CHAPTER 33
Joe’s physical therapist is a young woman named Vivian. Joe calls her Viv. She has bouncy blond hair, a big, easy smile on a pretty face, and a fit but feminine body that Joe finds pleasantly distracting. Joe knows by now not to be fooled by her girly-sweet appearance. Viv is tough as nails. She shows Joe no mercy, and that’s his favorite part about her.
Each week for an hour they work on balance and core strength and what Viv calls “gait training.” That’s fancy PT-speak for walking. Joe finds it more than a little demoralizing that he requires a paid professional to train him to walk. But alas, so it is.
He’s on the floor mat on all fours, in what Katie would call Table Pose.
“Okay now, hold your position while I push against you,” says Viv. “Ready? Resist me.”
Viv’s hands are on Joe’s shoulders, pushing him back while Joe’s leaning into her hands, exerting with his legs, core, arms, all of him, really. At first he’s steady, holding his Table, but he’s been through this drill too many times with Viv now to celebrate. While Joe’s giving it 100 percent, he knows Viv is probably only working at about 25.
“Okay, good job. Sit back on your heels and rest.”
She’s giving him a break in what Katie calls Child’s Pose.
“Arms stay outstretched.”
Viv massages Joe’s hips and then kneads the knots out of his neck. Her small, manicured hands are surprisingly strong. She goes to work on his trapezius next. Bless her. It feels so good to be touched, and he means that in the most respectful, non–sexually harassing way.
Rosie’s been avoiding him. He understands that close physical proximity to him can be dangerous. He might involuntarily throw a punch or his food or a cutting word, and any are likely to hit her where it hurts. He gets why she keeps a safe distance from him during the day. But she’s also sleeping upstairs at JJ’s every night now, taking care of baby Joseph so JJ and Colleen can sleep. She loves everything about being a grandmother, says she feels blessed to be able to help, that she wants to soak up every minute, even at three in the morning, because he won’t be a baby for long, but Joe thinks her sleepovers are also an excuse to be where Joe isn’t, that maybe she’s practicing, trying on a piece of her future. Whatever her reasons, missing Rosie is hard. Harder than PT.
“Okay, break’s over. Back onto your hands and knees. Let’s go again.”
Viv pushes harder into his shoulders this time, and Joe is quivering with effort. She seems to know his edge and backs off before Joe quits or loses. She returns him to Child’s Pose, and Joe reclaims his composure.
“Okay, last time. Back up you go.”
This is when she beats him. Just one of these weeks, he’d like to remain immovable against her best shot. Unfortunately, this isn’t in the cards for Joe. Despite all this physical training, he’ll continue to get less agile, less coordinated, weaker over time instead of stronger. He’s fighting a rising tide.
“Resist, Joe. Come on. Give it all you’ve got. Hold me here, Joe.”
He’s squeezing and leaning and pushing with all his might, sputtering and grunting, and then, as predicted, Viv forces him back onto his heels. Defeated again. Score: Viv 52, Joe 0.
Next, he’s standing and joined by another therapist, George. George is also young and physically fit, which must be a job requirement. He’s bald with a goatee, which makes him look angry whenever he’s not smiling, and he has the most muscular forearms and biceps Joe’s ever seen. The dude is Popeye.
Viv stands in front of Joe, and George positions himself behind. More games of Knock Joe Over. PTs are sadistic. Viv will catch Joe when he falls forward, George will catch him when he falls backward, and it’s whoever calls it when Joe falls to the right or left.
“Lift your right foot off the ground and hold it,” says Viv, stretching her arms out like airplane wings.
Joe mirrors Viv’s arms and lifts his leg probably only an inch off the ground, but in Joe’s mind, he’s the Karate Kid. Viv counts.
“One, two. Try again. One, two. Again. One, two, three. Okay, other side.”
Joe lifts his other leg for a similar and loathsomely inadequate number of seconds before losing his balance. He hasn’t made it past “three” in weeks.
“Now resist my hands,” says Viv, standing in a lunge with her arms extended and her strong hands pressing against Joe’s hips. “Don’t let me move you from where you’re standing.”
He’s no match for her on this one from the first try. He steps back. They go again. He steps back. They go again. He looks down at her young, ripe cleavage as she pushes. He steps back. One more time. He’s off balance but doesn’t step back. He’s falling over and scared for about a half second before George, his human safety net, catches him.
“Thanks, man,” says Joe.
“Anytime,” says George.
Joe studies his reflection in the mirror. It was one year ago this week that Joe was officially diagnosed with Huntington’s. He’s disheartened, noticing how much his body has changed in a year. Before HD, Joe’s shirts were always tight on him. He had a broad, muscular chest, thick traps, biceps that stretched the sleeves of his shirts, and probably an extra ten to twenty pounds around his middle. He’s only five foot nine, but he was big for a little man.
He’s lost the fat around his middle, but his gut now protrudes out like a toddler’s belly with no abdominal strength to hold it in. He’s also lost muscle mass in his pecs, biceps, traps, everywhere. He’s a skinny, short, weak, middle-aged guy with a slouched posture who was just easily beaten by a girl.
He could be the “after” photo in a diet commercial, but not quite. No one’s saying, “Hey, Joe, you look great!” HD isn’t a weight-loss plan like Jenny Craig. He looks shrunken, a bit wrung out, flaccid, the beginning of bony, sickly.
“Okay, Joe. Have a seat,” says Viv. Viv, George, and Joe all sit on the blue floor mat, facing one another like kids. “Before we wrap it up for today, is anything else going on?”
“Nope.”
“Rosie tells me you’re slurring some of your words.”
“Oh, yeah, I guess.”
Viv nods. “Okay, let’s do a few things real quick. Stick out your tongue for me and keep it out. Yup, but keep it out. Nope, it went back in. Out. Stick it back out. Your tongue’s a shy little guy. There, hold it there. Now move it to the right, now the left. Back to the right. Hmm.”
Well, that felt ridiculous, and from the sound of Viv’s “Hmm,” he failed the tongue test. Physical therapy doesn’t exactly beef up Joe’s self-esteem.
“Hold on,” says Viv.
She trots over to her big bag of tricks, where she keeps her stash of squeeze balls, elastic bands, and probably her whips and chains. She returns to the mat with a red lollipop.
“Okay, Joe, suck on this.”
She opens her mouth, a request for Joe to follow suit. He does, and she inserts the lollipop into his mouth.
“Don’t let me pull it out, okay?”
Viv pulls on the stick, and it slides without stopping right out of Joe’s mouth.
“Let’s try again. Don’t let me take this out. Good. Good.”
And then Viv is sitting there with a red lollipop in her hand.
“Let’s do it again.”
Viv slides the lollipop into Joe’s mouth. This time, Joe cracks the candy with his teeth and chews. Viv pulls out a popless stick. Joe smiles. Viv shakes her head.
“What am I gonna do with you?” she asks.
“You’re the mean lady taking candy from a baby,” says Joe.
“Get some lollipops and do this with Rosie at home. It’ll help to strengthen your mouth and jaw muscles, and should help with the slurred speech. Sound good?”
“Will do.”
“Okay. Before you go, I think it’s time we talk about getting you a walker.”
“Nah, nah. I told you not to use any w words with me. It’s not becoming language for a young lady like yourself.”
Joe knew the w-word conversation was coming. This is how Viv has ended his previous two sessions. At this point, w is for walker. Later, w will stand for wheelchair. Joe hates the letter w.
“Unless you want to talk about Vince Wilfork,” says Joe.
“We have to think about your safety. The falls are—”
“No big deal. You fall, you get back up. ’Tis part of life, my dear.”
Viv shakes her head, patient but frustrated with him. She’s pushing this walker thing on him pretty hard, but for now, he’s still able to resist.
“Okay,” she relents. “But you’re not going to be able to avoid the w word much longer.”
A win for Joe. W-word conversation: Viv 0, Joe 3. Joe smiles, savoring his one and only victory of the day. Even the small ones count.
KATIE WALKS INTO the lobby of the Spaulding Rehabilitation Hospital, and her dad is already sitting in the waiting area, done with his physical therapy session. She would’ve been on time, but she had to circle the Navy Yard a few times looking for a space, and then it took about ten embarrassing minutes to parallel park the damn car. He’s watching the TV mounted on the wall and doesn’t see her yet, and she pauses before approaching him.
He keeps adjusting in his seat as if trying to get comfortable, but he never does. He’s in perpetual motion. His head glides around on the axis of his neck, tilting, nodding, swaying, as if someone loosened the screws connecting his skull to his spine. His limb movements begin as random but usually develop into a pattern, something close to a steady rhythm if she watches long enough. Heels up, heels down, toe tap, heels up, heels down, toe tap, toe tap, shoulder shrug, arm fling, eyebrows raise, heels up, heels down. He’s boogying to music no one else on the planet can hear.
His facial contortions are the hardest for Katie to witness. They make him seem disturbed, and she’s ashamed to admit that at times she has to remind herself that he’s not. Even though she knows the reason behind the grimaces and facial twitching, they’re off-putting. Strangers must assume he’s dangerous or deranged or drunk.
That’s why he wears the T-shirts. The guy who makes the TOWNIE T-shirts printed up a dozen for her dad for free. Her dad won’t wear anything else now. Since JJ told the guys at the firehouse about his gene status, they have no reason to keep HD locked up in the closet. And so with JJ’s blessing, her dad is on a mission to educate the world, or at least the good people of Charlestown. Gray with navy blue lettering across the center of his chest, each shirt reads: