esophagus. The nurse-turned-nanny would be there in ten minutes to watch Sofia and tend to Arizona. Callie wiped at her face. Tears had fallen without her realizing it. Such were the times. She checked herself in the mirror. Bags under her eyes, which were swollen red. She looked awful. It was a good thing that Arizona had barely looked at her in weeks.
Callie braved entering the bedroom one more time, checking to see if Arizona needed anything before she left for work. As much as Arizona hated for Callie to touch her, she seemed to hate it more when she had to ask for help from the nanny during the day. The nanny usually reported that Arizona had not made a sound all day.
"Rosa will be here in a few minutes," Callie announced as she stuck her head back into their bedroom to address Arizona's slumping figure, curled into the bed with her back to the door. "Do you need . . . ?" She couldn't finish; it felt patronizing to ask her strong-willed, beautiful wife whether she needed help getting out of bed to go to the bathroom.
"Yes," Arizona replied, barely above a whisper.
Callie came into the room to face Arizona on the far side of the bed. Arizona did not look up. Callie reached for the black wheelchair to the right of the nightstand, to pull it closer to the bed for Arizona to help Arizona slide into it. "No," Arizona said, "just help me."
She pulled back the covers slowly, revealing the stump, and she leaned up in bed, pivoting herself to the edge of the bed and sliding her good leg off the bed. Callie gulped and couldn't help looking away, briefly. It hurt every time she saw what remained of Arizona's left leg. She had performed dozens of amputations, and at least 10 above-the-knee procedures like the one Arizona had. She was not a gawker. It never made her uncomfortable or squirm or awkward before. But that was Arizona's stump. That was Arizona's jagged scar and missing part. And seeing it flooded her with nausea and guilt. So she had to look way to steel herself, to allow the doctor part of her brain to take control.
Callie understood the command to mean that Arizona wanted to stand. Arizona had little strength to stand, but Callie sensed this was important to her for some reason. She stooped over and moved to Arizona's left side to allow her to slide her arm around Callie's shoulder to support her left side as she slowly put her weight on her right leg to stand. They would have to take two hop steps to get Arizona close enough to the chair. As they did, Callie observed the pain flood Arizona's face. She had no strength at all in her right leg anymore and just standing required a great deal of energy and inflicted even more pain as her muscles ached under the strain. Her stump swung a little bit loosely at her side, touching Callie's leg. Callie stooped again to lower Arizona into the chair. They did this wordlessly.
Callie felt something shift in the room. She looked down before turning to push Arizona to the bathroom. Arizona's blue eyes met hers, brimming with tears. Callie stopped moving.
Arizona grabbed for Callie's hand and pulled, bringing Callie to kneel at the chair, nearly eye-level with her wife. Arizona was still holding her left hand. They still did not speak. Callie held her breath.
Arizona took Callie's hand and placed it on what remained of her left thigh, slowly moving her hand to the knobby, grotesque end of her leg, where a scar was still plainly visible and still healing. Callie had not touched Arizona's leg since it had been removed. That had been Arizona's choice. She had tried and had been slapped away. Callie had no idea what was about to come. Callie wasn't sure whether they were about to begin the long road toward recovery and reconnection in this moment or whether she should be preparing herself for more barbs. She maintained her wife's stare. A tear dripped down Arizona's cheek as she held Callie's gaze. Both of their faces were nearly expressionless.
Arizona held Callie's hand cupping what remained of her left leg. "Will it ever be okay?" she asked her wife. Her voice so small and soft that Callie thought a child had asked the question.
"I don't know," Callie said. It was an honest answer. She didn't know. As a doctor she knew that Arizona could eventually recover some semblance of normalcy. Once her stump healed enough to bear the pressure of a prosthetic device, she could be fitted with one that would allow her maximum mobility. She could return to work and would be able to perform most of her responsibilities as a pediatric surgeon. But physical therapy and learning to walk again would be grueling. And using the prosthesis would be very painful at times. Her leg would swell too much sometimes to fit the device and she would have to use a chair or crutches. She would get blisters that would make it excruciating to take a step. She would have to find a way to live with pain that no one should have to endure on a daily basis. And that was just the physical part of being "okay."
As a wife, she did not know how they would recover. Arizona's anger was so overwhelming, and Callie's guilt so paralyzing, that it felt like the relationship was suffocating. But she knew she loved Arizona more than she loved anything else in the world. And so some part of her still had hope—as crazy as that seemed most days—hope that maybe they would find a way to make it be okay. A way to build something new out of all that had been destroyed and lost.
"What would you tell me if I was your patient?" Arizona asked.
"I would say that you may never be the same but that you can be okay," Callie answered. "I would say that I have seen people do amazing things to heal their bodies and themselves and learn to rebuild their lives after great trauma. I would say learning to walk again will be the hardest thing you may ever have to do."
"I don't know if I want to do this," Arizona answered. "What does that mean?" Callie asked, anxiety building in her voice. "I don't know," Arizona said. "I just—some part of me—I just don't care if I ever leave this room again."
Callie looked down, breathed in deeply, sharply. She knew this was important, that Arizona was reaching out and being more vulnerable than she had been in months. But the defeat in her voice ripped at Callie, made her furious. Why didn't Arizona want to live for her? For Sofia? She only lost her leg, damnit. She hadn't lost her mind or her hands, and she could do almost all the things she used to do one day soon, after a lot of hard work that she seemed unwilling to do.
"I know. I know that's how it is right now. I don't know what to do, how to make you see that there are things worth leaving this room for, worth fighting to get stronger for. It won't ever be the same again, but that doesn't mean it will always be this bad."
"I just don't think I can forgive you," Arizona said, breaking the stare and dropping Callie's hand to reach for the chair's wheels. Conversation was done. For now, Callie hoped.