(November 18th)
"Good morning, Lieutenant Sloan," said an obscenely cheerful young man as the orderly took Steve's breakfast tray away. "My name is Marcus, and it's my job to help you learn to talk again."
The young man had curly, light brown hair and carried a black leather backpack slung over his right shoulder. He held out his hand to shake, but Steve just looked at it as if it were something filthy. Then he folded his arms, turned his head, and tried to ignore Marcus. He couldn't even talk to his father and friends. He'd be damned if he'd embarrass himself by blabbing nonsensically at some stranger barely half his age.
Steve was miserable. Even ordering breakfast had been an ordeal, for though Steve had an unrestricted menu, nothing had appealed to him this morning, and he had spent the first hour of his day trying and failing to communicate to his dad that he just wanted a sausage and egg breakfast sandwich from Bob's. When he'd finally lost patience with himself and his father, he'd shoved the hospital menu into Mark's hands and jabbed a finger into his father's chest.
"You want me to decide?"
A nod.
"Steve, are you sure?"
Another nod, then he had rolled over and pulled up the covers until his tray arrived. The cereal, coffee, toast, and fruit had filled him up, but he still wanted that sausage and egg sandwich.
Marcus laughed slightly, not at all put off by the chilly reception, and said, "I just love a challenge. That's why my supervisor assigned me to your case. Your reputation precedes you Lieutenant, and I am not easily deterred, so, you can sit in bed and sulk and let me annoy you for endless hours, or you can cooperate for a few hours every day and then I will leave you alone. Either way, you're going to see a lot of me, and unless you try to speak, I will never shut up. So, you can sit there and try to ignore me and I will ramble on, or you can work with me and we will take turns talking and then I will go on my way to pester the next hapless patient into cooperating. If it were me I would want to get something for all the aggravation, so I would probably try to cooperate because by now I would have figured out that I wasn't going to get any peace until I managed to accomplish something. My job is to get you talking again, and I'll manage that to some extent with or without you cooperation, but if you work with me, it will be much easier for both of us and we will both feel much more successful . . . "
"Shut up and leave me alone!" Steve growled, knowing the words made no sense.
Marcus hushed for a couple of minutes, waiting for Steve to say something more. Steve felt no compulsion to fill the silence, though, and instead, just sat there glowering and watching his toes twitch under the blanket.
After breakfast, he had wanted to shower and shave, but he had nothing to change into and it had taken him fifteen minutes of miming and grunting to express the simple sentence, 'Ask Amanda to get clothes.' By that time, of course, she had already left her house, and her cell phone was off. His father had offered to buy him a set of pajamas at the hospital shop, but they would still need washing before he could wear them, and he really wanted his sweat suit anyway. So, he had refused the offer, and now, here he was, unwashed and unshaven, still in the thin hospital gown, and feeling thoroughly sorry for himself until someone had a chance to go back to the beach house for something to wear.
When Steve remained silent and uncooperative, rather than leaving him alone in his dark mood, Marcus grinned, knowing his non-stop conversation would eventually wear the older man down. He started to rattle away again. "Now, I couldn't understand what you said a minute ago, Steve. May I call you Steve? Tell you what, until you say otherwise, I will assume that it's ok for me to call you Steve, and you can call me Marcus, ok? Anyway, Steve, I have no idea what you just shouted at me, but I'm betting you were telling me to shut up. See, I guessed that's what you said, Steve, because I talk an awful lot, and people are forever telling me 'Shut up, Marcus,' so I'll just assume that's what you said, and I'll offer you a deal, Steve. You try to work with me, every day, Steve, and I will shut up as much as possible. But, Steve, if you sit there and sulk, I will drive you screaming bug-eyed nuts because to me, silence is just a void begging to be filled. I can't bear to have things too quiet, Steve, so if no one else is talking I just have to. Do you understand what I'm saying, Steve?"
Marcus was deliberately using his patient's name a lot more than necessary. He knew it was virtually impossible to ignore the sound of one's own name, even when one didn't want to hear what was being said. Also, even if he couldn't get Steve to respond to him today, by forcing him to attend to the words he was hearing, Marcus was laying a foundation for when Steve did feel like working on his speech. Though he never talked down to his patients and always tried to preserve their dignity by treating them with respect, Marcus believed that, in some ways, patients with aphasia were much like infants. If they were spoken to often and properly, they would learn to speak much more quickly and coherently once they started to verbalize again. He had no research to back his beliefs, but he'd always had good results, and usually no one questioned his methods.
As Marcus waited for a response, Steve sighed, shifted uncomfortably in the bed, and eyed the young man suspiciously. He did not want to start talking gibberish in front of a total stranger. Since his father had explained his condition yesterday, he, Jesse, and Amanda had been very patient about trying to understand Steve's needs. He'd never been good at charades, but now that it was necessary to communicate, he found he was quite skilled at putting on a dumb show in order to get what he needed, and it was much easier and less embarrassing than babbling at his friends and his father and hoping they might blindly guess what he wanted.
"Well, Steve, I guess I'll take that as a no," Marcus chattered on when Steve flatly refused to accept or reject his offer. "That's really such a shame, Steve, because the sooner you start and the harder you work, the faster and more completely you will recover, Steve. I really do like helping patients, and they usually find I am very likeable when they want to work, Steve, because I want to see them get better. It's just when people want to sit around and feel sorry for themselves that I annoy the blue goo out of them. Well, Steve, I have blocked out four hours for today and six for tomorrow, so you are going to be seeing a lot of me. Might as well get used to the sound of my voice, Steve. Hey, Steve, let me show you a picture of my cat. His name is Cotton. . ."
Steve was growing increasingly frustrated with the vapid young man. The continuous jabbering and repetition of his name would have annoyed him in any circumstances, but Steve found it particularly depressing that Marcus could blather on incessantly about nothing of consequence when he himself had to struggle to communicate the idea, 'I need to pee,' without resorting to rude and embarrassing body language. His mounting resentment suddenly burst forth.
"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Leave me alone, dammit! I just want to be left alone! Go away! Please, just go away and leave me be!"
While the words were unintelligible, the tone, virtually a sob, clearly said, 'Go to hell!' Marcus fell unexpectedly silent, and for a moment, the only sound in the room was Steve's ragged, distressed breathing.
Marcus studied Steve Sloan as he struggled to control his temper. Everything he'd been told about this particular patient indicated that he was an emotional time bomb, keeping things inside until the pressure of his feelings became too much to suppress, at which point he would explode on the next poor soul who happened to cross his path. In his work as a speech therapist, Marcus had had such patients burst into tears on several occasions. He'd also had a couple of patients hit him when he'd pushed them to the very limits of their endurance. Either way, he usually saw it coming, so when he realized Steve was aching to sob out his frustration and beat the tar out of his speech therapist simultaneously, he knew he had to diffuse the situation quickly or he would probably be injured. More importantly, until Steve could let go of the embarrassment and self-pity that was controlling him, he would never learn to talk again.
Opening the door to the small bedside cupboard, Marcus took out the cold, stainless steel bedpan and gave it to Steve. Caught by surprise, Steve immediately ceased his ranting and looked up to Marcus, holding the bedpan in both hands like a child who'd just won a goldfish at the ping pong ball toss at the fair and wasn't quite sure what to do with the fishbowl.
"Throw it!" Marcus ordered.
Steve continued to stare up at him in confusion, breathing heavily with the strain of containing his emotions, his lips pressed firmly together in a straight line.
"You're angry and frustrated at your own difficulties, and annoyed with me. Right now, you want to curse like a drunken sailor who's just had his shore leave cut short, so throw the bedpan. It will make a hell of a noise, and you'll feel much better."
For a moment more, Steve stared at Marcus, then, with all his strength, he hurled the bedpan across the room. It clanged against the wall, ricocheted off the TV, hit the floor with a bong, and clattered away under the vacant bed.
"Good!" Marcus encouraged him. Handing Steve the plastic urinal, he said, "Now throw this."
Steve did so without hesitation, and it made a hollow 'thop' against the wall, and suddenly he was sobbing hard. In the next several seconds, the emesis basin from the cupboard, a motor cross magazine Steve had been leafing through, the full plastic water pitcher, and its matching plastic cup, joined the bedpan and urinal on the other side of the room. A mystery novel Mark had been reading, Steve's two pillows, and the TV remote control which shattered on impact quickly followed them. Then Steve shoved his over-the-bed table away hard. As it rolled away, one of the wheels caught the leg of the bed and it toppled over. When it hit the floor, the sliding top popped off and fell away with a satisfying bang.
Out of objects to abuse, Steve kicked away his blankets and began to beat the mattress with his fists. Great heaving sobs wrenched themselves out of his body and, as Marcus pressed the button that slowly lowered the head of the bed, Steve instinctively rolled over on his stomach and covered his head with his arms as he continued to wail.
"What in the world is going on here?"
Marcus looked up to see Dr. Sloan, confused, angry, and impatient, glaring at him and waiting for a good explanation for why he had made Steve cry. Steve went on pitching his fit.
As Marcus tried to explain, Dr. Sloan crossed the room to comfort his son. Before the speech therapist could speak, the older man said, "Never mind. I'll deal with you later. Wait at the nurse's station."
Marcus nodded and left without another word.
Though he'd always had a temper, Steve had never been subject to tantrums as a child. Now Mark found himself needing to soothe his distressed offspring as he threw a royal fit. When Carol had been consumed by anger as a little girl, she used to kick, scratch, and bite anyone who tried to subdue her. Mark had been a younger man then, and his five-year-old daughter had been too small to do much damage, but this was another matter entirely. He briefly considered administering a mild sedative, but rejected the idea immediately. Steve was still feeling betrayed from the incident the day before yesterday and might never forgive him if he drugged him again so soon.
Mark uncertainly made his way over to his son. When he got beside the bed, he crouched down and laid a hand gently in the middle of Steve's back. Speaking softly he told his child, "Steve, Son, it's going to be all right."
Without warning, a long, lean arm lashed out, wrapped tightly around his neck, and pulled him close so quickly his face struck the safety rail that was still up around the bed. Startled by the unanticipated attack, tasting blood, and fighting for air, Mark struggled to pull away, but then the other arm came up and wrapped around him, and as he managed to rise away from the mattress, Steve clung to him and pressed his face against his chest, still sobbing piteously.
Suddenly realizing that his son was not angry, but frightened and hurting, Mark stopped pulling away and instead lowered the safety rail and sat on the mattress beside his distraught child. As he sat rocking Steve gently on the bed, Mark rubbed slow circles on his back with one hand and sought out the call button to page a nurse with the other.
"Bring me a blanket, please, Elena" he requested when the petite redhead from the day before came to see what he needed.
Gradually, as Mark rocked him and murmured soothing words Steve's sobbing tapered off. When Elena returned with a soft cotton blanket and draped it gently around his shoulders, he snuggled into it and nestled closer into his father's arms.
"I'm so scared, Dad," Steve murmured in a choked voice, trusting his father to understand how he felt even if he couldn't comprehend a word he said. "I just wanted a sausage and egg sandwich for breakfast and then to change into my sweats and to be left alone, but I couldn't tell anyone that. Then that jerk Marcus came in, and he wouldn't shut up and he wouldn't leave me be, and I couldn't tell him to go away."
As Lieutenant Sloan continued talking, he grew more upset again, and feeling superfluous, Elena decided to make herself scarce. She had cared for Steve Sloan before when his injuries had been much more serious, but he had never seemed quite so fragile as he did now. As she walked to the supply closet to get a new pitcher and a cup for Steve's room she couldn't help but feel guilty for the indignity he had suffered the other day. Dr. Travis had been very kind when he told her what had happened after they had sedated Steve.
"Hey," Jesse had said softly as she cried about what they had done to poor Lieutenant Sloan, "don't feel so bad. I'm his best friend, and I didn't get it either. He'll understand. He might be mad for a while, but he'll understand."
Elena filled the pitcher with water and carried it and the cup to the room. When she arrived, Steve had almost stopped crying and Dr. Sloan was cradling him in his arms. She could tell the younger Sloan was emotionally spent and physically exhausted from his outburst. Wanting him to rest comfortably, she took the fresh pillows off the vacant bed on the other side of the room and placed them behind Steve so he didn't need to use the ones that had gotten soaked on the floor when he had thrown them into the mess from the water pitcher. Then she poured him a cup of water and handed it to his father.
Elena stood quietly off to the side, as Dr. Sloan lifted the cup to Steve's lips and steadied it for him as he drank.
"All right, now?" Mark asked.
Steve nodded and lay back against the pillows, utterly worn out.
"You're going to be fine, Son," Dr. Sloan murmured as he cupped his son's face in his hand and stroked away a final tear with his thumb. "It will take a while, but you'll be just fine."
Steve's eyes drifted closed, and his chin sank to his chest. When his breathing grew deep and even, Dr. Sloan looked to Elena and asked the young nurse, "Will you sit with him for a few minutes? I need to talk to Marcus, now."
The old doctor's tone did not bode well for the speech therapist, and, not wishing to incur the same wrath from the protective parent, Elena simply nodded and took the seat Dr. Sloan had vacated.
"What in the hell did you do to my son?" Mark raged at Marcus as the speech therapist followed him into the nurses' break room.
"I got him to let go," Marcus said.
"Yes, I see that," Mark snapped back, "Did you not realize that he was holding on to the end of his rope as it was?"
"No, Sir, that's not what he was doing," Marcus argued. "He was clinging to the mailbox, trying to avoid getting on the bus that would take him off to his first day of school."
Mark was still too angry to smile, but he did find it curious that Marcus would choose that particular analogy. On his first day of school, Steve had done precisely what Marcus just described. He'd only been convinced to get on the bus when Mark had agreed to ride with him. Two stops later, when had Steve noticed that he was the only little boy whose daddy was riding on the big yellow school bus with him, he had looked at his father and said, 'I'm ok, Daddy. You can go home now.' Mark had gotten off the bus then and happily walked the two blocks home, content in the knowledge that his son was ready for school now.
Marcus knew immediately that he had chosen the right metaphor because Dr. Sloan became suddenly quiet. The man was still angry, to be sure, but now he was also interested in what Marcus had to say. If he chose his words carefully, Marcus knew he would be working with Steve Sloan again this very afternoon.
"Dr. Sloan, you told me yourself that your son is a very proud and stubborn man."
Mark nodded, "That he is, which has me wondering what it took for you to push him over the edge so quickly."
"I promise you, Sir, all I did was talk." At Mark's skeptical look he elaborated, "I never said a single rude or unkind word to him. I just told him how things were going to be. I talked, and kept talking until I got a reaction."
"And his reaction was to burst into tears and start throwing things. Is that correct?"
"Well, yes, Sir, with a little encouragement."
Mark didn't say a word, he just raised a questioning eyebrow, and Marcus explained.
"First, he tried real hard to ignore me. Then I think he told me to shut up. He eventually lost patience and started yelling at me. Then he stopped yelling, probably because he was frustrated that I couldn't understand him."
Marcus stopped then, and Mark waited a moment. When the young man did not continue, Mark said, "Well, I am still waiting to hear how Steve came to be throwing things and having a temper tantrum."
"Well, your son was refusing to try to talk but I could tell he was feeling wretched. He looked like he really wanted to curse me out, and curse my mother, and my father, and my cat, and all my kin, and the next ten generations of my progeny, but he just couldn't get the words out. I thought he might even want to hit me, so I gave him the bedpan."
Mark rubbed his temple. He was beginning to understand now how the young man's banter could upset his son, especially when Marcus was being deliberately talkative.
"What did you hope to accomplish by giving him a bedpan? Did you intend for him to throw it at you?"
"No, Sir, though I am sure he may have wanted to. What I did do was give him a way to effectively express himself, Sir."
Pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut against the impending headache, Mark commanded simply, "Explain."
"Have you ever thrown a bedpan, Sir?"
"No, I have not, why?"
"Well, it makes a wonderfully angry sound, just one helluva a noise, no matter what it hits, and it leaves no doubt that the individual throwing it is feeling really pissy. By giving Steve that bedpan to throw, I gave him the means to tell me exactly how he was feeling, and everything else that followed it came out of him naturally. Dr. Sloan, I'll bet you a month's salary that when I go back this afternoon, Steve will be feeling much better and will probably be ready to work."
Mark narrowed his eyes at the young man and said, "I'm sure he will be feeling better. He has just cried himself to sleep and will be well rested this afternoon, but you probably won't be seeing him, Marcus."
It took Marcus half a second to understand what he was being told. "You're going to remove me from Steve's case, aren't you?"
Mark chuckled at Marcus' naïveté, "I don't have the authority to make such a unilateral decision, Marcus, but I imagine your supervisor will agree with me once I tell her what you've achieved in your first session with my son."
Marcus heard no mirth in Dr. Sloan's laughter, and finally he realized just how angry the senior physician was. For a man who was proudly eccentric, he was certainly closed-minded to unconventional methods now.
"I guess it's different when it's one of your own."
"Excuse me?"
Marcus started at Dr. Sloan's inquiry. He hadn't realized he'd muttered aloud. Still, Dr. Sloan's reputation for fairness was as great as his reputation for weirdness, and Marcus figured if he expressed himself well, he might still have another chance to work with Steve.
"May I speak candidly, doctor?"
"I would hope so, Marcus. I am still waiting for a satisfactory explanation of what just occurred in my son's room."
"About one million Americans have aphasia, Dr. Sloan. It's more common that Parkinson's Disease."
"I am aware of that, Marcus, but what does it have to do with your provoking my son to tears?" Mark asked impatiently.
"May I continue, Sir?"
Mark nodded wearily.
"In 1988, the National Aphasia Association did a survey to determine the needs of adult aphasia patients and the barriers they encountered in their treatment and recovery. Half of the individuals questioned had been in speech therapy for over a year, but seventy-two percent of them were still unable to work. The twenty-eight percent who have gone back to work had to take jobs with reduced demands on their communications skills. Seventy percent of them felt people avoided them because it was too hard to talk to them, and sixty percent felt most people didn't understand enough about aphasia."
"Those are some very grim figures, but they are fourteen years old," Mark said, "and I still don't see what it has to do with what happened in Steve's room."
"First, the fact that the figures are so old shows how neglected this disorder is. The fact remains that people with aphasia are often treated as if they are mentally ill or retarded. Their friends drift away, they avoid public outings, and they suffer emotionally both from the social isolation and the changes they are forced to make in their daily lives."
"I still don't see . . . "
"I know you're waiting for me to explain about Steve, Dr. Sloan, and I will in a minute," Marcus interrupted, anxious to make his point.
"Aside from the aphasia itself, the biggest problems most of my patients face are fear and frustration. They are afraid of looking foolish, of making mistakes, and of being ridiculed; and they are frustrated beyond all reason with their limitations. Usually, their minds function well, and that is the real hell of this disorder. They remember everything they experienced before the onset of aphasia, skills and routines that they learned as children, special family events and traditions, personal and national tragedies, everything about life. It's just that with aphasia, they can't communicate their thoughts anymore. Even worse, with most other disabilities we can encourage patients to talk about their fears and concerns with their friends, family, and health care providers, but in aphasic patients, that option is gone."
"I think I see where you're headed now, Marcus, but I want you to tell me what that all has to do with Steve's outburst."
"Dr. Sloan, I know I've just cited a lot of statistics and made many generalizations that may not apply to Steve, but that kind of life is a very real possibility for him if he doesn't accept treatment now. If symptoms of aphasia persist more than two or three months after the initial onset, most patients will probably never recover completely."
"My son is not 'most patients,' Marcus."
"I know that, Sir, and that is why I did what I did with him today."
At Mark's frown, the young man elaborated. "I usually don't make my patients cry on the first day, Sir. With most people, it takes us a good week to work up to that, if it ever happens."
Mark did not smile at his small joke, so he hurried on. "Steve was about a heartbeat away from exploding when I walked in, Dr. Sloan. I don't know what happened before I got there, but he had already had a rough day. Given the state he was in, none of my diagnostic tests would have shown accurate results. I had to make him get whatever was bothering him out of his system. I just didn't expect his response to be so intense."
Mark nodded, satisfied with the young man's explanation if not the results. "My son has never, ever, done anything halfway, Marcus."
"So I have found out," Marcus agreed, "and that will work in his favor when he starts therapy, whoever he works with, but only if he can manage his emotions effectively."
"I agree with that, but, in your opinion, just how does pushing him to a breakdown like he had today help him?"
"Simply put, I have seen him at his worst already. If you let me see him again this afternoon, I can explain why I pushed so hard and I think he'll understand. If you find another therapist, that person will have to start over with building rapport."
"And I am sure it will take ages for them to establish the kind of relationship you have with my son, won't it?" Mark replied sarcastically.
"Ok, I had that coming," Marcus agreed, a bit shamefaced, "but try to think about it like a physician instead of a worried parent, Sir."
When doctor Sloan glared at him, Marcus knew he was almost at the limit of any latitude the senior doctor had been willing to give him and he needed to wrap up quickly.
"I know you are angry with me for upsetting your son, Dr. Sloan," Marcus admitted, "but if Steve knows he hasn't scared me off, then he can give his therapy everything he's got and not have to worry about losing his temper or getting all muddled up around me any more. Do you really think he would be that comfortable with anyone else you might bring in?"
Mark sighed and rubbed his forehead. He was on information overload now, and his head was aching. Marcus had told him far more than he really needed to know about aphasia, and he was terribly worried for Steve. Given the state in which he had just found Steve, he wasn't at all sure how his proud, stubborn son would react to seeing Marcus again so soon.
"Maybe Steve should be allowed to make the decision for himself," Marcus suggested softly.
Dr. Sloan looked up at him then and said, "I will give you five minutes to convince him, if he doesn't become too upset before your time is up, but I will not leave you alone with him until he tells me it's ok. Be back here at one, and you can see him after lunch."
"Yes, Sir," Marcus said, but he was already speaking to empty air as Dr. Sloan had left to go back to his son.
The rest of Steve's morning was uneventful, mostly because he slept until eleven. When he woke up, he was surprised to find he had attracted an audience. Not only was his father there watching over him, but Amanda, Jesse, Cheryl, and Alex were there as well. Steve smiled, profoundly comforted to know he had these people who cared about him so much that they would even sit and watch him sleep just to be there for him when he was not well.
"So, how are you feeling, buddy," Jesse was the first to speak.
Steve smiled, yawned, stretched, and pressed the button that elevated his head. He considered the answer to Jesse's question a moment, and decided the answer was grateful. He was undeniably grateful to have such good friends, but how to tell them?
As he thought hard about how to communicate his response, Steve was conscious of everyone waiting patiently for him to answer. He had gotten used to the long silences since he had woken up from the sedation two days ago, and had quickly learned that he was expected to fill them. Finally, he pointed at each of the five people in the room, then he drew a heart over his own breast and pointed to himself. Once that gesture had had a moment to sink in, he smiled, wrapped his arms around himself in imitation of a hug, and again pointed to each of his visitors.
For a moment, he found himself looking back at five very confused faces, then Cheryl broke into a brilliant grin. "Of course we love you, Steve," she said, moving over to his side to put a hand on his arm. "That's why we're here."
He put his free hand over hers to keep her there and shook his head to indicate that she had only gotten half the message. At a loss over how to communicate the rest of his thought, he finally just pulled her into a gentle bear hug.
"Thank you," he said, hoping she wouldn't miss the point by trying to understand the words. He felt like a violin with broken strings and wished fervently that he had a better way to communicate.
When she pulled back, Cheryl smiled at him again, a bit unsure of herself, and said, "I'm not sure what you said, Steve, but thanks for the hug."
Brightening instantly, Steve snapped his fingers and pointed at her nodding.
"What? I said something?" Cheryl was a little excited now. "You want another hug?"
Steve shook his head vehemently and tried to gesture to her that it was something else she said.
"What did I say?" she asked, and Steve rolled his eyes and threw his hands into the air as if to say, 'Do you really expect me to tell you?'
"You said thanks for the hug," Amanda told her.
Steve snapped his fingers again and pointed to Amanda, then he made the hugging gesture again and pointed to each of them in turn.
"Son, you're welcome," Mark said, grinning when Steve nodded emphatically, pleased that they had figured it out. "You know we'll all be here for you anytime."
Steve felt a huge lump form in his throat. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and swallowed hard. Then he nodded, and made the hugging gesture once more.
"You're welcome," Mark said again.
"Oh, hey," Alex said after giving them all a moment, "I brought this for you." He set a suitcase up on the bed beside Steve. "Your dad gave me a list of things you might want, and I picked it up on my way in. I threw in a few other things I thought you might like to have, too."
Before Alex could step away, Steve, thrilled to have some of his own things with him now, threw his arms around the young man, and again murmured some unintelligible words.
When he was released from the hug, Alex smiled, reddened slightly and said, "You're welcome, Steve, any time." Then he looked at his watch, made a face and said, "My shift started five minutes ago. I'll see you later." As the rest of the gang said goodbye, Steve just smiled and waved to the young man.
"Well, let's take a look here," Mark said, opening the satchel Alex had left on the bed. "I see he brought everything I asked for. Here's you shaving kit, and slippers, jeans, a sweater, two sets of sweats. Oh, good, he remembered your robe, too. I forgot to ask him to get that."
As Mark turned to take the robe to the bathroom, Steve grabbed his arm. Holding up the shaving kit and thumping his own chest, Steve then pointed to the robe and the bathroom. Then he made showering motions and pointed to the bathroom again.
"You want to wash now?" Mark asked.
Steve nodded and put down the safety rail on the side of the bed.
"Easy there, buddy," Jesse said as he came to take Steve's arm, "You're not ready yet to go motoring about on your own."
Steve sighed, then with sharp motions, he pointed to his dad and Jesse, then made a carrying motion with his hands. Pointing from himself to the bathroom, he made his intentions clear.
"Ok, ok, we'll help you get cleaned up, pal," Jesse agreed grinning, "but before you go off, it might be polite to say goodbye to the girls."
Steve rolled his eyes and made a surprised face at his own rudeness, then he turned, smiled, and waved goodbye. Amanda and Cheryl came around the bed and each gave him a hug.
"I'll see you before I leave to go home, Steve," Amanda assured him, and she added a kiss on the cheek for good measure. Steve kissed her back and nodded.
As Cheryl hugged him, she asked, "Do you want me to tell the guys at the station anything?"
Steve thought hard about the answer. There was a lot he'd like her to tell them, but most of it he couldn't communicate. Finally, he figured out a message. First, he pointed to himself, then he gave her the thumbs up.
"Ok, I'll tell them you're doing all right. Do you want them to come visit?"
The thought horrified him, and he adamantly shook his head no and made chopping motions in the air to emphasize his point. Cheryl gently caught his hands and stilled them, then she cupped his face in her hands and made him look her in the eye.
"It's ok, partner. I'll tell them you're not ready for visitors, and they'll respect that, but I want to know, when can I ask you again?"
Cheryl continued to hold his head so that he had to look at her, and he quickly got lost in her concerned gaze. He wanted to tell her 'never' but he knew he just couldn't do that. He pulled his head back to indicate that he wanted her to let him go, and she did. Then he counted off seven on his fingers.
"Ok, Steve, I will ask again next week." Looking worried for a moment, she then asked, "Do you want me to stay away until then, too?"
"Oh, God, no, Cheryl. We're too close for that. I want you to come back. I need you to come back, but I don't know if I can face the others."
"Steve, I'm sorry, I don't know what you said."
He took both her hands in his, held them over his heart a moment, then reached around her waist and gave her a hug. Leaning back from the embrace, he pointed at her, then his heart, then to her again, and finally at the floor.
"You want me here?"
Steve nodded with absolute certainty.
Cheryl broke into a brilliant smile then, and said, "Well, then, Lieutenant, I will see you tomorrow." Before Cheryl was out the door, Steve was on his feet, heading for the bathroom with his shaving kit in hand, Mark and Jesse jumping to his side to be sure he didn't stumble.
"Ok," Mark muttered as he and Jesse got Steve situated in the shower, "let's see if Alex remembered a shower cap."
Steve snorted and made a face, which caused Jesse to say sternly, "Steve, you've just recently had brain surgery. Until the sutures are removed and the incision is healed you have got to be very careful."
Steve's breathing grew ragged and his expression became distraught. He placed his hands gently over the gauze that was covering his head, closed his eyes, drew in on himself, and made a small hiccupping sound like a choked off sob. Then he wrapped his arms around himself, faced the wall, and started rocking. He heard movement beside him, but he couldn't bear to look.
"Steve, look at me," his father's voice said.
Steve turned even further away.
"Steven Michael Sloan, look at me."
Steve wanted to rail at the unfairness of it all. He just wanted to be alone and miserable again, and his father was using the tone-that-could-not-be-ignored. Biting his lip hard to keep from crying, he turned to face his dad.
"Son, your hair will grow back," Mark said, gently placing a hand on the side of his head. Taking his right hand, he continued, "You will get the strength back in your arm and leg." Briefly touching Steve's lips with his fingertips he added, "And you will talk again. You have to believe that, Steve, ok?"
Steve breathed deeply and nodded.
"Ok, now, Jesse and I will help you get situated for your shower," Mark said, "then we'll leave the room to give you some privacy, but we won't shut the door. I want to be able to hear what's going on in here in case you fall," then with a grin, he added, "or decide to try swimming laps like you did when you were four."
"Da-ad!" Steve whined, mortified, as Jesse burst into laughter.
"Wha-at?" Mark whined back teasingly, and said, "I know that tone, Steve, and you must have said Da-ad."
Steve laughed then, too, at his own expense and shook his head. Then he pointed at Mark, fisted both hands one atop the other, and made a pushing motion toward the floor. Then he waved one loosely fisted hand over the floor, pointed at his father and laughed some more. Then he pointed, to his dad, made a chatterbox motion with his hand, and pointed to Jesse.
"Oh, you want me to tell him the rest, now, do you?"
Steve nodded, then pointed from Mark to himself, made the talking motions again, and pointed to Jesse, clearly meaning to say, 'If you don't I will.'
"What's the rest of it, Mark?" Jesse asked, and Steve folded his arms, grinned, and looked at his father expectantly.
"Well, for some stupid reason, we had carpet in the bathroom back then," Mark began reluctantly. "It was my turn to give Steve a bath, and well he was four years old. I knew he wouldn't just slip under the water and drown, so I left him long enough to go get his pajamas. I'd forgotten them when we started the bath. I was gone less than two minutes, and when I came back, there was more water on the floor than in the tub."
Mark had stopped as if his story was finished, but Steve cleared his throat and made a rolling motion with his hands, indicating he should continue.
"Is there more?" Jesse asked.
Mark shook his head no, but Steve nodded, and gave his father a gentle shove on the shoulder to make him continue.
Grinning, and slightly embarrassed, Mark went on. "I told Catherine what had happened, and she just handed me the mop and the blow dryer and said, 'That's why I never leave him alone.' I was up until four in the morning drying out that carpet until it quit squishing."
All three men had a good laugh at Mark's half of the bathtub story, then Mark and Jesse left Steve to finish washing up. It took Steve about forty five minutes to finish bathing and dressing, but when he called his dad to help him out of the bathroom, he looked clean, refreshed, and supremely proud to have done it all himself. His lunch had just arrived, and as he settled back on the bed he pulled his tray table over to him so he could enjoy his meal.
"Steve," Jesse looked a little worried, "how did you get your pants on by yourself?"
Grinning slyly, Steve held up a finger, pointed to his leg, and then to his wrist.
Mark burst out laughing, but Jesse just frowned and said, "I don't get it."
"He answered your question the way any sensible person would, Jess," figure it out.
"Ok," Jesse turned to Steve, still frowning in confusion. "Tell me again."
Still grinning, Steve held up a finger.
"One?"
Steve nodded and slapped his leg.
"Leg?" Jesse was grinning now, too, and as Steve tapped his wrist, he finished, "At a time. Very funny."
Suddenly, Jesse went serious again and said, "Look, Steve, I know how important it is to you to be independent, but you have to understand, with the paralysis on your right side, you have to be careful what you do until you've had some physical therapy. Once you have your balance back, you'll be fine, but until then, you need someone with you whenever you are walking or standing, ok?"
Steve nodded, and held up a hand to silence Jesse. Then he mimed slipping his feet into the legs of his pants, working them up his legs, and, when the imaginary pants were to his hips, he rocked forward and yanked them up.
"That's how you did it, huh?"
Steve nodded.
"That's not one leg at a time," Jesse grinned and ducked as a pillow came flying at him.
Jesse's lunch break ended shortly after Steve's meal arrived, and he had to dash off after promising to come by before he left for the day. That left Mark and Steve alone for lunch. Manipulating his eating utensils had proven to be a bit of a challenge for Steve when he'd first come out of his coma. The mild paralysis that affected his right hand made it difficult to properly hold a fork while he tried to cut something with his knife, but, even from the first day, when he was barely aware of what had happened to him and why he was there, Steve had insisted on doing for himself. Now, just a few days later, Mark watched with admiration and unabashed pride as his tenacious son gripped his fork tight in his right fist as he had done as a child and sawed away at the shoe leather steak the hospital cafeteria had sent up on his plate.
There was no telling how long Mark had sat there, adrift in his musings, when he finally realized Steve was watching him. When his son raised an inquisitive eyebrow, Mark shook his head and said, "It's just amazing how fast you are recovering the use of your hand. You're so determined. I'm proud of you, Son."
Steve smiled and nodded his appreciation of the compliment. He pointed toward his food, then touched his finger to several spots on his shirt.
Mark laughed. "Yes, a few days ago you would have been wearing it, but you're past that already, and soon to be independently mobile again."
Steve grinned and nodded, and comfortably let the silence stretch. After several moments, Mark spoke again. "Uh, Son?"
Steve looked up, and Mark took a deep breath, knowing this would be difficult.
"Steve, it's time for you to do something about your speech."
Steve slapped his knife and fork down on the table with a force that made Mark jump. Then he looked his father dead in the eye and shook his head no. There was no way Mark could misinterpret the gesture, so he chose to ignore it.
"I told Marcus to come back at one. I want you to hear him out. He has some pretty convincing reasons why you should continue to work with him, but I have to tell you now, Steve, if you refuse to let him treat you, I will ask for another speech therapist to be assigned to your case."
Steve banged his fists on the table, making the dishes jump, and he shook his head no again. Then he pointed to himself and to his watch and made talking motions with his hand.
"No, Son," Mark said after taking a moment to process the message. "This is not the type of thing that time alone will put right. In fact, in the three days that have elapsed since you finally came round, you have been talking less and less. The longer you wait, the worse it will get. You need help."
Steve pointed at his dad and then back to himself.
"Steve, if you are ever going to learn to talk again, you will need highly specialized assistance. I don't have the training to help you. I will gladly do whatever a qualified speech therapist tells me to do, but I don't know enough about your condition to choose the appropriate activities to help you learn to talk again."
"He's right, you know," came the annoyingly cheerful voice from the doorway, "but I'm back, and I'm just the one for the job."
Steve took one look at the pest in the doorway, and feeling betrayed yet again, drew his knees to his chest, wrapped his arms around them, turned his head away, and rested his cheek against his leg. Marcus looked to Mark and shrugged. Mark held up his hand, fingers splayed out, and mouthed the words, 'Five minutes.'
Marcus checked his watch, nodded, and moved around the bed to be in Steve's line of sight. Steve turned his head and looked the other way again.
"You know, Steve, you're being rather childish, and if it weren't so serious, I might even be amused," Marcus told him. "But the fact is, it's not funny. It's dangerous for you. Give me five minutes, really listen to me, and if you still want to tell me to go to hell, I'll leave, and my backside heading out the door will be the last thing you ever see of me. Continue to ignore me, and I will get in your face. I will be here every day, badgering and pestering you, until you just hear me out."
Steve turned to face the young man, and as his father had done moments ago, he held up his hand to indicate that Marcus had five minutes in which to make his point.
"Ok, it's this simple. In eight to twelve weeks, you will hit a plateau in your recovery. After that, every improvement will be harder to come by. At the end of a year, you will hit another plateau, and from then on, any gains will probably be so small they will be imperceptible.
"You have got to be willing to try and fail and try and get frustrated and fail and try and embarrass yourself and fail and try and try and try again and again and again if you are ever going to get your speech back. I can tell you are a very proud man who doesn't like people to see any weakness in him, and that's going to inhibit your recovery, because until you are back to normal you will have to accept help and correction.
"When I came in this morning, I intended to annoy you. I intended to make you lose your temper at me. I did not intend to push you quite so far as I did, though. Nevertheless, I am glad it happened."
Steve snorted in disgust, waved a hand dismissively at Marcus, and turned away.
Marcus walked around the bed again and looked Steve in the eye.
"Think about it, after what happened this morning, you can't possibly embarrass yourself in front of me anymore. I've seen you at your worst, I'm back for more, and I am not afraid to piss you off again. I will push you to do what you need to do to get your speech back.
"So, this is your choice. Work with me, or make your father find another speech therapist and lose a week or two from that precious eight-to-twelve week window while your new therapist establishes a relationship where you feel comfortable enough with him or her to risk the mistakes you have to make in order to recover."
Marcus looked at his watch. "I have a minute and eighteen seconds left. I don't have enough to say to fill that time, but I want you to know, I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings, and I sincerely hope there will be a day when you can properly curse me out for it."
Marcus looked at his watch and continued to stare at it in silence. Finally, he said, "My time is up, Steve. Do I stay or go?"
Steve bit his lip in concentration. He was obviously thinking hard about what he really wanted to do.
"Steve, I need to know now because I have other patients who need help if you are unwilling to accept it."
Steve looked to his dad and raised an eyebrow.
"This is your decision, Son. You will have to work with somebody. Do you want it to be Marcus, or someone else?"
Steve sighed, and reluctantly extended a hand to Marcus.
The young man grinned and said, "Right then! Let's get started."