Over the next three days, Brenden wondered what state of mind he would encounter when he and Antwone Carver had their next session. He was encouraged to hear from the on-duty nurses that Carver was taking his meds, and this time he wasn’t trying to hide the pills.
That’s a positive, Brenden thought. But medications were only part of a life picture. Would Carver be able to navigate the complications of his disability? Would he be able to accept a renewed relationship with his wife? Could he ever get over the self-pity and self-loathing that were such a struggle for many disabled people?
As Brenden waited with Nelson for the Marine to roll into the office, he found his own anxiety level was surprisingly high. So he sat in his office chair, working to slow his breathing and gather his thoughts for the session.
This would be a day, he felt, that he would be leading Carver. He knew about the pitfalls of disability. He knew about many of the options for newly injured vets, and more importantly, he knew how critical it was to turn desolation and isolation into engagement and participation with the world at large.
Nelson heard Carver’s arrival outside the door before Brenden did, and as the man wheeled in, the big dog was right there to greet him. There was no hesitation on Carver’s part to share affection with the big animal. Brenden filed that fact away under the category “hopeful.”
“How are you, Antwone?” Brenden asked. “Are you feeling better?”
“I guess so,” the man said, embarrassed. “Yeah, I’m feeling better. I’m taking my meds now.”
“Yes, the nurses told me,” Brenden said, not wanting to give the impression that he was checking up on the Marine.
“I don’t really know what good a bunch of pills will do,” Carver said.
“Remember what I told you the other day? It’s one step at a time. You know, getting to the top of the mountain and then looking down on the world below and thinking, Wow, I really made this climb! Antwone, today I want to talk to you about possibilities, things you can look forward to when you get out of this place.”
Carver sounded that one-note laugh of disgust that Brenden had heard before.
“Yeah,” he said, “and I’ve got a bridge you can buy cheap.”
Brenden chose not to acknowledge the shot.
“I want to talk about what the law provides, what your service to your country guarantees, and what you can expect out there when you deal with the public.”
“Oh, you mean when they pity me or think I’m a freak?”
“I don’t think that’s being fair to people, Antwone,” Brenden said. “A lot of us think you’re a hero.”
“But you still pity me, right?”
“No. That’s not how I feel about you,” Brenden told him.
“Well, you’re a freak too,” Carver said. “It sucks, man. I mean, I avoided the gangs in the hood, and now I’m in a big gang, a gang of losers.”
“There’s power in that,” Brenden suggested. “A lot more power than you might expect. Have you ever heard of the Americans with Disabilities Act?”
“Why would I know about that?” Carver asked.
“The Americans with Disabilities Act,” Brenden explained, “provides all kinds of support for those of us with disabilities. It guarantees that we cannot be discriminated against because of our disability when it comes to jobs or housing. Along with the ADA, there’s something called the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act, which provides every child and adult coping with disability the chance to gain an equal and appropriate education under the law. This all connects to your rights as a GI. Remember, as a Marine, the GI bill is still in place, so you can pursue any field of interest and have it funded, Antwone. That’s a lot better than most people have.”
“You know, Doc,” Carver said, “you don’t know much about anything. I’m still black, and now I’m disabled. That’s two strikes, and then there’s sex. Looks to me like that’s strike three. I’m out.”
“Wait a minute,” Brenden said, turning his face directly toward the Marine. “There are too many people in the world using their labels as an excuse to feel sorry for themselves. You’re black. I’m blind. He’s gay. She’s divorced. We could go on and on, applying our stereotypes to get out of taking responsibility for our actions. Here’s the real secret, Antwone. When we apply a label that limits us, the only person who pays the price is us. If you live life on the sidelines and refuse to play the game, the only loser is you.”
“Thanks for the halftime speech, Coach,” Carver said, “but you’re not black, and you’re not in this chair.”
“And you’re not blind,” Brenden told him. “I’m not trying to tell you I understand all of the things you’re feeling, but I do know it’s important to not allow your disability to dominate your potential to find your ability. There’s a whole lot you can do, Antwone. A whole lot of things you can be. But it’s all on you.”
“That’s right,” the Marine said, getting angry. “That’s right. It’s all up to me.”
“Antwone, there’s another part of the secret I want you to learn,” Brenden said. “I believe that you can turn being black and being in a wheelchair and coming from a rough background from disadvantages to advantages. I told you about some of the laws surrounding disability, and you know about stuff like affirmative action and racial profiling. The point is, anything we view as a negative can be turned into a positive if you want it enough.
“Take my blindness, for example. I mean, being blind has some amazing advantages. I’ll tell you something. I’ve never met an ugly person, unless they wanted to be. And I’ve enjoyed a world of senses—smell and touch and taste and sound—that most people never take the time to appreciate. I was telling my kids about that just the other day.
“I know my wife, Kat, is a beautiful woman, but that’s not why I love her. I love her because she’s beautiful inside. And my children, I think they’ve benefited because I’m blind. I’m looking forward to you meeting them because they’re really sensitive kids, and they don’t have any built-in prejudices when it comes to getting to know someone.”
“Doc, let me give you a piece of therapy,” Carver said. “You’re crazy, jack. You’re trying to tell me that to grow up the way I did—a brother in a bad neighborhood—can make being black cool? And you’re trying to tell me that being in this wheelchair, paralyzed—I can turn that into an advantage? That’s a sham, man.”
Brenden didn’t back off.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Antwone, but it starts with your developing an attitude that opens up all of the possibilities.”
“Attitude schmatitude,” Carver said. “When I was in school, that’s what they used to tell me. ‘Antwone,’ the teacher would say, ‘you have a bad attitude.’ And she was right, and it was my attitude that made me a great Marine.”
“Okay,” Brenden said. “Then apply that same kind of attitude to becoming successful back out in the world. Redirect all of that nerve and grit into your current situation. Learn your rights and use your talents to get ahead. When you get out of here, I think it would be great if you’d spend some time with a good career counselor, and, Antwone, you’ll have time. You’ll be on disability for your injuries, so there’ll be some dough coming in.
“One of the wonderful things that’s happened recently under the law is that you’re allowed to pursue a career without losing any of your health benefits. It’s taken a lot of years to get that legislation through Congress, but now guys in your situation can feel they’re protected while they work to develop a new life. Look, I’m not trying to tell you that it’s easy out there, but what I am trying to say is that there is tremendous potential and that you can be hopeful about the possibility of creating a terrific future.”
Carver was quiet, thinking.
After a minute, he asked, “How did you develop this attitude, Doc? I mean, how did you get this positive act of yours together?”
Brenden smiled. “A really special guy put me straight. His name is Marvin Barnes. He’s a brother, and his story is a lot like yours. He was in Vietnam and got shredded and had some good reasons to feel sorry for himself. He had been the number one draft choice for the Denver Broncos; a three-hundred-pound defensive tackle with the whole world at his feet. But he got drafted and went to Vietnam.”
“That’s tough, man,” Carver said.
“You bet,” Brenden said. “Oh, and I forgot to mention he went blind from a war injury.”
“Blind?” Carver said.
“You bet,” Brenden told him. “My friend went blind, and so everything was messed up for him. No more football. No more life. But he pulled himself together. He’s married with a great family, and he does the same kind of work I do. He was my counselor, just like I’m your doctor now.”
“And he really has a good life?” Carver asked, becoming interested.
“He has a great life,” Brenden said. “He’s married, has three kids, lives in a nice house in Colorado. And if he were here now, he would be telling you the same things I am. In fact, a lot of this conversation is just like one I had with him years ago.”
“But your friend, I mean, the brother, what about sex?” Carver asked. “You said he has children.”
“That’s right. He wasn’t affected in that way, Antwone, but like I told you, over 80 percent of the guys who have suffered spinal cord injury and are paras have gone on to have very satisfying sex lives and even families.”
Brenden paused to let that sink in. “It comes down to this, Antwone. Sex might not be the same as it used to be between you and Darla, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be satisfying. So does having this conversation mean you’re considering letting Darla come to Seattle so you can spend some time together?”
“I’m thinking about it,” Carver said. “I don’t know, man. I just don’t know yet.”
“That’s all right,” Brenden said. “Take your time, but I think you’re headed in the right direction. Remember, a few days ago you were as low as it gets. Time is on your side, Antwone.”
“I know,” Carver said. “You keep telling me one step at a time, or maybe it’s one wheel at a time.”
Brenden smiled and clapped his hands. “Now, that’s a big step. When you learn to joke about your disability, it means you’re starting to think about it in a positive way. You’re beginning to find balance.”
“I don’t know,” Carver said. “I still feel real shaky, Doc.”
“Let me tell you something, Antwone,” Brenden said. “I’ve been blind now for a few years, and there are still some times when I feel sorry for myself and feel—how did you put it?— shaky. Nobody’s that secure. Everybody has doubts and fears. Everyone wonders if they can get their stuff together. But in a way, it’s our insecurity that creates our drive to become secure. That’s part of how we grow. You know who Bill Russell was, don’t you?”
“Sure, man. The old dude who played for the Celtics way back?”
“That’s right,” Brenden said. “The old dude with eleven championship rings.”
“Eleven?” Antwone said, amazed.
“That’s right. Bill Russell has eleven championship rings, and every night they played, before the game would start, the team would have to wait in the locker room while the big fella threw up.”
“He puked?” Carver said, almost laughing.
“You bet. He threw up before every game because he was nervous about how he would play. You get it, Antwone? Nobody’s that secure. We’re all a little scared. Hey, listen,” Brenden went on, “I’ve been thinking. I bet you could use a little R & R out of this place. You’re probably going a little stir-crazy.”
“What do you mean?” Carver asked. “Aren’t you all watching me in case I decide to take the pipe again?”
“Antwone,” Brenden said seriously, “I don’t think that will ever happen again. I think you’ve got too much to live for, and I think you know that.”
The man’s silence was a tacit admission, as far as Brenden was concerned.
“So anyway, I’ve arranged with the hospital for you and me to take a road trip.”
“Where are we going?” Carver asked.
“That,” Brenden said, smiling, “is a secret, but I think you’ll like it.”
Brenden took control of the close of their session. “That will be all for today, Antwone. I think we’ve covered a lot of ground, and I hope you feel you got something out of our conversation.”
“Yeah,” the man said. “It was okay talking to you today, Doc. Okay.”
Brenden stood and opened the door, and he heard Carver reach out to pat Nelson good-bye as he wheeled past him.
AFTER THE MAN HAD left, Brenden picked up the phone and called Kat.
“Hey, Kat,” he said. “Can you get a sitter for tonight?”
“Probably,” she said. “What do you have in mind, big fella?”
“I was thinking dinner in town and a couple of drinks with my best girl. Today was a good day, Kat. I think I’m beginning to break through with Carver, and it feels good. It didn’t start off that way, but now it feels real good.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll dress up just for you.”
“You’re beautiful all the time,” Brenden said, meaning it. “Dressed or undressed.”