Did It All Before

Excerpt

Did It All Before
Cynthia Hamill © 2021
All Rights Reserved

Scott opens his eyes slowly as he steps out of the darkroom. The small lamp on his bedside cabinet provides only a shadowy glow over the flat, and he shuffles toward it with a yawn, finally ready for sleep.

When he’d started renting this place in Camden three years ago, it was meant to be somewhere to crash between jobs, a glorified storage locker with a shower. It’s square and plain, his bed on one side and galley kitchen on the other, decorated only with photos and trinkets from his travels. After the accident, when it became clear he’d be grounded for a few months, he transformed the bathroom by draping a blackout curtain around the door and setting a plank over the bathtub for his chemical trays. There, he can flip on the fan and work for hours, just feet away physically but miles away mentally from his bed, where insomnia and nightmares crowd out any hope of sleep.

His darkroom habit is his only connection to photography these days. He hasn’t picked up his camera since he left the hospital in January; it’s in pieces, after all, his £3,200 digital Canon collecting dust in his cupboard. Scott never did find out who collected it from the scene and sent it along with him in the ambulance. They shouldn’t have bothered; he can’t bring himself to touch the thing, even to throw it out. Instead, he finds solace in the undeveloped film from his 35mm Leica.

Film is reserved for London, family, and home, where there are no publishing deadlines to meet or editors to please. He has compiled quite a collection of undeveloped rolls over the last few years; being home only a day or two at a time had given him a chance to take pictures but not develop them before he’d be on his way again, so his desk drawer holds a grab bag of birthday parties, impromptu picnics, and London day trips. He never knows what will appear on the long strip of film, but he knows what won’t. There will be no Ukraine, no Kabul, no Delhi; no plane crashes, no war zones, no children dying in poverty.

Last night, the roll he processed had turned out to be all Olivia and Thomas, two years ago at Christmas. Scott’s heart clenched pleasantly when the images appeared, remembering how he and his sister had sprinkled jelly babies and crisps in the garden for reindeer food because Thomas thought that’s what they’d like. Tonight, Scott picks out a few frames to print for Olivia, of their mum filling stockings and Thomas’s astonished reaction to his new toy train. He spends time printing the images, making sure the contrast is perfect. His eyes finally get heavy as he places the last few photographs on the drying rack.

The sky is not yet lightening. Scott picks up his phone from the bedside cabinet to check the time. Thursday, the 19th of May, 4:07 a.m. An appointment reminder lights up, and shit, today is his first session with the new guy Dr Coulter wants him to see.

At least the appointment isn’t until two.

After he crosses the day off his calendar with his black Sharpie (he’s up to day one hundred fifty-nine) and sends a quick goodnight message on WhatsApp, Scott arranges himself in bed, flat on his back with his bad arm propped up on pillows. He’ll get a few hours of sleep after all.

*

The first thing Scott notices when he opens the door marked Dr Jason Andrews is the welcoming light-herbal scent in the air, so different from the antiseptic smell of the other doctors’ offices he’s visited. He removes his sunglasses to a room that feels like the lobby of a spa, with warm tan walls decorated with Japanese prints and sisal rugs on the floors. There is music behind it all, a soft percussion of drum and flute. When he closes the door behind him, he feels far away from the noise and clamour of Stratford.

Behind the reception desk sits a woman, probably about his mum’s age, with a soft apple face and kind eyes. She stands and extends her hand. “Scott?”

“Yes, hello.” Scott offers his left hand instead of his right, and they both chuckle a little, looking down at his splinted arm under his jacket. Transparent moulded plastic holds his arm in an L-shape, and the elastic bandage he wears from his forearm to his shoulder is visible underneath it.

“My name is Monica. It’s lovely to meet you.” She looks him in the eye when she speaks, which catches Scott off guard. “Let’s take you back. Follow me?”

They make their way to a room that is too brightly lit; Scott looks mostly at the floor until his eyes adjust, and Monica turns down the dimmer on the wall.

“Here is some paperwork for you. You’ll see it’s quite involved, but Dr Andrews would like as much detail as possible, so please be thorough. Drop it in the slot outside the door when you’re finished, and he’ll be right with you.”

She leaves him with a pleasant smile, and it takes Scott a minute to get comfortable. The splint makes him take up more space in the chair than he’d thought, so he teeters on the edge, slanting the clipboard on his lap. Fucking forms. If Scott had a pound for every form he’s filled out over the last five months, he could buy himself a bionic arm and be done with it.

The top part is easy, and he fills in his name, address, and contact information.

Referred by: Dr Lance Coulter, Royal National Orthopaedic Hospital

Emergency contact: Olivia RoweRelationship: sister

He fills out her phone number, wondering what could happen to him in this quiet place that would warrant a call. At its very worst, it could only be an improvement over the last emergency call she’d received.

Occupation: Photojournalist

The word comes easily by habit. But as he crosses his t’s, Scott takes a beat, not sure if he can still properly call himself that. He’s officially off roster at Getty and The Times. “Indefinite leave of absence” was what they’d termed it. But the alternative is to write “Unemployed,” so he lets it lie.

Have you ever been under the care of a doctor of osteopathy? No

Have you ever had a professional massage? No

Do you have any particular goals for this session? (Scott considers writing “to get my doctor off my back” but changes his mind.) Recommended treatment by orthopaedic surgeon

Do you have any difficulty lying on your front, back, or side? Cannot lie on right side (temporarily).

Are you currently under the care of a traditional medical doctor? Yes

Scott lists his primary doctor, his orthopaedic surgeon, his dermatologist, his ophthalmologist, and his ear, nose, and throat doctor. He leaves the burn specialist off the list; she released him almost two months ago. After a moment of debate, he adds his physiotherapist, even though their visit a week ago ended with a shouting match and a slammed door. She’d been frustrated with him, and Scott had been stubborn. He’s not sure he’s going back.

List prescription medications you take currently. (He’d finished the last of the pain meds early on; over-the-counter scar-reducing gel doesn’t count.) None

Are you a smoker? (The answer depends on the day, as well as the continent and the company.) Not often

Do you drink alcohol? (This one is tougher. Scott sighs and stares at the line, weighing his options. He considers leaving this one blank.) Sometimes

Take recreational drugs? No

Please indicate “Y” for “Yes” and “N” for “No” to indicate occurrence of the following conditions. Do you wear contact lenses? Hearing aids? Any known allergies or sensitivities to topical applications? High blood pressure? Diabetes? Epilepsy? Cancer? No, no, no, no, no, no, no. No Pregnancy, no Ulcer, no Abdominal pain or HIV virus.

The momentum takes him, and he almost blows by Serious accident. He scans down a bit further. Should he call it Serious accident or Recent surgery? Or maybe Fractures? He circles Y next to all three.

He hesitates next to Insomnia and Headaches, then circles N next to these as well. This doctor doesn’t need to know everything.

If you are currently experiencing discomfort, tension, or injury, please indicate on the following diagram and describe in detail below.

Scott stares at the line drawing of a genderless human figure, a blank canvas waiting for embellishment. This should be fun. He can’t resist drawing shoulder-length wavy hair on the person’s head, along with his two tattoos, a heart on the shoulder and compass on the forearm. Then he gets down to business.

Scott doesn’t catalogue the ruptured eardrums, the concussion, and the corneal perforation, since they’ve long since healed. The lacerations on his face and neck are gone, too, except for the long, angry line on his jaw. He concentrates on the arm, drawing a line through the upper right humerus. “Compound fracture.” He circles the elbow. “Avulsed radial head.” They’d required multiple surgeries, the last of which had been six weeks ago, to clean up the scar tissue at his elbow. But the contusions on his forearm and the minor wrist sprain have healed, so he draws an arrow toward them with the label “wrist and hand fine!” along with a smiley face. He draws X’s from the shoulder to the forearm and all over the right torso, front and back. “Second-degree burns (scarring).”

That should do it. Gorgeous.

Scott places the finished questionnaire in the slot outside the door, and sees no one in the hall.

Once back inside, he takes in the room. It’s got the organised feel of a doctor’s examination room, but instead of an exam table covered by a paper sheet, there is a massage table in the centre of the room made up with sheets and a blanket. There is a stainless-steel sink in the corner, with real towels instead of paper ones, and next to them, a tray of brown glass vials. A slow cooker is plugged in on the counter next to a jade plant and some crystals, gems, and rocks; in front of them a large white feather rests on a piece of red fabric. Soft music filters from the speakers on the ceiling.

He’s about to read the framed certificates on the wall when there is a knock at the door.

“Hi, Scott. I’m Dr Andrews.” He places a bottle of water on the counter and extends his left hand for Scott to shake as if it’s completely normal. His hand is warm. “You can call me Jason.”

“Hello.”

“I feel like I know you after reading the information Lance sent over.” Dr Andrews gestures down to the packet in his hand. There’s the questionnaire Scott filled out, but there’s a thick file underneath, too, labelled, Rowe, Scott.

A thrum ripples through Scott’s stomach. Shit.

“So. You’ve been through a hell of a lot,” Dr Andrews states, with direct eye contact, just as Monica had done. “I’m glad you decided to come see us.”

“Well, I didn’t think I had much of a choice, to be honest.” Scott tries to lighten the sting with an unenthused chuckle, but that sounds harsh too.

“Understood.” Dr Andrews gives him a nod, glancing down at Scott’s splint, then flips the questionnaire over so Scott’s drawing faces them. It seems strange now, like someone else’s drawing of a person he doesn’t recognise.

“Well, I’ve looked over all of this, and I’m happy to say you’re an excellent candidate for this type of work. As you know, I’m not a traditional medical doctor. I’m an osteopathic physician, so I have a DO after my name instead of an MD. I did go to medical school, and I can write prescriptions like a traditional doctor does, though I’d really rather not. I have additional training in what some call alternative healing paradigms—acupuncture, Reiki, and massage therapy, among some others.”

All this makes perfect sense to Scott because this man looks like no other doctor he’s ever seen. He doesn’t have a stethoscope, or a watch, or even a pen in his pocket like other doctors do. And instead of a white coat, Dr Andrews is dressed in blue trackies, a jumper with the sleeves rolled up, and trainers, like a uni athlete might be. A headband holds his longish hair off his forehead, and light stubble shades his face. Scott counts at least three tattoos on his right forearm: an ocean wave, a hand, and a tree.

“Do you have any questions about what I do?” Dr Andrews asks.

“No, I don’t think so. Dr Coulter said you could help me prevent a frozen shoulder.” What the hell, he’s got my file anyway. “And maybe get my headaches down to a dull roar.”

“Yes. I think we have a great shot at both. Osteopaths believe the body works as an entire system. We can’t treat one area independently of the others. For instance, if you’re in any kind of pain, physical or otherwise, you’re not sleeping. If you’re not sleeping, your immune system, digestion, brain function, they’re all impaired. Not surprising that you’d have headaches and your recovery would suffer. And no sleep means no dreams, which is a whole other story. But there are simple treatments that can help with all of that.”

Scott studies his splint. So he knows about the insomnia. He must know about my eyes and ears too. “All right. Except, I’d prefer no needles today if you don’t mind.”

“That’s fine. No needles today.”

“Brilliant.”

“Now let’s have a look at you.” Dr Andrews reaches both hands under Scott’s jaw. “The explosion happened, when? Last December?”

“Five months ago.” Five months, one week, two days, and three hours, give or take, depending on the time zone; technically, Scott had gained five hours flying back to London from Kabul, though he’d lost a day and a half being unconscious.

“And how would you say you’re feeling right now?” Dr Andrews presses his fingertips under Scott’s jawline, then rolls them down the sides of his neck. It tickles a little and makes Scott’s shoulders tense. The doctor examines his skin intently, and Scott feels like a specimen in a Petri dish.

Scott searches for a truth he can tell. “I’m, uh, feeling all right.”

“All right?”

“Yeah,” Scott sighs. “But my surgeon and my physio think I should be making more progress.”

Dr Andrews raises an eyebrow.

Scott picks his words carefully. “I mean, they think I should be using my arm more than…what I feel comfortable with right now. So.”

“I see. Are you in any pain today?”

“No, it’s more just uncomfortable. Everything feels stiff.” And my skin is scarred. My ears ring, and my eyes don’t always work right. There was a bomb.

“Can I look at your eyes for a minute?”

Scott nods, and the doctor places his thumb under Scott’s eye and pulls down gently to examine the tissues inside.

“Look at that tree over there,” Dr Andrews says, gesturing behind him to a watercolour cherry blossom.

Scott stares, trying to focus. But he can hardly keep his eye open, even in the dim light, and has to concentrate to keep from blinking. It’s a painting, damn it, just look at it. His nose starts to burn and a lump grows in his throat.

“Now this side,” the doctor says quietly, switching eyes while Scott presses his lips together with the effort of focusing across the room. Finally, Dr Andrews picks up the water bottle and unscrews the cap. “Drink some of that, please?”

Scott takes a sip. The doctor waits, and Scott takes a bigger gulp.

“Well done.” Dr Andrews turns to his files on the counter. “Lance filled me in on the circumstances of the accident. I was very sorry to hear about your interpreter. His name was Omran?”

Dr Andrews says it with an “oh” at the beginning, the same way Scott had done before Omran taught him the proper pronunciation. But the fact that he mentions him at all takes Scott by surprise. People don’t talk about it. Scott knows they’re scared of the way he’ll react, or avoiding a topic they’re sure Scott would rather forget. As if he ever could.

“Oom-rahn,” Scott replies. “Omran Saleh.”

“Oom-rahn,” Dr Andrews repeats. He considers Scott curiously. “That must be very difficult for you. That he’s gone. I’m sorry.”

Scott clears his throat. “Thank you.” It’s all he can come up with. His drawing stares up from the counter like a caricature. I’m sorry.

Dr Andrews gestures to the centre of the room. “So, a bit about how this will go. You’ll be on this table, face down at first. Do you think you can handle having your face in this cradle?”

The U-shaped form is covered with a white flannel casing. Scott presses its soft surface. “Yeah, that should work.”

“If it doesn’t, we’ll do something different. The table has an extension we’ll use for your arm, so you’ll be supported there. Only the part of you we’re working on will be exposed. You’ll feel my hands on you sometimes and not at others because some of the work we’ll do doesn’t require physical touch. It might feel like a massage at times, or like physiotherapy at other times. If you’re uncomfortable or in pain, physically or otherwise, at any time, I want you to speak up, all right?”

Physically or otherwise. Scott clenches his jaw, thinking about what other kind of pain there may be. But the doctor looks him straight in the eye again, and it makes Scott feel like he’s ready for this. Scott likes the way this doctor talks, too, crisp and confident, like he’s going to take the wheel and steer them through a storm. He says, “Will do.”

“All right. Now we’ve got to pick an oil for you.” Dr Andrews turns to the tray on the counter and chooses one. “Here’s a blend that might work. Lemon and mint have invigorating properties.”

He twists open the cap on the small brown bottle and holds it under Scott’s nose. It’s bright and astringent, so fresh that it hurts Scott’s brain, and he makes a face.

“Sorry, no,” Scott says with a little chuckle.

“Understood. Let’s try this one. It’s got lavender, more for calming and relaxation.”

This time, the scent is soft, but dusty, like antique perfume. It reminds Scott of his great-aunt Margie, who died when he was little; he was scared of her, and sniffing it makes him uneasy. He shrugs and turns his face away.

“Not that one either. We’ll know it when we find it.” Dr Andrews peruses the oils and chooses another. “Ah, this one might be better, called arnica.” He puts it under Scott’s nose. It’s piney, but gentle, with a hint of orange or grapefruit underneath. It’s like the woods in spring.

Scott makes a happy sound before he can catch himself.

“That’s it,” says Dr Andrews, smiling. “Thought so.”

“Yes,” Scott says. “That’s definitely it.” He wants to take a bath in it, right now, and every day until he’s ninety.

“Now, please disrobe all the way and lie on the table face down, with your face in the cradle. Cover up as best you can. The table is heated, so we can adjust the temperature if we need to. Any questions?”

Scott looks at the table, with the extension right where it should be to support his arm. He takes a shallow breath. “Um, no, I think I’m good.”

“All right. I’ll leave you to it.”

Once the door is shut, Scott kicks off his shoes and returns to the certificates on the wall as he unbuttons his shirt. Bachelor of Science, University of Sheffield. Doctor of Osteopathy, British College of Osteopathic Medicine. Reiki Master, UK Reiki Federation. He skims over several others, wondering how the doctor made the time for all of this schooling when he can’t be much older than Scott.

The flannel sheets are warm when Scott slides between them. It takes an awkward minute to get his splinted arm situated on the table, and he rests his face in the cradle with a few seconds to spare before the soft knock at the door.

“Ready, Scott?”

“Yes, come in.”

The door clicks shut, and there’s the soft creak of the floorboards.

“Comfortable?”

“Yes, I think so.” Scott fidgets as Dr Andrews walks around to his injured side.

“Nice colours on your splint. Your kids do that for you?”

Scott lifts his head to see the doctor pointing at the crooked words and bright faces, along with Iron Man and a blue T-Rex.

“Uh, no, that’s my nephew. Thomas. He’s eight.”

Dr Andrews tucks the blanket carefully over Scott’s arm and up to the nape of his neck. “Looks like you’re his superhero.”

“Yeah. When I got home, we explained to him about the accident, and that I was…well, that I caught fire for a bit. At first he was terrified, but then the gross factor won out because, you know, being eight. Anyway, he decided I’m fireproof, and I’m Tony Stark’s British cousin or something. It’s kind of a running joke with us now.”

“Fireproof. I like it.”

An arm slides under Scott’s ankles, lifting them, while a pillow is fit underneath. Dr Andrews adjusts his legs so they rest farther apart, and aaahhh, yes, that’s better, they sink into the table as if they weigh ten stone each.

Dr Andrews tucks the blanket around his feet. “Since you’re face down, I’m going to turn the lights up, all right?”

“No problem.”

“How’s the temperature of the table?”

“It’s good.” Scott forgets about fire, splints, and scars for a minute, amazed at how those few small adjustments could make his body feel balanced and at ease.

“Good. If you’re ready, we’ll start.”

“Ready.” As ever.

Scott waits for some movement, but instead, there is stillness and silence, with Dr Andrews standing at the head of the table. Should something be happening?

After a long moment, Dr Andrews peels the blanket from Scott’s back to rest at his waist. Here it comes. Scott braces for the doctor’s reaction to the pits and streaks of his scars. But if Dr Andrews thinks anything of them, he doesn’t say; there is only the swish of hands rubbing together and the lovely smell of pine and citrus. Scott’s legs get jumpy for a second.

“I’d like you to take three breaths, deep as you can.”

Easy. Scott inhales, and hands press into his back, close on either side of his spine. They are hot, as if he’s been warming them in front of a fire, or holding a hot cup of tea, and they glide back up toward his neck as Scott exhales. They go again, pressing down a bit harder on the inhale and easing up on the exhale. It feels good, no bother to Scott’s skin or shoulder. The third time is slower, the pressure deeper, and it makes Scott cough.

“Water?”

“Nope, sorry about that,” Scott says.

“No apologies, just get that stuff out.” The doctor kneads between Scott’s shoulder blades with the heels of his hands.

“What stuff?”

“Whatever’s in there that needs to come out.”

Next, he feels a forearm slide over the width of his back. It rolls in long strokes like a steamroller forcing the air out, and although Scott tries to stifle the annoying tickle in his throat, he starts to cough again.

“Jeez, sorry.” He cough-chuckles, embarrassed, as Dr Andrews brings him water. Scott shifts as best he can to his good side to take it.

“This is a good start,” Dr Andrews says.

After a few sips the tickle calms down. “I’m not even sick. I don’t get it.”

“It’s okay. When you’re ready we’ll do some more.”

Scott hands him the bottle and gets resettled, taking a breath and clearing his throat.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

Scott’s shoulders feel stiff under the pressure of Dr Andrews’s arm, but he sinks slightly deeper into the table. He wonders if he’s coming down with a cold, or if he’s allergic to something in the room. He hopes it’s not the arnica. The smell is comforting and familiar already; he breathes it in, and darkness welcomes him, rich and deep, a perfect place for him to escape to for a bit. A deep purple shape swirls next to another of forest-green. Scott watches them dance, and his face relaxes into the cradle. Soft, he thinks, and free, as they get smaller and bigger, closer, then farther away. Little dots of white light sparkle too. The scene is beautiful and gentle and calms his nerves a bit; he finds that concentrating on it helps his throat keep quiet.

It’s Dr Andrews’s voice that makes the colours drop away; Scott remembers where he is as the blanket is pulled up to cover his shoulders.

“Your hands are cold, Scott. Would you be all right with some warm stones?”

Scott tries not to seem lost. “Um, where?”

“In your hands. Want to feel them first to make sure?”

“Okay.” Warm stones? Scott wonders if he misunderstood.

He hears the clank of the slow cooker lid bumping against the counter, then the rumble of rocks knocking together.

“First one.” Dr Andrews flattens Scott’s good hand gently and places the rock in it. It’s smooth, hot, and exactly the size of his palm. “How does that feel?”

Weird. “Good? I guess?”

“Ok, I’ll wrap it up.” Dr Andrews winds a soft towel around Scott’s hand, binding the stone inside.

“Other side now. Hot rock.”

Heat seeps into Scott’s cold fingers as the doctor wraps the second stone. Now both of his hands are weighted down, and he must look ridiculous, but he feels heavy and tired and warm and taken care of, so he lets go, for a second, of the protection and defence.

The shapes begin to move again in front of his closed eyes. It’s fuzzy at first, like a photograph covered with fog, but colours and lines slowly take the form of a mountain, then a treeline. The sky is a midnight-blue bowl overhead with sparkling stars beginning to shine through. He’s at home here, far away in this remote, wide-open place that shows no evidence of modern life. He’s so tired suddenly, and comfortable in this warm cocoon of a room; he realises he must be falling asleep, that this must be a dream.

No, not now. He doesn’t want to lose the thread of what’s going on in this room. But what happened to the doctor? Scott doesn’t feel his hands anywhere.

“Dr Andrews?”

“Did you go away for a minute?” Dr Andrews answers softly, and Scott is surprised at how close he is, right up next to him on his injured side. He’s covered up to his neck by the blanket, and now there’s a warm weight covering the length of his back.

“I guess I did. What are you doing?”

“Working on your shoulder.” Scott doesn’t feel a thing. No pressure, heat, or movement, but he can hear Dr Andrews’s breathing, deep and regular right beside him. Scott tries to relax his shoulder and make his arm heavy so whatever the doctor is doing can find its way in.