A Special Kind of Love

By Jeanette Muscella

We like to think of ourselves as superhuman but in the real world; events happen in our lives that we cannot control. The trick is to catch yourself before you slide off a cliff. The trick is reaching out to those around you who will love and support you, no matter what you look like, or how shitty you act. Suicide is the action of a desperate person. The depths of mental depression know no limits, and it is effortless to slip into a dark place where nothing hurts.

After a debilitating injury, Doctor Mike Jessup has to re-evaluate his life, and it’s not an easy task. His life changed in the blink of an eye, and life for him will never be the same. Then, one day, he meets a little boy named Billy, and from that day forward, Mike’s life will be forever changed.

The road to Mike’s happiness is paved with broken glass. He treads lightly, hoping he will reach the other side. Can a young widow with two small children help Mike navigate this road to happiness?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeanette Muscella
• Release date: Oct 22, 2018
• ISBN: 9781532384776

Jeanette Muscella

I live in Philadelphia PA and I work for a major mortgage company. I love to read and this is one of the reasons why I decided to write this book. In my spare time I crochet hats and booties for premature babies and donate them to a local hospital.

Book preview

A Special Kind of Love

By

Jeanette Muscella

Copyright © 2018 Jeanette Muscella

ISBN: 978-1-5323-8477-6

This book is the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed for any commercial or non-commercial use without permission from the author. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and download your copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

I would like to thank my good friends Maria, Emma, Marthea, and Theresa, for your constant support and encouragement. I would also like to thank MaryAnne, who was kind enough to be one of my beta readers. And as always, this book is for you, Dad.

Chapter 1

My name is Michael Jessup, and the day that changed my life started at five thirty in the evening. As I was leaving my office, I called my girlfriend, Lauren.

I’m leaving the office now. What time are you coming home tonight? Do you want me to start dinner?

I won’t be home until after eleven. Eat without me.

What’s going on, Lauren? How many days are you going to avoid me?

Why do you think I’m avoiding you?

What else could it be? I haven’t questioned why, but I am now. You’ve changed your shift without discussing it with me. Why are you avoiding me? Lauren sighs into the phone, and now I know she is hiding something from me.

Mike, I am not avoiding you. I have no control sometimes on what hours I have to work, and you know it. Stop questioning me!

I will stop questioning you when you tell me the goddamn truth!

I don’t have time for this now, Mike. My rounds start in a few minutes.

How convenient for you, isn’t it? When you feel like talking, you know where I am!

I am distracted by my phone call with Lauren, and I am angry. I walk the few blocks from the hospital to my favorite café. As I am about to open the door, my phone beeps with a message from Lauren.

I need to talk to you when I get home.

No apology. I respond. Are you okay?

No.

Concerned, I reply, Is something wrong?

Yes.

I am still looking down at my phone when I open the door, and because I am looking down at my phone, I fail to see what is happening in front of me. Two armed men are in the process of robbing the café. As soon as the door closes behind me, I feel the muzzle of a gun press into the back of my neck, and I am shoved further into the café.

Get on the fucking floor, or I’ll shoot your head off!

I do as he says, and get on the floor, face down. The woman lying next to me is crying, and she is irritating the man standing over me. He walks over to her and kicks her in the stomach.

I told you to shut the fuck up!

I can see the other man behind the counter, and he looks strung out on something. His hand is shaking as he holds the gun to the owner’s head.

Hurry up, man. We have to get out of here before anyone sees us. Give me the money.

All I can think about is the gun at my back. He is still pointing it at me. There are only nine people in the café, and six of us are face down on the floor. The woman next to me will not shut the fuck up, and the man behind me becomes unhinged. I reach out to hold her hand, thinking this may calm her, but it only pisses off the guy behind me. Then I hear the gun go off, and I feel the bullet hit my arm. No, that’s incorrect. It shattered my forearm.

The other people on the floor start screaming, and the guy behind the counter is pistol-whipped and left bleeding on the floor. Several things happen at once. My vision blurs as the pain hits me head-on. I’m bleeding out. I do not want to die on a dirty fucking floor. I feel someone take off my coat and wrap something around my arm. It feels tight. I hear sirens and people rushing to help me. Then…the world goes dark.

When I open my eyes again, I see lights flashing over me. I’m on a gurney, and there are several people around me screaming and barking orders. I try to listen to what they are saying, but the pain is so intense, I can’t breathe, and when I try to move my fingers, nothing happens. I try to speak, but I am too weak. That’s the last thing I remember.

oOo

The sounds of clicking and beeping are the first things I hear when I open my eyes. The room is semi-dark. What time is it? Slowly, my eyes adjust to the dimness of the hospital room. I am afraid to look at my arm because somewhere deep within me, I know the outcome, and when I look down, my worst fear is now a reality. I have lost a part of my forearm and my hand. What I see now are bandages and blood. Life as I know it is over.

The days pass by me in a blur of noise and pain, and I don’t know how long I’ve been in this drug-induced state of denial. Faces that I don’t recognize come in and out of my room. I vaguely remember speaking to some of them. The morphine dulls the pain, but it also dulls my mind. My parents have been in and out of the room several times. The nurse has been gradually reducing my morphine drip because now I feel the most intense pain that I’ve ever felt in my life. My eyes tear up when the nurse touches my…my…stump, to change the bandage. I want to die. Why didn’t I die? I know the drill, and as if on cue, my doctor makes an appearance. I recognize him. It’s my friend Chris Hamilton. He stops at the foot of my bed to review my chart, then looks up at me with sympathy in his eyes.

How are you feeling today, Mike?

How am I supposed to feel, Chris? Happy to be alive? Well, I’m not happy.

We have resources here in the hospital that can help you adjust to what has happened to you.

And how will they help me adjust Chris? Feed me bullshit about how lucky I am to be alive? That I can still live a fulfilling, productive life? Can they re-attach my hand?

That’s exactly what they will do, Mike. A terrible thing has happened to you, but your life is far from over. Let’s concentrate on the first phase of your recovery. I’d like to examine the incision and have the nurse re-dress the wound.

Go ahead; it’s not like I’m going anywhere.

The bandage is sticking to my arm, and it hurts like a mother fucker when Chris removes the bandages and examines the incision. I briefly look at my arm and feel the bile rise in my throat. My career as a surgeon is over. My life hangs in the balance. I want to die.

While Chris continues looking at my arm, my parents walk into the room. It’s apparent to me by their disheveled appearance that they have been in the hospital since the shooting. Where is Lauren? I don’t remember how many days it’s been, and I don’t care. Time means nothing to me now. My mother walks over to the other side of the bed, and when she bends down to kiss me, I want to cry. I want my mom to tell me everything will be okay, but I know it won’t.

The incision is healing, Mike. We should have you in rehab by the end of the week.

I don’t care what you do. Leave me alone, okay? I can’t deal with this now.

If you need me, let one of the nurses know. I’ll do whatever I can to help you.

Yeah, thanks.

oOo

It’s not lost on me that Lauren hasn’t visited me since the surgery. I’ve asked a few of the nurses to call her office, and they’ve told me that she is not returning their calls. I don’t understand why she is ignoring me. Is she repulsed by the loss of my hand? Did she come to see me when I was unconscious? I ask my mother if she has spoken to Lauren. Mom and Dad share nervous glances with each other, and now I know something is wrong.

Just tell me, Mom. What’s wrong?

Oh, honey, I don’t want to bring this up now, but I don’t want to lie to you. Lauren was here yesterday afternoon to visit you. You were asleep, so we spoke to her for a few minutes. Honey, Lauren wants to end your relationship. She told me that she would move her things out of the house before you get home.

My mind is scrambled because of the pain, so it takes me a minute or two to comprehend what I’ve just heard. All I can ask is, Why? And then, of course, I look down at what remains of my left arm, and in my heart, I already know the answer. I close my eyes and feel the tears run down the side of my face and into my hairline. My mother’s soft touch does nothing to soothe the bone-deep pain that grips me like a vice.

What else did she say?

My parents share nervous glances with each other again before my mother answers my question.

I asked her why would she do this to you when you need her. Lauren told me that the two of you have been arguing, and she wants to end the relationship. She said she was going to tell you the day of the shooting. I know it sounds terrible Mike, and I don’t know what else to say.

My mind reels at what my mother just said to me. My sense of self-worth just tanked. I thought Lauren loved me. Obviously, that’s no longer true.

What can I do for you, sweetheart? I hear my mom ask me.

Really, what can she do for me? Can you tell me I’ll get through this? I don’t know what to do! I’m scared, Mom.

My mother carefully sits on the side of my bed and holds my hand. My father stands behind her. You are a strong young man, Mike. Your recovery will be a long process, and you need to take it one day at a time. Believe it or not, you will get through this, and you will get on with your life. It may be a different life than what you had planned, but you are still the same person. I know you can do this, Mike. Your father and I will support you one hundred percent. We love you, and nothing will ever change our love for you.

I don’t feel strong, Mom. I feel helpless. My career is over.

You are not helpless, my father says to me. Use your medical knowledge, son. Keep yourself focused on the end goal, and that is to live in the moment. You cannot worry about your career. Focus on your recovery, and everything else will fall into place.

God, I hope my father is right because, at this moment, all I want to do is end this pain. After my parents leave my room, I lay in bed and stare at the ceiling. The throbbing in my arm is beyond intense, and I reach over and press the buzzer for the nurse. Several seconds later, she walks into my room.

I need you to increase the morphine drip. The pain in my arm is driving me crazy.

I am sorry, Mr. Jessup. The orders in your chart are for me to decrease the medication slowly.

She walks to the foot of the bed to review my chart. The next dose is scheduled for nine in the evening.

The nurse writes something in my chart and leaves the room. My mind blanks out for a few minutes as I try to push back the pain. Nothing can push back the pain. It radiates through my entire body like fire. I am hooked up to a few IV’s, and I have a port in my neck for the morphine drip.

My mind wanders as I try to imagine how my life will change, and I cannot accept any of it. How can I live with one hand? My surgical career is over. I can no longer play basketball, hockey, or football. Will my friends look at me differently? Lauren left me without so much as a goodbye. How cowardly of her to do this to me when I need her.

And that’s when I see a way out of this nightmare. On the food table in front of me is a ballpoint pen. The nurse left her pen on the table. I know what I need to do. I need to end this misery now. Slowly, and with great pain, I get up and out of bed, pulling the IV pole with me. I reach for the pen and drag my body into the bathroom.

When I turn on the light, what I see in the mirror truly frightens me. My face is a shell of my former self. Dark circles are around my eyes, and my face is nothing but skin and bones. I don’t recognize the face staring back at me, and what I see further solidifies my resolve.

I place the pen on the vanity, and with a trembling hand, I slowly remove the tape that is holding the port in my neck. I take a deep breath, and when I remove the port, blood spurts down the front of my gown, and nausea grips me. I know my actions will destroy my parents, but I don’t have the strength to stop the thoughts that bombard my mind. I must do this. I pick up the pen and aim it at the small hole in my neck that continues to bleed down the front of my gown. With all of the strength that I have within me, I plunge the pen into my carotid artery and pray for death.

The room spins all around me, and as my life force leaks out of my neck, what strength I have in my legs leaves me. When I fall onto the tiled floor, the IV pole falls with me, and in the process rips the IV’s out of my arm which sets off the alarm. The last thing that I remember is the sound of that fucking machine beeping in my ear as I lay on the floor bleeding out.

oOo

When I open my eyes again, my parents are sitting next to the bed. I feel like I am choking and when I raise my hand to my neck, thick bandages cover where I tried to stab myself. My father sees me touching my neck and shakes his head.

Why, Mike? Why did you try to kill yourself? Why would you hurt us this way?

I have no answer, and the only thing that I can do is turn my face away from my parents. I can’t look at them. I can’t face them. What’s left to say anyway? Oh, sorry, I botched my suicide. Let’s try it again. Sorry, Mom and Dad. Didn’t mean to hurt you. The only person I want to destroy is me. And by doing so, I hurt my parents. My father is still talking to me.

Why, Mike? I’d like an answer!

It’s my life and my decision if I want to end it. The way I see it, my life will never be the same, and I don’t want to live with one hand.

I will never forget the look on my father’s face as he gets up out of his chair, dragging my mother with him. He turns to look at me one last time, and what comes out of his mouth hurts me more than my arm.

If you want to die, we won’t stop you.

Hot tears erupt from my eyes as I watch my parents walk out of my room. My hand goes up to my neck again, and my father’s words loop in my mind. We won’t stop you. Is he taunting me to try it again? Does he no longer love me? What have I done?

The next day, I receive a visit from the resident shrink, Joe Wilkinson. He takes a few minutes to review my chart, then checks the wound on my neck. He pulls over a chair and sits on the side of my bed.

How are you feeling today, Mike?

Anger rises in me. How many times have I heard that fucking question? How do you think I fucking feel? I tried to kill myself. Shouldn’t that give you some indication of my current state of mind?

I talked to your parents a few minutes ago. They are very concerned about you.

Tell me something I don’t already know.

You are very angry. It’s a statement, not a question.

Of course, I’m angry! Look at my fucking arm! Wouldn’t you also be angry?

Yes, I would be angry, even outraged, but ending your life is not the answer. It’s a very selfish thing to do to your parents, and to the people who love you.

Tell that to my girlfriend who dumped my sorry ass at the first sign of trouble. She didn’t have the balls to tell me to my face.

That’s not a valid reason to commit suicide, is it? Joe asks me.

I can give you more than one reason why I want to kill myself.

Aside from your girlfriend, what are the reasons?

I think about Joe’s question, and the truth stings. Every excuse that I’ve thought of is superficial. Playing sports, hanging out with my friends, my career. All of it means nothing in the grand scheme of things, and I suddenly feel very remorseful, and ashamed.

I can tell by the look on your face that your reasons are not valid ones. You’ve acted irrationally, and in the process, hurt yourself and your family. Am I correct?

Um…yes.

Your life is not over Mike, but you will have a long road to face once you leave the hospital.

I know, and I’m scared.

I can help you if you will let me. You are not my first patient who has suffered a debilitating injury, and you are certainly not my first patient who considered suicide as a way out of the pain. Your life drastically changed in a matter of minutes, and it will take months, maybe years, to adjust to what awaits you. Let us help you, Mike. Our PT department has excellent therapists who will help you to adjust.

I have to know something. Is it possible for me to have a productive life with this limitation? Don’t bullshit me, Joe. Tell me the truth.

Yes, it is possible to have a productive life, but getting to that point in your life will take determination and focus. It won’t be easy for you, but it is possible if you keep an open mind and commit to the therapy. What you did yesterday was wrong, Mike. I think you know this. I also believe that you need to have a conversation with your parents.

I know. I’ll talk to my mother and father as soon as possible." Joe hands me his card.

Call me anytime day or night. I’ll stop by PT once you have been transferred, and we can continue this conversation.

I appreciate your help, but I can’t deal with you while I try to recover. I know what I did was wrong, and if I feel like I am slipping again, I will call you.

Fair enough, Mike. Just know that I am here if you need me.

Later that night, I call my parents. My mother picks up the phone, and when she hears my voice, she breaks down crying. I cry with her.

I’m sorry Mom. I’m so sorry I hurt you.

You are breaking my heart, Mike. I love you so much.

I love you too, Mom. I need help.

What can we do to help you?

Don’t hate me for what I did yesterday. Please, don’t hate me.

Oh, my baby, I could never hate you. You scared me so much. When I saw all of the blood, I thought you would die, and I would die with you. Promise you won’t do this again.

I promise.

This is the first time that I have ever lied to my mother because I still feel like dying.

Chapter 2

I have been in the hospital for seven days, and today, I receive a visit from Detective Holloway. My dad told me yesterday that the police are still looking for the motherfucker who shot me, and in fact, the police believe that the two of them are responsible for several other robberies in the area. The detective walks into my room, followed by my father and unbeknownst to the Detective, my uncle Steve, who is also the family’s lawyer.

Mr. Jessup, I am Detective Holloway. How are you feeling today?

I’m still in a lot of pain, but it’s easing up a little each day.

You are very fortunate. This type of robbery doesn’t end well. Would you mind if I ask you a few questions? We still have an open investigation.

Sure. Please sit down.

The Detective sits in the chair next to my bed, and my dad and uncle sit in the chairs by the window. I see my uncle take a notepad out of his pocket. He gives me a wink, and I smile at him.

Mr. Jessup. The café did not have security cameras. Are you able to describe the two men that robbed the café?

I can only give you a description of the man behind the counter. When I walked into the store, the other man quickly overtook me, and I was face down on the floor.

I give the detective a detailed description, and he opens his briefcase and takes out a photo array. He shows them to me, and I immediately recognize the man behind the counter.

That one, he’s the guy behind the counter, I say as I point at the picture in his hand.

Thank you, Mr. Jessup. The other patrons in the café were unable to identify anyone, but the owner of the store recognized this person. The other patrons were too afraid to look up, for fear of being hurt.

I only looked up for a few seconds. Have you captured them?

Unfortunately, no. We have an APB out on this man, but we have been unable to identify the other suspect. Can you tell me anything about the other man?

I think for a few minutes. My memories are still fuzzy, but I do remember that the guy who shot me was eye level with me because when I looked up from my phone, he was in my sight of vision for a few seconds before he told me to get on the floor. I remember he had weird looking eyes. I think they were gray. He was Caucasian. That’s all I remember, unfortunately.

We think the two of them have committed other crimes in the area. We are currently reviewing security tapes in and around the student housing buildings. If you think of anything else, here is my card. Please call me anytime.

I take the card and put it on the table by my bed. The last thing I need to think about is the fact that these two men are still out on the streets hurting other people.

oOo

Later that day, I am transferred to the rehabilitation wing of the hospital. Every step that I take sends stinging pain up my arm. My arm is in a padded sling, but it does nothing to buffer the agony that I feel, which is still intense. The meds keep me dazed and a little confused, but I need it to function.

I decided to take a short walk up and down the corridor. My legs feel weak from continually lying in bed. My heart constricts in my chest when I see some of the patients on this floor. So many children are in this ward. Children with missing limbs and all of them have a smile on their faces. Makes me feel inadequate in comparison. I’ve done nothing but worry about things that are no longer in my control, and these beautiful children wake up in the morning with a smile on their faces.

I walk to one of the therapy rooms and step inside. Several children are learning how to walk with their new prosthesis. I sit in one of the chairs and watch them with newfound respect. It takes courage, something that I’ve failed at miserably, to regain mobility. It’s not the same for me, but seeing this gives me hope.

Hi, mister. What’s your name?

I look over and see a young boy, maybe seven or eight years old, staring at me.

My name is Mike. What’s your name?

I’m Billy. I got my new replacement leg today. Isn’t it cool? It’s way better than my old one.

Billy’s leg is the latest technology in prosthetics.

It’s way cool! How does it feel?

It hurts a little, but it’s okay. Mom told me that I have to learn how to walk with it. What happened to your arm?

I do not want to tell this sweet child that a sick fucker shot off half of my arm.

I had an accident and lost part of my arm.

Are you here to get better?

Yeah. Today is my first day in rehab.

The doctors and nurses here are super friendly. I get ice cream every night, and the nurses play games with us.

What kind of games?

Billy grabs my hand. Come on, and I’ll show you.

I follow Billy to one of the other rooms. Inside there are orange cones lined up in a zig-zag pattern, with yellow tape on the floor. Billy is excited to show me what he’s learned.

This is a cool game. You have to follow the yellow tape while bouncing a basketball. The first time I tried, I fell a lot. I had my old leg, and it wasn’t as cool as this one. Watch. I’ll show you how to do it.

I watch as Billy expertly but slowly maneuvers the obstacle course, and when he gets to the finish line, he smiles and gives me a high-five.

My leg is so cool, and it doesn’t hurt too much when I walk. The foot looks different, and the doctor said that it’s because they had to match the size of my other foot. Isn’t that weird? I practiced a lot today, and now I get ice cream. Do you want some too?

Right about now, a bowl of ice cream is just what I need. That sounds terrific, Billy. Lead the way.

oOo

My therapist, Carol Nichols, must be a former Marine Sergeant because all she has done the past two days is bark orders at me. Well, barking is an incorrect verb, it’s more like she is verbally pushing me, and I don’t like it. I’ve realized almost immediately that life will be difficult for me.

Something as simple as brushing my teeth takes effort that I don’t have. My arm has healed to the point that I no longer need the bandages. I now have a stump shrinker, which is a compression sleeve to help with postoperative edema, and the compression helps with the pain.

Billy has become my new best friend and visits me every night after dinner. We play cards and watch cartoons, and his company is just what I need at the moment. He goes home at the end of the week, and while I am glad to see him leave this place, I will miss the time that I’ve spent with him.

Yesterday, I managed to take a shower, and it was a nightmare. Carol stood behind me dressed in a bathing suit and helped me get washed. I had to use one of those loofah sponges on a stick to clean my ass. Talk about humiliating. If I didn’t feel like killing myself, I would laugh at the absurdity of the situation. It’s not funny though because if I cannot do something as essential as wash my ass, I am in deep trouble.

You take things for granted until you can no longer do them. I’ve realized this over the past few days. I also understand that I need this therapy. Several times I’ve reached out for something with my left arm and fought the urge to scream. I know this is a temporary situation, and one day, I will have my prosthesis, but in the meantime, I must learn how to navigate with one hand. It is going to be a long month.

Carol insists that I do as much as possible to acclimate myself to my disability. They have a fully-equipped kitchen, as well as a mock living room, bedroom, and bathroom. This week I have learned how to feed myself. Several of my little friends find this amusing, and their laughter goes a long way toward helping me rein in my anger.

Today, I made breakfast for myself, and it took a lot of concentration. I can’t just move around like I once did. Every movement must be choreographed to avoid tipping over. I never noticed until I started walking around that there is a weight difference on the left side of my body. I am beyond happy this morning because I made a huge pot of oatmeal without burning myself, and the kids all clapped and cheered for me, then ate what I had cooked for them.

Billy is going home this morning, and I will miss his smiling face and his optimistic attitude. I pray that one day soon, I will feel the way he does now.

So, Billy boy, I bet you’re happy to be going home. I am going to miss you, kiddo.

I’ll miss you too, Mike. My mom told me that it’s okay to give you our phone number. Will you call me?

I take the piece of paper from him and put it in my pocket. Yep, I will call you. Are you nervous about going home?

A little. Some of my friends don’t understand about my leg. I can’t do some of the things I had done before I got hurt. I don’t want them making fun of me because I can’t run fast anymore.

How did you lose your leg, Billy?

My dad picked us up after school. A big truck crashed into the back of our car. My dad died, and my leg got hurt. My sister also got hurt, but she’s okay now, only she won’t talk to anyone. My mom is sad. She cries a lot at night. Granny and Gramps lived with us because my mom had to go to work, and she couldn’t take care of me. I don’t want the kids at school, laughing at me.

I know how you feel, Billy. Just be yourself, and you will be okay. I am also afraid. I am a doctor, a surgeon, and now that I only have one hand, I can’t operate anymore.

But you still have a good arm and two legs. That’s what my mom always says to me. I have two good arms and one leg, and I can do anything if I want it bad enough. I want to be a doctor. I want to help people get better when they are sick. I wish I could help my mom feel better. We miss Dad a lot.

Your mom is brilliant. You can do anything you want to do, and I think you would be an excellent doctor. You helped me when I first arrived here. I was sad, Billy, and then I met you, and you cheered me up. You made me see that I can get better too. It will take some time for your mom to feel better, but I can guarantee that having you for a son will help your mom feel better.

Really? I don’t want my mom to cry. Granny and Gramps tell me that someday my mom will feel better. When I went home from the hospital, I cried a lot because my dad wasn’t there to play with me. My mom doesn’t play with me. We had to move to a new house last year, and I miss some of my friends. I’m afraid of cars. How long will I be afraid of cars, Mike?

Billy, everyone reacts differently when something bad or sad happens to them. It will take time for you to feel comfortable riding in a car again. What happened to your dad is a tragic accident, but you cannot be afraid to live your life.

Will she always be sad? Billy asks me.

No, your mom won’t always be sad, but a part of her heart will always miss your dad, just like you do now.

I give Billy my numbers too. When you get home, if you feel like talking, you can call me anytime. We are buddies now, and friends need to help each other.

Really? I can call you anytime?

Yep, anytime. Be a good boy, Billy. I know you will be fine with your new leg. You already ran circles around me. I want you to remember that even though you have only one leg, there is nothing that you can’t do if you want it bad enough.

Billy gives me a long hug goodbye. God, I am going to miss him. I see the nurse standing in the doorway, and I know it’s time for him to go home. I wipe a few tears that have fallen down his face and