Bridge to a Distant Star (23 page)

Every advance was not without price. Each was bought with intense pain. And then mined by Charlie as a resource for more progress.

Chemo, however, was a different challenge. Try as he might, Charlie could not face it with a positive attitude; it succeeded in defeating him every time. Though he took drugs to alleviate the nausea, vomiting routinely followed his treatments. As a result, he lost his appetite. Then he lost weight. Soon afterward, he lost his hair—all of it. His face looked flat without eyelashes or eyebrows to give it dimension and definition.

In Charlie’s estimation, he looked like a freak. So he avoided mirrors at all costs, ducking beneath the one in their home’s entranceway. Keeping his eyes averted when standing over a sink in a bathroom. On the rare occasions he did catch a glimpse of himself, he would frown and smirk, vowing never to cut his hair once he was done with chemo. And though the members of his soccer team wanted to shave their heads in support, Charlie vigorously opposed the idea. They were actually disappointed when he’d argued that he didn’t want to look at any more bald heads. “Mine’s enough to deal with,” he insisted. “I’ll think I’m looking in a mirror everywhere I go if I have to see you guys hairless too. Thanks—but no thanks, guys.”

Another side effect was susceptibility to infection. Though Fran was like a drill sergeant in protecting Charlie from anyone with infectious potential, he still caught colds and viruses. Which put him into a vicious cycle, for once he became ill, his treatment would be delayed. The longer he went without the treatment, the longer his chemotherapy would need to last, making him susceptible to infection for that much longer.

Charlie also discovered his rehabilitation exercises and determination to get around independently meant constant accidents. Bumps into table edges, intense pressure on his limb while using the weights, even falls were inevitable, according to Charlie and his dad. According to Fran, these mishaps were to be avoided at all costs. Due to Charlie’s shortage of blood platelets from chemo, he bruised easily. And bled profusely even from minor cuts. The combination of rehabilitation and chemo was Murphy’s Law waiting to happen.

And every struggle of Charlie’s was profoundly telling on Fran.

Fran and Charles had made a bargain to put aside their differences for Charlie’s sake, and for the most part, they had kept it. Putting him in the middle—causing Charlie even more hurt—was enough of a deterrent that they swallowed back words. Kept raging emotions in check. And generally avoided direct confrontation. It was taking a mounting toll on both parents, the damage internal. Neither was consciously aware of the explosive force that lay hidden, waiting to erupt. Ultimately threatening to destroy the fragile ties that bound the three together.

One particular bout of postchemo nausea ravaged Charlie’s body even more than usual. Though his stomach contained nothing more to expel, the convulsive heaves continued to engulf his entire body, hour after hour, until Fran could stand it no longer. She simply held him to her, and cried. When Charles stayed away, completely avoiding Charlie’s bedroom and bath, she was appalled by his lack of empathy.

Once Charlie was so exhausted that he finally fell asleep and she could leave him for a while, Fran stormed into Charles’s office, where she found him filling out reports. Calmly, methodically working as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

She attacked him with words. “How can you possibly be so uncaring? Don’t you feel an ounce of compassion for your son when he’s suffering like that?” she threw at him. “I swear you have about as much ability to feel as a sociopath.”

Charles pointedly put down his pen, faced his irate wife. Trying to keep from reacting, striking out with anger, he calmly responded, “Francine, evidence of love is not merely through tears.”

She crossed her arms, a subconscious barrier between them. “But just once … just once I wish you could let Charlie see that you feel …
something,
for God’s sake.”

“You have no idea what—” and then, knowing that he was failing at his resolve to remain calm and detached, he stopped. “Know why I came in here? To pray for Charlie. You were holding him; praying felt like the only thing I
could
do. And maybe I … let’s just say there are things you don’t know, Fran.”

“Like what? What is it that I don’t know, Charles? Enlighten me, will you?”

Charles picked up his pen, returned his attention to his work. She could see the familiar muscle tensing in the firm line of his jaw. “I really don’t think details are necessary.” He shrugged his shoulders. “You do what’s necessary, that’s all.”

“Like your father did?”

He jerked his head up to spit back, “Don’t
ever
throw his actions back at me again. I am
not
like him. When you lose both your parents, you become what you have to. To survive.”

Stung, remorseful, Fran instantly softened. “I guess I really don’t … you’ve never told me much about your dad’s death, Charles. I know your mom died in childbirth when she had you, but your dad?” Probing gently, she said, “I don’t know anything, really. But I’d really like to hear more. Please, Charles?”

He lifted his pen into the air, casually waving off the suggestion. “Water over the dam. No sense revisiting any of it. He got cancer and died. End of story.”

“What kind of cancer? How old were you then? And can you tell me how that made you feel?”

Slowly, Charles lifted his gaze to meet her eyes, frowning.

“Okay, so you don’t want to talk about that. But what about your aunt and uncle? The ones who raised you?”

“They were wonderful—you know that. You’ve met them. Fran, this is going nowhere …”

She sat down, taking a deep breath and willing herself to not react defensively. “Charles, so many times in the past I’ve attempted to get you to talk about this. There was no compelling reason before—besides the fact that I just wanted to get to know
you
better. What’s affected you … made you who you are today. It feels like … like we have this huge barrier between us, and I want so much to
know.
And now—now there is a compelling reason: Charlie. For his good—and because you love him—won’t you tell me more about your dad? Please, Charles? For Charlie’s sake?”

Charles put down his pen and pushed away from the handsome cherry desk, leaning back in his leather chair. He narrowed his eyes as he gazed out the large picture window that overlooked their front yard. “Dad got cancer of the kidney. Pretty devastating today even—but back then? It was a death sentence, effective almost immediately. He died after only three months.”

Understanding flooded Fran’s mind. “Oh, Charles. I’m so sorry.”

Charles chuckled. “A tad late.”

“Charles, I—”

“Not fair. I’m sorry.” He ran a hand through his hair. “See why I don’t like to talk about it? Brings out the best in me, huh?”

“How did you …?”

“Feel? I was just a kid, Fran; heck if I know.”

“But Charles … children have feelings too. I mean, just watch Charlie. Listen to him.” Fran stood and walked to where she could be in Charles’s line of vision, look him in the eyes. “He’s oozing fear and insecurity and frustration and sometimes anger and—”

“And what difference does it make?” he snapped. Charles leaned in, coming within inches of Fran’s face. “Ultimately, Charlie still has to suck it up, Fran. To get well, to fight anything, you gotta just do what needs to be done. Life is hard. Life is hard and it’s tough and it certainly isn’t fair. So you deal with it.” He turned, scooting his chair back beneath the desk. Picked up his pen and immediately went back to work.

Fran shook her head at him. Sighed disappointedly. Knowing she’d been dismissed and the subject was closed, she walked out of his office, closing the door firmly behind her.

By the last week in April, Charlie was ready for his big test, the biggest in his life, in Charlie’s estimation. He was to visit the prosthesis facility for the first time. In his mind, he’d earned this day. The dedicated exercising, correctly using his pressure bandage (though in the warmer, humid days of spring he’d ached to rip it off and leave it off), constant care of his suture line—keeping it clean, applying ointments and moisturizers—and elevating his stump at the slightest sign of swelling had all combined to a successful outcome. Finally, Dr. Owens had pronounced him ready for this next step. Charlie couldn’t wait to visit the company that produced the “technological marvels”—as Dr. Owens put it—that would get him upright again. At the same time, he was cautiously skeptical, attempting to restrain expectations to protect his hopes. Protect himself.

Located in a suburb of Chicago—not far from home—the offices and plant that made the prostheses proved far beyond what Charlie could have imagined. When the clinicians walked Charles, Fran, and Charlie through the facility, the technology appeared to be right out of the future.

One technician handed Charlie an ankle-foot prosthesis that was partly made of silicone. “Go ahead,
feel
it,” he encouraged. “It’s designed to be as lifelike as possible. Comfortable. And its natural give—due to the silicone—keeps you from tripping. I get more speed with less effort.”

“Excuse me,” Charles interjected. “
You
do? How could you actually try out this foot?”

The man grinned. Stood up, and walked to the opposite side of the room and back. Still smiling broadly, he asked, “Care to see it?” He lifted his pant leg to show them the ankle of the same prosthetic foot, attached to his lower shin. “Want me to take off my shoe and sock for further proof?”

Charlie’s eyes were wide with wonder. Charles appeared taken aback, and Fran, also amazed, laughed out loud. “No, that won’t be necessary. We’ll take your word for it!”

They later discovered the company employed several amputee victims to learn firsthand how to continually improve their products.

Naturally, it was the prosthetic legs that most attracted Charlie’s interest. “You actually put computers in these knees?” Charlie marveled, staring at the inner workings of a leg designed to attach at the hip. Another technician, a woman, smiled at Charlie’s fascination. She’d witnessed the enthralled reaction many times, but introducing an amputee—especially a child—to the technology was always fulfilling.

“And you program them? How?”

“To mimic the amputee’s gait—and for all different movements and speeds, such as walking, jogging, running. Even biking,” she explained. “You’ll get to do all that, but here’s a brief description of what’s in store for you. Technicians will analyze your residual limb strength first. Been doing your exercises?”

Charlie was proud to vigorously nod yes.

“Great. Next they’ll study your particular gait. How you walk. Whether you tend to lean forward, put the weight on the balls of your feet, maybe have a slight hitch in your stride. All kinds of things like that. And finally, they look at your posture—if you stand perfectly upright. Maybe slouch a little. Then they duplicate those measurements to mimic your particular gait for running. Biking adds yet another dimension of evaluations.”

Giving her a skeptical look, Charlie asked, “How can they do that when I’m on crutches?”

She reached out to pat him on the shoulder. “Leave that to them. They’ll figure it out, I assure you.” She grinned, raising an eyebrow. “Trust me?”

Charlie pointed at the prosthesis. “If you’ll let me have one of those, absolutely. Just tell me what to do.”

When they began the custom fitting, the step prosthetists, as those specialists were called, literally walked Charlie through the detailed process. They took measurements and evaluated Charlie from every possible angle. Next, after fitting him with a temporary prosthetic leg, the specialists filmed his gait from all directions. Walking without crutches—even though he was tightly clutching bars on either side of him—brought such a huge smile to Charlie’s face that Charles laughed out loud and Fran cried with joy.

As the prosthetists fed all the gathered information about Charlie’s limb strength, gait, measurements, and posture into a special software program, the family watched in amazement as they saw a figure—mimicking Charlie’s gait exactly—walk across the computer screen.

The part of the prosthesis that would actually fit to Charlie was formed in generally the same way a cast was—except using clear materials. That way, the technicians could observe how it fit to Charlie’s skin and if the cast needed any adjustments. Charlie’s age and the need for the limb to grow with him were also taken into consideration.

After all the preparations were finished and they left the facility, Charlie allowed his imagination free rein, indulging in constant daydreams about how wonderful this new leg would be. So when the much-anticipated call came informing Charlie his leg was ready, he was nearly beside himself with excitement. Charles took the morning off, almost as eager as his son.

Fran, however, felt a nagging anxiety. She worried Charlie might expect too much, too soon. Fully cognizant that she’d likely provoke an argument with Charles, she still elected to caution Charlie as they drove to the facility.

“Charlie, love, remember this is only the first fitting. It might be too painful for you to wear for very long. Or it might need more work—to make it fit right. Could be we’ll need to come back at a later date.”