One Was a Soldier by Julia Spencer-Fleming Page A

and we’ll take a look?”
    Anne swooped behind Will and grabbed the handles of his chair just as the boy laid hold of the wheels. “I can do it, Mom.” He sounded like a nice son trying not to be annoyed with his mother.
    “Of course. Of course you can.” Anne’s voice was unnaturally perky. Trip led them down the hall, opening the door to his largest examining room. Will back-and-forthed a couple of times before getting the chair lined up with the entryway. He rolled through, Anne right behind him.
    Trip made a hold-up gesture. “Will? Do you want your mother to wait while we talk?” Anne’s frown almost made him miss the boy’s expression. It clearly hadn’t occurred to either of them that Will could see a doctor without his mother tagging along.
    Will looked at Trip. Looked at his mother. “No, it’s fine.” He smiled weakly at Anne. “After all, she’s the expert.”
    “Okay.” Trip took his usual seat, the rolling stool tucked under the counter. He flopped open the fresh case file and clicked his pen. Ask if P. wants alone w/o mom nearby!
    Anne hovered behind and to the side of the wheelchair.
    “Why don’t you tell me what’s up?” Trip said.
    “He’s been complaining of pain—”
    He held up one hand. “Let me hear it from him, Anne. You know a history isn’t complete without the patient’s own words.”
    She made a disparaging sound and clamped her lips together. Trip looked at Will. “Well?”
    Will shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. It hurts some when I practice standing.”
    His mother took a quick breath.
    “I haven’t been working on my mobility as much as I should,” he added quickly.
    “Why’s that?”
    Will shrugged. “The wheelchair’s actually more convenient. With the crutches, my arms and hands are all tied up. It’s like … it’s like I’ve got four prosthetics instead of two. In the chair my upper body is completely free. And it’s hard. Walking, I mean. Just a couple steps and I’m sweating.” He spread his hands. “Why not use the wheels?”
    Trip rolled toward him. “How about I take a look?” Will pulled his loose khakis up and unstrapped his prosthetics one at a time. Trip took them and examined their cups, running his fingers inside and pressing into the pads. They were very high quality work, suggesting made-to-measure. There shouldn’t be any mechanical irritation involved. Will pulled off his socks—the close-fitting coverings that went over his stumps—and Trip cradled the amputation sites in his hands.
    It was a classic traumatic transtibial amputation, neatly finished off and well healed. The left leg was a little rawer than the right. “This is the one that was an attempted tarsal resection?”
    “Yes,” Anne said. “They tried to save his entire tibia, but his vascular network was too compromised.”
    “My foot got blown off, and then they had to chop the rest of it off up to my knee,” Will translated.
    Trip rolled back to his bench and scribbled a note on the stump condition. “Are you experiencing pain at any other times?”
    “Not in my … not there. I get phantom pain sometimes, especially at the end of the day, before I go to bed. Tingly, crampy sensations, like I’m getting a charley horse in my calves.” Will’s mouth screwed up. “In what used to be my calves. They told me I could expect that, once the real pain from the operations went away.”
    Trip nodded. “Phantom pain may be your brain’s way of trying to create input from nerves that ought to be there, but aren’t. Practicing your walking could help that, by giving your brain real nerve information to deal with.” He pulled an X-ray request from a tray and jotted down the series he wanted. “I want to get a few X-rays while you’re here, just to make sure you aren’t developing bone spurs or stress fractures. Once we rule those out, I’d like to get you into physical therapy.” He glanced up at Will. “Have you seen anyone since you were released from