Fix Me

lf and the situation. The bruises on Bree’s body worried me. I knew they were just bruises, but I couldn’t stop my brain from going a little overboard. I had created scenarios that ended with her suffering some horrible injury. I thought about her lying on the floor, unconscious and bleeding with no one there to help her.

Rationally, I knew it could happen to anyone. The irrational side of me feared for her because of her inability to see. I worried she couldn’t care for herself. Not yet. She had not fully embraced her visual impairment and therefore hadn’t got herself a walking stick or learned how to step to avoid trips. She was visiting the land of darkness and acting like a tourist. If she planned on living their full time, she had to make some changes.

I had the responsibility of encouraging her to make those changes. I was not going to pressure her about the surgery. I understood. She didn’t want it. That meant she had to start making some changes and accepting her life for what it was.

“Luke?” she called out when she came through the door.

“I’m here,” I said, as I walked towards her.

“I’m tired. I think I’ll lay down for a bit.”

She had been very subdued since the discovery of her bruises. I knew she was embarrassed, and I was trying to pretend it wasn’t a big deal for her sake, but deep down, it was killing me. “Why don’t I get you some tea and a couple ibuprofen.”

She offered a small smile. “They don’t hurt that bad,” she said, knowing exactly why I was suggesting it.

“But they do hurt.”

“A little.”

I walked her into her room and helped her find something to change into. “I’ll be back in five. Do you want a snack?”

“No thanks.”

I went into the kitchen and put on the tea kettle before finding the painkillers. I couldn’t shake the guilty feeling. She had been injured and didn’t tell me. If it had been my mother that tripped, there would have been an ambulance called and a great deal of drama. I felt like a total dick for thinking Bree and my mother were the same. Bree was strong. She was trying to be stronger than she really was.

She didn’t tell me about her fall because she didn’t trust me. That hurt. I thought we made up for my shitty behavior earlier in the week, but I sensed she was still holding back. She was still guarded. She was afraid I would see her as weak and unworthy.

I spaced out, thinking about my mom and my life in general. Was I doing the right thing? Maybe it was me trying to feel better about myself by gravitating towards people that needed me. I didn’t want Bree to need me. I was sure of that. But I did like being the one she leaned on. It did make me feel good. Was I using her injury to make myself feel better?

The sound of the whistling tea kettle pulled me out of my daydream. I would do what was best for Bree. I would get her through the next few weeks and encourage her to seek out some professional help from a skilled rehab specialist. I would take a step back and let her do this part on her own. If and when she was ready, we could be together.

“Bree?” I called out, letting her know I was coming into the room.

“I’m decent,” she answered.

I smiled. It was a little silly for us to observe such formalities. I had seen her naked several times, but we were supposed to keeping a professional distance. She was sitting in her favorite chair by the window. I carried the tea over and sat in the empty chair next to hers. “Here,” I said, putting the pills in her hand.

She held out her other hand, waiting for the cup. “Thank you.”

“It was a nice day at the beach,” I commented.

She shrugged. “It was.”

“Everything okay?” I asked, afraid she was falling back into that depression that seemed to always be hovering.

“Yes.”

I saw a tear slide down her cheek and knew she was definitely not okay. “Do you feel like talking about it?” I gently asked.

She blew out a breath. “I don’t know what there is to talk about. I don’t even really know why I’m sad. I feel such a heavy despair, it weighs me down. Every time I think I’m going to be okay and things look up, it’s like a little monster reaches up and pulls me back into the pit. Why won’t it just let me go?”

I didn’t know a lot about depression, but as a nurse, I was trained to look for the signs and when to send a patient for professional help. “Have you talked to someone?” I asked.

She smiled as she turned to look at me. “If you mean a shrink, I did a few times when I was recovering. I don’t feel like I need therapy. I need to just be me again.”

“You need to talk to someone about how you feel.”

“I’m talking to you.”