Warrior Pose (24 page)

“I've never seen anything like it,” Dr. Assam says, almost breaking character and expressing emotion, after I awaken from the anesthesia. “I thought I would need to cut the broken pedicle out, but it was so loose I lifted it out with a pair of surgical tongs. It was even more dangerous than I thought, being so detached like that.”

I have to spend a night in the hospital in case of unexpected bleeding or infection. The next morning, as a nurse's aide pushes me in a wheelchair, my sister and I stop at the lobby pharmacy to pick up more prescription drugs, including another two weeks' worth of morphine. As I lift myself from the wheelchair into my sister's car, all I can think about is getting out of this place and on the road to recovery. But by the time we get to my sister's home, all I can think about is lying in bed and never moving again. I feel like I could sleep forever.

After a few weeks of bed rest, I'm fitted with a massive body brace. It's a large Kevlar contraption called a Clamshell, with two thick, white plastic halves that fold around my torso like a clam, held tight by thick Velcro straps. It's hard as a rock on the exterior with soft foam lining inside. A heavy electrical device called a Stim is buckled around the lower portion of the brace. It ticks like a windup clock, sending an electric current into my spine, which Dr. Assam tells me is designed to promote fusion. I'm weaned off morphine, but stronger doses of Vicodin are added to my regimen of Motrin and Valium.
It's my new form of meeting “deadlines”—popping all these pills at precise times throughout the day.

My girlfriend, Pamela, flies in from Hong Kong and we settle into my sister Valerie's guest room in Coronado. Pamela and I have been seeing one another on and off for more than a decade. Mostly off because of my career priorities and disinterest in committed relationships. She's upbeat, adventurous, vibrant, and willing to put up with me. I now feel dependent on her and it makes me uncomfortable. Am I using her? Being selfish? I'm not sure and, anyway, I can't really face it. The bottom line is that I need her support, physically and emotionally, more than ever.

One month after surgery, with my new body brace strapped on tightly, I obediently follow the doctor's orders and begin taking short walks through the quiet suburban neighborhoods of Coronado to strengthen my back and legs. Pamela steadies me as we go. I wear an oversized T-shirt to cover my Clamshell and Stim. It makes me look like a stiff, top-heavy robot from a B movie. I feel okay during these brief outings, but standing up without moving for more than a minute is excruciating and sitting for prolonged periods is out of the question. I'm forced to spend hours on the bed, my back propped up by fluffy pillows.

Lying in bed, I devour the news voraciously, but every time a foreign correspondent comes on the air, it's too much for me to handle. It should be me out there. Doing the only thing I know how to do. Pushing forward. Getting the story. Watching someone else in the field makes me feel helpless, worthless, and weak. I grab the remote, mute the TV, and default to the zombie stare.

Every day I manage to walk a little farther, but I still feel tender, sore, and unstable in my spine. I expect the pain to be slowly diminishing, but I'm so heavily drugged it's hard to tell if this is happening. Nevertheless, I stay meticulous with the schedule: wearing the Clamshell and Stim all day long, removing the brace at bedtime, recharging the Stim overnight, strapping the brace back on every morning, hooking
up the Stim again, taking all the meds religiously, never missing a walk, always pouring a glass of wine before bed. Maybe two glasses now and then. Sometimes three.

Four weeks go by and nothing really changes. Before I know it, six weeks have passed. Still, no change. I'm staying devoted to the routine, praying that it all works. But my back remains terribly sore. Every time the drugs start to wear off and I feel the pain beginning to surge, I grab for the next dose as quickly as I can. It's not the pain itself that troubles me. After so many years, I'm used to hurting all the time. It's something deep down inside me that fears this might not work. There's no way I can face such a possibility, and I have to shut that voice down any way I can. As I swallow the pills I silently say:

It's been eight weeks now and still, not much change. My back remains unstable, and I can't imagine walking without the Clamshell strapped on as tightly as possible. An occasional jolt of burning sciatica, which is caused by the compression of a spinal nerve, shoots down the back of my left leg. Eight weeks. This is when I should have been going back to work.
Maybe it's supposed to be this way. My back is healing, but the tenderness and instability will persist a while longer.
When I see Dr. Assam, he confirms this possibility.

“We can't really tell what's happening without a new scan,” he says in his usual distant tone.

“Then can I go back to work?” I must sound like a broken record.

“We'll see,” he says in the same monotone. “Let's get a new scan and go from there.”

I can feel my anger and impatience starting to rise. I'm tired of all this. Could he have botched this operation? I almost confront
him, but catch myself, stand up slowly, and trundle out of his office, unable to stop myself from slamming the door behind me as I go.

The machine is a large, cream-colored, space-age device called a bone scanner. It's much more sophisticated than an X-ray, capable of detecting the slightest sign of fusion in my back. I lie on a steel table as a substance called a radioactive tracer is injected into a vein on my forearm. The tracer, which feels like metallic ice water, flows through my bloodstream and eventually finds its way into my bones. The table electronically slides forward until I'm beneath the scanner. A special camera called a gamma detects the tracer, records images, and sends them to a monitor. Areas of rapid or new bone growth will show up as bright, hot spots. Dark or cold spots indicate areas with little or no blood flow. Any cold spots at the base of my spine, therefore, are indications that the fusion isn't taking.

When I meet with Dr. Assam afterward, I can see it on his face before he speaks a word.

“It's going to take more time,” he says, always deadpan, “maybe four to six more weeks.”

It feels like a punch in the stomach and shakes my confidence. This isn't part of the plan. If I have to wait any longer, I'll explode.

“Then why not go back home?” I can hear myself sounding frustrated and impatient. “I can start by working in the news bureau without any travel. I'll wear the brace. Lean back in my chair or lie on the bureau couch. I'll be careful.”

The truth is, I'm furious with the doctor, blaming him for my lack of progress. But I have to be nice. Without his okay, NBC won't approve my return. I persist, as calmly as I can, making my case that, aside from a long flight home to Hong Kong, it doesn't matter where I am while the recovery process continues. “Alright,” Dr. Assam finally consents after giving it a great deal of thought. “Keep walking, use the Stim, don't overdo it. Work no more than two or three hours a day at first, and only a few days a week. Get plenty of rest. Report in to me regularly.”

I'm so thrilled about going back to Hong Kong that I can feel adrenalin rushing through me, but I've lost confidence in the doctor and have to be careful not to slam the door behind me again when I leave his office. The moment we return to Coronado, I book the next available flight to Hong Kong, and before the week is out, Pamela and I are in the air. I recline my first-class seat back as far as it will go, drink a glass of wine, and then dope myself up, deliberately knocking myself out for hours so I can endure the trip. When I finally come to, I look out the window and see the Hong Kong skyline glowing in the evening sky. I'm home. Nothing else matters. I'm home.

As we drive to the end of Barker Road on Victoria Peak, my flat comes into view, glistening white against the lush, verdant background of the jungle foliage. I smile at the profound pleasure of being back in Asia and am already wondering what's happening in China, Japan, Thailand, Vietnam, and everywhere else in my region. I can't wait to set foot in the bureau again, pitch a story to
Nightly News
, and have lunch at the Foreign Correspondents' Club, where I can catch up with old friends.

Then I feel a small knot in my stomach as a voice flashes in my head:

I immediately shut the voice down and go into a state of complete denial, telling myself it's impossible that the fusion will fail.
It's absolutely impossible
.

CHAPTER 13

Pyongyang

I
LOOKED ODD enough hobbling down the sidewalks of Coronado in my body brace, but in Hong Kong I cause public scenes. I tower over most Asian people, and with my stilted gait I look like a giant robot from another planet. When someone bumps into me on the heavily crowded streets, which happens constantly because I lack the ability to maneuver, they're shocked to hit my hard brace. They cry out with surprise and stare wide-eyed, thinking I might not be human.