BELIEVE

I was there when the attack occurred. I saw everything, though it took a passage of time before I could acknowledge the magic in what happened and what was to follow.

Will had just gotten out of his car and was walking toward the front door with his keys out. He looked utterly exhausted. It was the end of another long day of counseling. Will Dyer, my husband, was a psychologist in a busy mental health clinic and, with the holidays coming up, was working overtime nearly every night due to the annual onslaught of depressed and disturbed individuals who sought help to hang on to the end of their fraying, less dependable ropes.

It had been snowing most of the day but, thankfully, the driveway had been plowed prior to Will’s arrival. I watched as he paused, his breath blowing steamy clouds as he appeared to take a moment to admire his surroundings. I had been reading and now enjoyed peering at him through the living room window and was heartened to see the satisfied look on his handsome, though obviously worn face. I was also glad that he was home.

Then, suddenly and without warning, I caught the shadow of something that at first I didn’t recognize. At the same time I could see Will’s face turn serious as though an alarm had sounded.  Just as he turned to look at the shape, I realized just what it was deliberately coming at him. I jumped up and ran to the fireplace and grabbed the poker from its stand. I could hear Will cry out in pain and fear as I opened the front door as quickly as I could. I heard the growling of a crazed animal and knew then the raccoon that was attacking Will had to be rabid.  The closest I’d ever seen a raccoon come to us was to pick through an, unfortunately, unsecured garbage can left out for pickup at the end of the driveway.

The mad, frenzied animal was clinging to Will’s arm as he struggled with it. He tried shoving, tossing the raccoon away from his body. I came up to them with the poker ready to swing once I could get a clear shot. I saw the animal had torn through Will’s jacket and had bloody flesh in its teeth and, using every ounce of strength and focus I had, I swung the metal rod and felt the sharp end connect with body and fur.  But was it enough.

The raccoon dislodged from Will and landed with a thud. I lifted and brought the rod down, all while yelling in a voice that was new to me for my husband to get in the house.  This time I saw animal blood and didn’t stop to inspect the damage. My adrenalin was screaming and I franticly beat the animal, scared to death it might get up and attack.

When I could feel again, I registered that Will had a hand on my arm and was telling me to stop, that I could stop.  I have no memory of letting the poker drop from my hand. My breath poured out like steam from a locomotive, and I leaned forward, spent, as Will led me up the porch steps and into the house. He closed the door behind us and that’s when I saw his arm. It was bright red, dripping, in tatters, and the sight of it made my blood race again.  

“Stay there!”

I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a towel and my phone. Will had followed me and, as I turned, I saw him slump and land on the kitchen floor with his back to the wall. I went to him and wrapped the towel tightly around his forearm and tied it as securely as I could. 

Then I called 911.

* * *     

“Ms. Dyer?”

“Yes!”

“Dr. Dyer’s being taken into surgery. We have to assume the animal that attacked him was rabid.  We won’t know that conclusively until we get the test results but can’t take the chance. He’s lost a lot of blood and we’re hopeful that we can save the arm. I, or someone, will be in to talk to you as soon as we have something to report.”

“Thank you.”

* * *

“Ms. Dyer?”

“Yes!”

“Dr. Dyer is in recovery. I'm afraid we couldn’t save the arm, I’m so sorry. We had to remove it just below the shoulder, mid-humerus. And we just got the results from Animal Control.  They confirmed our suspicion that the raccoon that attacked your husband was rabid. We’ve begun the rabies injections and that, along with the removal of the affected limb should be enough to save him. He’ll require another round of blood transfusions, maybe more. We’ll just have to see.”

“When can I see him?”

“Not tonight.  He’ll be sedated at least until morning.  Why don’t you go home and get some rest. This is going to be a long road for both of you.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“Ms. Dyer?”

“Yes.”

“I’m very sorry. If you need any assistance going forward to help you deal with this, please know you can call on us. There are pamphlets at the nurses’ station that spell out the different services and programs we offer.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

* *  *

I don’t remember driving myself home that night. I floated through all the necessary movements on auto and eventually found myself at the kitchen table, several pamphlets spread before me. 

Physical Therapy Following Amputation.

Support and Grief Rehabilitation Counseling.

PTSD: How to Find Help.

Prosthetics and How to Get Your Life Back.

Occupational Therapy, The New You and What You Can (and Can’t) Do.

I must be dreaming, this can’t be happening. I wanted to cry but I was too numb. I went somewhere that night, somewhere I never want to be again. It’s difficult to describe but I could imagine it being a branch of the underworld. I forced myself to stand, walk to the liquor cabinet and pour a scotch, forget the ice and swallow all of it. Then I took a conscious breath and shook my head.

“Stop it now. There's work to be done.” 

* * *

Following a week of hospital visits and well rehearsed optimism, I brought Will home.  It was his dominant hand that was missing and I could tell he sometimes forgot and then took on a baffled expression that broke me every time I saw it. I honestly didn’t know if I should just break in front of him or remain falsely upbeat; I didn’t know how to not make things worse, or better. 

“Welcome home, sweetheart. What would you like to do first?”

“I think I’ll catch up on mail in my office.”

“I left the mail on your desk, opened for you and ready to read.”

I can’t describe the look Will gave me when I said that, but I shifted instantly from broken to frozen.

“Gay, I know you mean well and I love you for it but, please, don’t coddle me. Ever.”

“I just thought. . .”

But he was already walking away. And so I let him go.

* * *

The next few weeks, Will spent the majority of the time in his office.  I gave him his space and tried to help whenever I could. I took leave from my job at the Town Hall and my volunteer position at the library. We had a visiting nurse for a time named Ellie who was as much an assist to me as she was to Will. There’s nothing harder, I thought, than being married to a professional counselor who won’t - or can't - engage. Whenever I tried to imagine what he was thinking, the frustration of it made me want to jump out of my skin. Ellie listened to me over many cups of tea and was a welcome island in the midst of the secret storm I was living in.

There then came the day that Ellie was expected to come but didn’t. I saw how late the hour was, went to Will’s office and knocked on the doorframe.

“Honey, isn’t Ellie supposed to come today?”

“I forgot to tell you, I canceled the visits.”

“You did? Why?”

“Come in, Gay. I want to discuss something with you.”

He wanted to talk! I tried not to appear as desperately hopeful as I felt.

“What is it, Will?”

“I know how I’ve been since I came home from the hospital, how I must have seemed. I had to research something and couldn’t share it with you, or anybody for that matter, until I was sure.”

I waited. It wasn’t my turn to speak yet and sensed it.

“I want you to hear me out and then we can hopefully begin healing together. I know how hard it must have been for you to stand by and watch me retreat while you’ve been trying to cope and adjust on your own. I am sorry for that, but I think I know how I can make it up to you.”

I smiled.

“I’ve done the research, Hon. I’m really excited and convinced this is the right way for me to go, but I need you to be on board or I don’t think it will work.”

“You know I’ll do anything for you, Will, for us. Just tell me.”

“Regeneration.”

“Re . . . you mean . . .”

“Yes. I’ve laid all the groundwork for the necessary steps that makes it possible for amphibians and other species to achieve it. There is absolutely nothing standing in the way of humans being able to regenerate a limb.”

“Except that it’s never been done.”

“I’ll be the first.”

“Oh, honey . . .”

“No, no. Not one word, love. Take time and do not speak on it yet. What I’ve learned, what I believe I can do needs to be cultivated, and not in any way discouraged. I’ve worked out how to get the necessary mental and physical tools to make this happen. You may have to do a little homework yourself but I need you, Gay, and all your support and belief, like I’ve never needed anything before.”

I felt tears coming and ran to take Will in my arms for the first time since he’d come home. At last now he wasn’t just back; he’d come back to me.

“I’ll do it. Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

* * *

When the hospital called to arrange an appointment for Will to see their orthotic expert about being fitted for a prosthetic arm, I put it off time and again. Sometimes I would make the appointment, only to cancel.  I told them Will was keeping up with his physical therapy at home and was making strides, all while learning to live with the limitations. And that he may opt not to have a prosthetic. 

The hospital continued to impress upon me, and Will when he would answer the phone, which was rare, what a great rehabilitation psychologist they had on staff. Were we having issues with PTSD? Depression? Sadness, anger, grief?  That was an easy one. My husband is a trained psychologist, a good one, but thank you so much for thinking of us.

I began spending days, hour after hour with Will’s books, trying to absorb what I could from volumes with such weighty subject matter as Regeneration; Battle For Your Mind; Regeneration: Conditions and Methods; Timeless Secrets of Health and Regeneration; Regeneration: A Complete History of Healing; and Regeneration Made New by Spirit.

We threw away the pamphlets I’d brought home from the hospital that transformative night. Will continued to spend hours and hours in his office with the door closed and locked. I sensed that I shouldn’t pry into specifics. This is something that he believed, and he was something that I believed. I continued to hope it would be enough. For exactly what, I had only a vague notion, but I also had resolve. 

Will was something firm and solid and hadn't disappointed me whenever I put my faith in him. He was far from perfect, as was I, but we had survived our trying times and the tests life had thrown our way. Ultimately, we'd come out the other end realizing our together was better than being apart. Yes, this was something I could do.

* * *

I remember the day. There was an unexpected knock at the front door. Will’s office door was closed so I took the initiative.

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Dyer? We’re from Mental Health Services. We’d like to speak to Dr. Dyer, if we could?”

“I’m sorry, he’s resting at the moment and can’t be disturbed. Would you be able to come back another time?”

The two men were then joined by a serious looking woman wheeling a gurney equipped with what I can only describe as restraining straps.

“Apologies, ma’am, we come with an order.”

I looked briefly at the sheet of paper presented to me because suddenly the two men rushed past me and into my home.

“Now, please tell us where the doctor is.”

“I . . .”

I glanced again at the document and could only make out the word, “Commitment.”

Just then, Will emerged from his office.

“Hello, how may I help?”

The two men looked at me and then at the paper I held in my hand. I crossed the room to Will and we read it together. It was an order of involuntary commitment for evaluation to his own mental health clinic. But who . . . when we got to the signature page, there were several signatures. I didn't recognize any of them.

“Will, who . . .”

“It’s all right. You just be strong, Gay. Can you do that?”

I looked at Will, and nodded.

“Yes.”

“Well, then, gentlemen, shall I pack a bag?”

* * *

Will was held on involuntary confinement and evaluation for the very minimum duration due to his cooperation and sound appearance. Apparently, and I had surmised this, he was treating patients remotely through computer and some had complained that he was growing less conventional and speaking more spiritually, less “grounded.” In short, he’d changed and his patients were concerned that he needed help as much as they.

The commitment was designed to see if his suspected disconnect was due to the trauma of the attack or something else.

Then he made an unfortunate, though understandable, blunder. While in confinement, he’d confided his belief in regeneration to someone other than me; a covert investigator from hospital administration tasked with digging and gathering information.

At that point it was deemed that he be held indefinitely, until a court order could set him free. He was thus branded as delusional, a nut job. He lost his practice. He was sued by some of his patients who claimed he’d defrauded them.  He lost his certification and his license to counsel. He’d forfeited his reputation. That was over.

As a result, I had to sell our home that we’d shared for twenty-two years. I’d sold most of our belongings and cashed in most of our investments to pay the expenses of defending Will against the growing barrage of vitriol that came our way, so easy for anyone with any sort of association with Will to partake . 

It became plain to me that our demise empowered others, a celebration that we were to be no longer enviable, a gauge for success.  The irony struck me that that was as far from our once innocent personal goals as one could get. We’d just wanted to be happy. A random diseased animal had upset the plan and, as such, given society license to point and to pounce.

I now lived alone in a small apartment and dealt with legalities and paperwork. I visited Will whenever I was allowed. If he was suffering, it didn't show. My driving force was that I’d never believed in anything so much as what we were attempting to do, together. Not that I didn't envision my other available path. I was completely entitled to be bitter, resentful and no one could blame me if I just walked away. But I had other things that propelled me; a history with a good person, an instinct and a will. 

* * *

Will had been confined now for nearly four months. I signed in at the front desk following another tedious exercise of being screened, my belongings searched. I filled out the forms that were placed in front of me. Only then I was allowed into the visitation area. Not like that of prison life, I imagined, but not that far from it. I had a care package of comforts that had been picked over and deemed safe. 

This Will that I was met with was new to me, and not in a negative way. 

“What?”

“Look.”

My “crazy” husband looked around, carefully peeled back a shirt sleeve to expose in all its miraculous glory something I’d remembered reading about, a blastema formation. In laymen’s terms, a growth, a beginning, and, oh, so much more.

 SO. MUCH. MORE.

And so began a new chapter.

THE BEGINNING