Miracle For The Neurosurgeon. Lynne Marshall

shook her head. Ashamed.

      He was an incredibly smart man, and intuitive, and, well, with friends like her, no wonder he’d become a recluse and an overachieving gym rat. Barbells didn’t judge!

      She took a deep breath and continued the examination using only the most impeccable professional skills from then onward.

      And her heart broke again as she discovered how stiff and nearly locked his hips, knees and ankle joints were. She had to get him back on track as this weakness would eventually impact on all the strength he’d developed above the waist. Not to mention his circulation and oxygen uptake. He might feel like “half” a man these days, but half of him was a lot, and the best parts, his brain and those strong shoulders and arms, would help keep the rest of him going. As long as he was willing. But he couldn’t ignore the parts that didn’t work.

      She glanced at him. He still stared her down, keeping her feeling naked without a place to hide.

      “So here’s what I propose.” She sat back on the rolling stool, and met him as close to knee to knee as she could get with his feet on the wheelchair footrests. “We work on a regimen to improve your lower body strength with passive range of motion exercises at first.”

      In response she got a blank stare.

      “We need to preserve your joints—your hips, your knees, your ankles. Heaven forbid you should develop foot drop.”

      “Why?”

      “For a better quality of life.” That went over like a conk on the head. “You know that.” More staring. “Or how about for when they finally figure out how to help paraplegics walk through nerve innervation.” Still no response. “Come on, Wes, you’re a neurosurgeon, you crack open people’s heads for a living and do all kinds of things to their brains. Surely you’ve thought about the future, right?”

      He shook his head. “These days I only think about the present.” End of topic? Not if she could help it. Besides, she detected his defense mechanism in full force.

      “Baloney. I believe there are hundreds of patients you’ve helped and saved who need you back on the job. I believe your future is still bright.”

      “Anyone ever tell you how annoying you are?”

      Wesley was impressed with Mary’s thoroughness, and also with her positive attitude, but wasn’t about to let her know that. Why give her the upper hand? His personal doctor had promised him a much rosier recovery than he’d had, and as far as he was concerned he’d done his part to get as strong as possible. Yet he’d never get out of this damn wheelchair.

      “I’m annoying?” She mocked surprise. “Yeah, all the time. I’m a physical therapist, what can I expect, I tick off all my patients. It’s part of my strategy.” Her expression went serious. “I know I’m bothering you, but I’m doing it because it’s important. And speaking of important, where’s your stationary bike?”

      He screwed up his face. “In case you haven’t noticed, I can’t use my legs.”

      “You need the aerobic exercise to enhance circulation and increase oxygen. Let me show you.” She dug into her shoulder bag and shoved a catalogue at him. “This is expensive, but from the looks of your house you can afford it.”

      He took a look, but wasn’t the least bit enthusiastic about what he saw. The bicycle strapped the legs and feet in place and stimulated the muscles as the patient rode it, or so said the product description. Completely high tech and necessary for paraplegics, according to some Norwegian study.

      “Since they did this study, I’ve recommended this bike to all of my paraplegic and even quadriplegic patients.”

      He tossed her his best “so what” face, straight out of the teenage contrarian handbook. It didn’t faze her.

      “You might think it does all the work, but this little baby will keep you in tip-top shape.” She stopped herself from saying more, but he understood she was about use the “D” word—“deteriorating”, and take the broad-brush approach for life expectancy in paraplegics.

      “Look, I get it, Mary. My tough-love doc showed me a video early on when all I wanted to do was shut down.”

      That notorious video, which he could tell from the change of expression on her face she knew of, used time-lapse photography to document a young man’s demise. Hell, she probably carried around a copy of it in her bottomless shoulder bag, to use on uncooperative patients like him.

      The patient in the video had been eighteen at the time of his skateboarding accident and had quickly given up on himself. The photographer had crunched ten years down to one minute. The brutal video transformed a young generally healthy man into a shadow of his former self and had shocked the defeat right out of Wes. Mission accomplished. From that day on he’d worked at his rehab with a vengeance. Never wanting to quit, even when hospital personnel pleaded with him to slow down, he’d refused to give up. Since he’d been home, if the rehab PT didn’t like his work ethic in the gym, he’d fire him or her. He didn’t care which gender they were, out they’d go.

      “So I don’t have to paint that graphic picture for you, right?” Little Miss Sunshine returned.

      “Right. I’ve seen it and I never want to go there.” The thought terrified him; his worst fears had been laid out before him by that video. Never, ever, did he want to wind up like that. Not without a good fight.

      “So I can order this for you, then? It says they can have a rush delivery here in a week to ten days.”

      The room went thick with silence as they carried out a staring contest. Why was she pushing this bike so hard? Did she have stock in the company, or know something he didn’t?

      She used her thumb and forefinger to pull back the hair above her forehead, a frustrated gesture, for sure. His stubbornness had gotten to her. “You’re still a doctor, Wesley. It’s completely possible for you to go back to being one and performing surgery again.”

      “Ha! That’s rich.” He let his honest reaction slip through the cracks. Been there, done that. Failed! Now he didn’t believe a word. She may as well be selling snake oil. “I’ve already tried to go back to work and it was a miserable failure. My department head sent me home.”

      “Because it was too soon. How can someone as smart as you be so dense?” He saw determination in her eyes as she sat straighter, and he let the slur slide. Maybe he needed to listen to her. “As long as we keep your motor skills intact and your mind alert, there’s nothing to stop you from going back when you’re ready. The key phrase being ‘when you’re ready’.”

      Mary went back to her large bag, which apparently held the world in it from everything she kept taking out. She lifted a stack of medical journals and handed them to him. “Here. Why not catch up on the latest in neurosurgery?”

      “Look, I appreciate your enthusiasm and concern, but I’ve got my own plan for getting back on the job.”

      “Sheer will and body sweat isn’t a plan, Wes. My plan can’t make you perfect again. No. But I guarantee it can and will help you improve and increase your chances of performing surgery again.”

      “How can you guarantee that?” He dug in, because he wanted what she preached so badly it hurt, but what if her promise never came to be? So far his Neanderthal work-out-until-you-drop approach hadn’t panned out. Sure, he was buffer, but ready to go back to work? She was right. Not yet.

      She pushed her face right up into his, those daring green eyes seeming to have X-ray vision over the battle going on inside his head. He tensed, shutting down a little, but he didn’t look away.

      “Prove me wrong.” She put the journals on his lap. “Prove it. Give me a month and you’ll see and feel the difference, then give me another month and you’ll be amazed. I know it and totally believe it, and you’ll just have to prove otherwise. Of course, all things considered, I’d rather you co-operated.”

      He