Page 45 of Actions and Reactions
“Yeah, sure.” I can’t think of anything else to say.
“We could do it in private,” Dr. Denise says cautiously.
“No, it’s fine.” I wave her off. “They’re my parents.” And I’d like to get this over with, get my schedule for physical therapy or whatever and then get back to work.
“If that’s what you want,” she says softly, and if I’m not mistaken, she looks relieved.
“I’m Dr. Collins, Silas. I operated on your hand alongside Dr. Kekoa, and though we still have to get some imaging done today, I’m optimistic from yesterday’s results after surgery that you won’t sustain any permanent nerve damage to your hands.”
“I—thank you,” I rush to say. Why didn’t I think about that before? Dr. Denise even mentioned it this morning. “That’s a relief.” My thoughts come out on instinct.
“I bet it is,” Dad mutters. I ignore him.
He’s in a foul mood, and though I understand that it comes from a place of love and the fear I’ve brought them, I’m done with it.
Dr. Kekoa goes first, and as expected, he gives me the whole spiel about physical therapy and how if I want to retain full use of my hand—which of course I do—I have to follow the recovery plan to the letter. Which I will.
It takes some time, so it comes as a surprise when, as hefinishes, Dr. Denise steps forward and looks at me worriedly.
“Silas, based on the evaluation I did this morning, I can say with certainty that you’re suffering from delayed-onset PTSD.”
“No I’m not,” I protest instantly, reeling back as much as I can while still in bed. I’m not even sure what the first bit means, but I know damn well I don’t have PTSD. “I haven’t gone through any trauma.” It seems absurd that I have to explain that toher.
“We’ll wait outside,” Dr. Collins says softly, and she and Dr. Kekoa leave the room.
Dr. Denise takes a stool from the far wall and brings it over next to Mom.
“Silas,” she starts, and since she sounds like she’s talking to a toddler, I’m instantly defensive.
“I’m not traumatized,” I snap. She doesn’t react in any way, and that’s just more infuriating. And to think I liked her earlier.
“You’re presenting all the symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.” Her tone is measured, and she looks and sounds so calm.
“I was the one who punched the wall!” I argue with a shout.
“That is actually one of the symptoms. We call it a form of hyperarousal... anger outbursts. You also told me about having intrusive memories and flashbacks of the accident no matter how hard you try not to think about it. You experience emotional numbness, and I saw you withdraw with myown eyes yesterday evening. You have nightmares, you have sleeping difficulties, and you’re very clearly avoiding any conscious trauma-related thoughts.”
I’m speechless and frozen.
I shut down as she continues.
“I believe that taking the job to work for the Pirates brought this all back to the surface, that you’ve been repressing it for a long time, and now you can’t escape it.”
I think I’d usually appreciate her delicate tone, but today is not a usual day. I’m trapped in this hospital bed, with my parents hovering like they’re on suicide watch, and I can’t fuckingthink.
“How can I be traumatized by the accident?” I counter. “I didn’t lose my leg. I wasn’t attacked or assaulted. I didn’t suffer a loss or?—”
“But you did,” she interrupts. “Silas, I managed to talk with Ivan for a few minutes yesterday, and with your parents.”
“So all of this is because of shit they told you?” I’m about ready to get up out of here and never talk to anyone ever again.
“No.” Her sharp tone stops me. “All they told me is who you were before the accident.”
Again she lets the silence spread, and surprisingly it’s Dad who breaks it with a choked voice.
“You were soaliveback then, son.” It doesn’t hurt my brain to hear the tears in his voice, but it’s still not exactly pleasant.
“You did suffer a loss, Silas,” Dr. Denise says. “You lostyour whole identity, and you were still a child, which makes it more impactful.”
