I remember when I could finally stand on my own inside the rectangular space of the walker. The doctors were shocked. The physical therapists were shocked. The nurses brought me flowers and cheered me on. And my father insisted that I be treated as though I would walk just fine again one day in spite of my spinal fracture, rather than as a hopeless lost cause.
I remembered how my back hurt so badly, how I tried to hide it, how my father would come into my room to find me with tears streaming down my face because I could barely handle the pain. He'd call for more drugs and it would calm me, but the one thing most people don't know about the drugs that relax you and take away your pain is that they also cause depression.
It was something I had never understood until then. Feeling so low, so alone. Dad could be right there holding my hand, yet I felt like I was completely and utterly alone in the world. I'd wake up in the middle of the night crying for no reason at all, or see something on TV and my eyes would fill with tears. Once again, less than a man. Tears at the drop of a hat, something no Tracy had ever let happen to them. But I couldn't help it. Dad explained it was the drugs, but it didn't really help to know that. Logically I understood, but logic completely fails you when you're under the influence of an IV cocktail.
It took me so long to even want to try and walk. And then when I failed it took me so long to try again. And because it hurt so bad I would cry at night when I thought my dad was asleep. I later found out he knew, that he'd been awake and heard me, but left me alone, left me to my grief and pain without stealing my dignity. Because that was the one thing I was slowly getting back, the thing I'd lost that I was bound and determined to have again.
Every day, twice a day the physical therapist would come. Every day I would grip the sides of the walker and place my booted feet on the floor. Every day I would hold my body up with my arms, hunched over the walker like a little old man, shuffling one or two inches at a time. And every time the therapist would leave, Dad would say, "You walked." That was it. At first I thought, yeah, right, I walked what, ten inches? Big deal. But then as time went by, as I did get better at it, as I kept going, as I started to believe and started to listen to my father's encouraging words, I realized that my doctors had been wrong and my father had been right.
I was going to walk again. In fact, I was walking. But don't think it was a bed of roses after that. God, just thinking about the first time I came home with that walker...it makes me cringe. I watch the purples and reds fill the sky as the sun sets and figure I should probably head back to the house. Even a tropical island gets a bit nippy in December.
The walker had ceased to be my enemy and had become an extension of me. I couldn't walk without it, that was all there was to it. I would try, but my back muscles were so weak and still so painful that even with the walker I was hunching over because I couldn't hold my own chest up. Walking without it wasn't even an option at that point. Everyone tried to act like nothing was out of the ordinary, but I noticed that things had been moved around so every space on the floor was wide enough for me and my walker to squeeze by. No one ever mentioned it. I guess they thought of the ugly gray thing as just another appendage, too.
And things had been going well for about a week. I had even taken a few hesitant steps without the walker. My doctors hailed me as a miracle, my father and grandmother fairly beamed day in and day out and I really and truly believed that one day I would be able to sprint again with the best runners in the world.
That was, until the night I choked on some water I was drinking and got into a coughing fit. I knew right away something bad had happened in my back. The searing pain, the feeling of someone sticking a knife into it – it was all I could do not to scream like a child. I had been alone in my room when it happened, and it was midnight. I thought, maybe I just strained my back muscles too much with the coughing and that I would be fine in the morning. Dad had had a panic button installed, kind of like the nurse's call button back at the hospital, but I wouldn't use it. The sudden pain was nothing. It would go away.
But it didn't go away. I didn't sleep a wink that night, just rolled around on my bed alternately moaning and squeezing tears out of my eyes, I think. I don't know if I can describe what it feels like. The muscles are spasming, so the back keeps jerking, which feels like someone's punching you. And the other pain, the knife-like feeling, it just doesn't stop. I wanted to die. I prayed to whatever God there was to please just stop the pain. I would do anything He asked, anything at all, just please stop it, let me sleep, make it go away. I was doing so well, I had been walking with my walker, I had been doing what I was supposed to, why this, now? Why did it hurt so much again like it had in the early days of trying to learn to walk again?
Finally at 4:30 that morning I could no longer stand it. In my hazed state I grabbed for the panic button but it fell between my bed and the wall and I began to cry in earnest at the injustice of it all. Even in my decision to seek out help I had to fight. It seemed I had to fight for every goddamn thing, and now was denied the ease of calling for someone to come.
But I knew I needed help, panic button be damned. I hauled myself out of bed, gripping my walker until my knuckles were white, basically using my arms to support my entire weight. I grunted and cried out with every step I took. The seven feet from my bed to my door seemed to take a hundred years and when I finally turned the knob and opened the door I couldn't help the sob that escaped my lips.
I guess Dad was the only one awake, or maybe just the only one with his door open at the time, but he seemed to appear in front of me out of nowhere. "What is it, Gordon? What happened?"
"I coughed, Dad," I said, tears flowing unchecked down my face. I couldn't stop them any more than I could stop the excruciating pain in my lower back. It felt like my entire lumbar had exploded. I could barely get the words out of my mouth. "I coughed," I repeated.
"You're in pain again?"
I could only nod. I felt his hand in the middle of my back and shook my head. Then he lowered his hand and I cried out.
"Oh, no," he whispered, running for his room. Within seconds he was back with shoes and a jacket on. He ran into my room, grabbed my jacket and somehow got it on me as my legs turned to jelly. My breath came faster and faster as I tried to cope with the knife feeling and to my surprise my father lifted me into his arms. I nearly screamed into the crook of his neck, grabbing handfuls of his coat in my fists. Here I was a grown man being carried like a toddler by my father, crying into his coat like a child.
But at the time, all I could think of was that I had never been more grateful for my father's presence than I was at that moment. After that thought, I knew nothing but blinding pain. I don't remember the ride to the hospital. I don't remember the Emergency Room. I don't remember the spinal specialists or nurses. I don't remember going in for yet another surgery, probably the eighth or ninth I'd had by that point. I don't remember anything until waking up two days later.
It was déjà vu. I was lying in a hospital bed with my father by my side. My throat was so dry I couldn't speak. He lowered the cup's straw to my lips and I drank greedily, but he wouldn't let me have too much. "What...happened?" I finally managed to say.
"When you coughed, you pushed out part of the repairs made on your fracture and the force of your coughing ruptured the discs between L4 and L5, and L3 and L4. They had to go back in and replace both of them with synthetics, and re-seal the fracture."
His face was sympathetic but also somehow seemed relieved. I could see it in his eyes; he was reliving the nightmare of the first time I'd been in the hospital. But there was something else. Something it seemed he wasn't telling me. "Why am I so hot?" I asked.
"Son, they also found a gram-negative bacteria in your bloodstream."
I shook my head. In the haze of morphine and whatever else I was on, I couldn't grasp what he was telling me.
"A bacteria that usually only lives in your intestines somehow got out into your bloodstream," he explained softly. "You were in the early stages of septicemia. If you hadn't coughed and torn your back all to hell, they wouldn't have known until..."
He didn't have to finish the sentence. Even in my muddied mind I knew the end of it. If I hadn't gone through all that extra pain, the knife-twisting, the sucker-punch feeling...if I hadn't cried like a baby in my father's arms that night, I could very well have been lying in a coffin that day instead of the familiar hospital bed I found myself in once more.
I couldn't even think of what to say. All I could do was squeeze his hand. He squeezed mine back and I knew that once again, Dad was there to stay with me until I went home.
And when I did go home a week later, I went home terrified. Terrified of coughing again. Terrified of sneezing. Terrified of doing anything that would force a sudden jolt to my lumbar or the fracture. I was bed-ridden, full of IV lines with about three different antibiotics to continue fighting the bacteria they insisted was no longer in my bloodstream but further insisted they still needed to combat. Morning and night a nurse came to give me new antibiotics. Every other day they took blood samples. And the whole time I was delirious.
At least, that's what Grandma tells me. She said I hallucinated, babbled, and told wild stories about things that were 'really happening to me right then and there' which, of course, really weren't. She said I reminded her of Don Quixote fighting windmills, but the new drugs I was on were necessary to keep me still enough for my back to mend yet a second time. Aside from the disc replacements and shoring up that fracture, they'd also thoroughly irrigated all four of my incisions. And irrigated doesn't mean just pouring water on. It's akin to power washing the dirt off the outside of a house. Just thinking about it sends a shiver up my now-healed spine.
I look up as I climb the curving staircase to the house. I walk into the lounge. My father is still sitting at his desk, undoubtedly hell-bent on IR paperwork or something similar. He doesn't look up as I walk in and for some reason I sit down on the couch in the middle of the huge room. I just want to look at him and the memories continue coming at me, flowing like Niagara Falls. I can't stop them. And I realize I don't really want to.
The first two weeks are holes in my memory that can only be filled by others who tell me what happened. Vague images steal through the shadows of my mind; impressions of things that may have happened but more than likely did not. I was noisy, that much I know. I moaned constantly for the first week, then fell mostly silent as I was taken off the last of the antibiotics. My medications were then reduced to muscle relaxers and painkillers that my grandmother proclaimed would bring a horse to its knees.
Like clockwork she doled them out to me. She didn't have to, Dad kept insisting I should have a round-the-clock nurse, but Grandma's more stubborn than all the Tracy men put together and still insisted she was perfectly capable of giving me pills if I needed pills. Makes me smile to think of how spitfire she was about it. I wish I'd been coherent enough to hear her arguing with Dad. Scott told me it was funny as hell.
Water was all I drank, soft foods were all I could eat. I think we kept Yoplait in business for an entire month with my diet. My temperature was checked every twelve hours, and pillows were stuffed all around me by the attending nurses Dad finally got to come in for a few hours a day, or Grandma, who said she knew best for her grandson, or whoever else happened to be there at the time, to try and take the pressure off my spine and keep me comfortable enough to sleep.
For a long time after I started getting better, I felt like I had missed so much of my life. From the day of the accident to my first coherent day after the ninth surgery, it had been well over three weeks. The world had changed a bit. My family had changed a bit. And I, in my illness, had missed nearly every moment of it. Moments I could never have back. Two family birthdays. Gone. Alan's race win. Gone. The early talks about International Rescue I didn't even know about. I missed Grandma's pies and the beginnings of carving out the hangars on Tracy Island. I missed Scott and Virgil's stories about their hot dates and high times in the Air Force and at Denver Tech.
That first coherent night I remember lying in my bed, my father's soft snores telling me he'd once again fallen asleep in a nearby chair there in my room. I remember thinking about the things I had missed as I had fought first for my life, then for my mobility, then for my life again against a deadly bacteria and once again against the enemy that was my own back. Because it does become your enemy. It's a part of your body that has always worked but now refuses to obey your commands, refuses to do what it was made to do. It is something to be disowned, something to be yelled at, something to abhor. And yet there it is – still a part of your body no matter what you do. And still not working right.
The surgeons were amazing, and technology to heal ills such as mine was advancing every day. But every day I was there in bed and the world was still turning without Gordon Tracy. Oh, it wasn't a pity fest by any means. It was a revelation of sorts, I guess you'd call it. Because I realized that the fun bantering with Alan over the sink in the morning while trying to shave was something I hadn't experienced in weeks. I realized that the pranks I'd played on all my siblings hadn't been played on them in weeks. I realized I had no idea how my dad's companies were doing now, nor how much money they were making.
I didn't know what had happened to my former WASP buddies, or what the outcome of the hydrofoil accident had been at WASP HQ. Dad had avoided every question I tried to ask about that. I hadn't felt snowflakes on my face – after all, it was December. I was finally starting on more solid food, finally really getting my appetite back, but once again the walker which had once become my friend now stood unused in the corner of my room. My father hadn't even mentioned it. Everyone talked in hushed tones. I realized that the one thing I hadn't heard recently was laughter.
Those small, silly, insignificant moments are the ones you suddenly hold onto. Alan pouting for no good reason. Scott barking at you like you were one of his cadets. Watching Virgil paint beautiful landscapes like a true master. Sitting by silently as John found just one certain star with his telescope and quietly explained its significance. Getting drunk on someone's birthday and listening to Dad's old Air Force stories over and over again, then passing out and waking up with the world's worst hangover the next morning.
I smiled as these memories returned, but it was during the wee hours of that morning about three-and-a-half weeks later that I resolved to try one more time. I silently shook my fist at whatever power lived up in the heavens, Father's words coming back to me, and said, "You aren't taking me down again. You aren't because my father says you aren't."
The thought startled me into the present. I looked up at my dad; he was scribbling something on a notepad. He must have felt my eyes on him, because in short order he looked up, met my eyes and smiled. It startled me because for the first time I realized that the only reason I had lived after the accident, the only reason I had learned to walk the first time, the only reason I had made it through all those surgeries and the septicemia...the only reason I was sitting here now as a fully functioning member of International Rescue was because my father had told me I would live, and then that I would walk.
On the strength of my faith in the man who sat before me, I got well. My belief in him made me well. I frowned as a lump formed in my throat. How had I never seen this? How had I never seen that it had been Dad who'd picked up a spirit as broken and twisted as my body had been; picked it up, held it and made it whole again?
"What is it, son?" His voice makes me jump slightly as I realize I've been staring at him.
But I can't speak. That night when I laid there contemplating the small moments in life, the moments so perfect that time almost stands still, like standing on the Olympic podium or watching the nose of Alan's car cross the finish line or seeing footage of Dad first stepping out of his spaceship onto the surface of the Moon...that night I knew I wanted to miss no more of those moments.
And so I woke up and forced myself to sit up, grimacing because of the pain. But I did it. "Dad," I said, loudly enough to wake him.
"What is it, son? Need meds?"
"No, Dad," I shook my head as he turned my small bedside lamp on. I reached out with my arm and pointed over to the corner of the room. His eyes followed my outstretched finger and he smiled, gray eyes twinkling. He nodded and retrieved my walker, setting it towards me so I could swing my legs around and grab hold of it.
And I did. My feet hit the hardwood floor. My hands gripped the sides of the walker. I looked up at my father and saw something that at the time I didn't recognize. It was faith. He believed one hundred percent that I could do it. He always had, even when the doctors had said no. And now, he was believing in me again. Believing enough for both of us. I looked down at my feet once, ignored the backache and used my arms to pull myself out of bed. For a full minute I stood there, supported mostly by my hands and arms, yes, but I was still standing, facing my father man-to-man at last.
Dad smiled. And though the days, weeks and months that followed were full of hard work, sweat, tears, pain and a lot of falls and bruises, slowly but surely I gained my strength back. My legs became stronger and one time I remember realizing that as long as I had my back brace on I could actually shuffle around without the walker. I began to be able to take a shower by myself with no help from Dad. I began to be able to go to the bathroom by myself with no help.
I did exercises to strengthen my back muscles, and like a miracle, those muscles strengthened enough that my back started being able to hold my chest upright. I woke up one day and got out of bed to find I was no longer hunching. I was walking like a man instead of an ape. Then I realized that for twenty minutes at a time I could actually sit upright rather than spending all my time lying down. It was unbelievable to actually be able to sit on the couch with Alan and watch a car race from start to finish! Such small victories, but victories I had earned. That I had paid for. And victories that would not, I now realized, have been possible without my father.
"Gordon?" His voice snapped me back to the present and I blinked.
"Yeah, Dad," I said hoarsely, my voice full of emotion I didn't know how to express. Dad got up from his desk, crossed the room and sat down next to me. Not too close, but close enough for me to know he was there for me.
"Are you okay?" I nodded. The lump in my throat prevented words. "What are you thinking about?"
How could I tell him? How could I tell him that it had taken me thirteen years to finally understand that I owed everything to him? Sure, I had to do a lot of hard work, but he was the one who made me believe the hard work would be worth it. I sat there on the couch next to him completely pain-free because of his strength. Because of his Tracy stubbornness and his faith. Because of his love.
But the only thing I could get out of my mouth were two simple words. "Thank you."
He cocked his head, trying to figure out what on earth I was thanking him for. But looking into my eyes he must've seen it because he nodded his head once and that look...that look from way back when I'd first awakened after the accident...it was back. Then he smiled, the biggest smile I think I've ever seen on his face.
"You're welcome, son," he replied, his hand reaching out and squeezing my arm. "You're welcome."
With that, he got up and walked out of the lounge. That one person could have the power and fortitude to bring another back from the brink of death was something I had never really contemplated. In a way, I suppose my brothers and I did that all the time, but we did it physically, for the most part. Pull someone from a burning parking garage, save someone from a collapsing mine, rescue men trapped in a sub on the ocean floor. Our rescues weren't quite the same as the rescue my dad had performed on me.
And my mind wandered back to Elaine. I had no idea if her father was still alive or not. If he was, did he have the same strength Jeff Tracy had? I was certain that Nurse Alicia had been about to tell me they didn't even know if Elaine would live – could her father, through sheer force of will, make her live as mine had? Or if he were dead, did she have anyone at all to pull her through? Alicia had believed I was her fiancée, which made me believe Elaine was single. How about friends to help give her strength? To give her a reason to live? Did she have children, maybe? If so, were they old enough to be able to be there for her?
What would I have done if I had been alone in that hospital room after they resuscitated me? After they'd had me on the operating table for umpteen hours? Would I have lived if my father hadn't been there? I suddenly doubted that I would have. And I knew from what the nurse had said that some of Elaine's injuries were very similar to those I'd had. If she had no one...somehow it occurred to me that she would die. As I would have without Father.
That's when I made my decision. Aquanaut of International Rescue or no, I had someplace I had to be. And it wasn't on Tracy Island. The memories began to trickle back into the corners of my mind as a new resolve filled me. I would find out whether or not Elaine had a Jeff Tracy. And if she didn't, she was going to find one...in his son.