Bеаυty Thеrаpy

This patient was going to be difficult.

Whenever my colleague James asked me to consult on a case, I knew it was for only one reason: the patient had become depressed, disillusioned, fed up with being prodded and poked and pushed beyond his limits. My undergraduate degree in psychology made me the only physiother4pіst at the clinic whom the others turned to when a patient grew despondent and refused treatment, and gave me some insight as to why they felt the way they did. I understood why they wanted to give up. It was up to me to make sure they didn't.

When I went to see Jason that morning, the sun was streaming brightly through the windows and the air was crisp with the promise of spring, a beautiful day all around and yet there he was, sitting morosely on the edge of his bed, his arms folded defiantly, in the same posture that James had left him in. His eyes moved slightly when I came in, and he stiffened almost imperceptably, as if he wanted to express some emotion at seeing me but was too comfortable being miserable to do so.

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I had seen the way he looked at me, I had caught him glancing at me when he thought I wasn't looking, and had always thought it a good sign that he was taking interest in women again. His motorcycle accident had taken away more than his mobility, it had sliced right through his virility as well, rendering him, in his own words, a needy, useless lump of malfunction instead of the good looking, vibrant young man he had been.

Fifteen surgeries in two years had left him with one leg shorter than the other, and one leg so badly pitted and scarred from lack of muscle tissue that it was almost half the size of the other. I knew from experience with other cases like his that he would walk with a pronounced limp for the rest of his life, and would probably need a brace or cane or some other means of support. But he would walk. He had won the coin toss and come out of his accident with a bruised and battered - but intact - spinal cord, and so he would quite literally walk away from it. He was lucky. He was twenty-five and would get around with the gait of a ninety-year old, would probably never run or play sports again, but he was damn lucky all the same.

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Only today, he had decided that he had had enough. No more exercises, he had said. No more painful and exhausting sessions in the pool, no more laborious attempts to strengthen his weakened muscles and teach them how to obey the commands of his brain again. No more. Even though he was tantalizingly, excruciatingly close to being able to stand on his own and go for a little walk, albeit slowly and with some effort, he had quit the race just when the finish line had come into sight. He sat there in a heap, and refused to meet my eyes even when I pulled up a chair in front of him and leaned in to speak.

"So I hear you're quitting, Jason." I said simply.

He didn't answer.

"You know that James and I think you're very close to getting out of here. Maybe another week and you won't ever have to see this place again."

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Still nothing.

"Maybe you could just try standing and walking across the room for me today. Just across the room, I promise. Then you can take it easy for the rest of the day and do whatever you want."

As I spoke, I noticed that his eyes had shifted. He was looking at the centre of my chest, and I realized that I had been leaning too far forward in my v-necked shirt. He must have been getting an eyeful of my cleavage.

"What do you say, Jason? Do we have a deal?", I asked, without rising.

"No." he said flatly, and looked away. "I've had it. I don't care. Put me in a wheelchair, I don't give a damn anymore."

I leaned back, and my movement caught his eye again. A thought occurred to me, and I pushed back the chair and stood, about five feet away from him. "Are you looking at my breasts, Jason?"

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His pupils widened, and he coloured. He looked down. "No, of course not. I mean...."

"I'll tell you what, Jason." I said, smirking a little. "If you'll stand up for me, I'll take my shirt off."

"What?" he laughed.

"For ther4pеutic purposes." I said matter of factly. "Nothing sexual. It just seems like my breasts are the only thing that interest you these days, and so if you stand up for me I'll give you a better look."

He thought about this, a playful grin spreading reluctantly across his face. He glanced over at the closed door of his room, and looked back at me. After a moment, he said. "You're serious?"

"Very."

He colored again. "Okay. I'll try."

Slowly, unsteadily, he gripped the edge of the bed and lifted himself into a semi-standing position, his muscles shaking with the unfamiliar effort. He teetered slightly, reached back for support and then straightened up awkwardly and smiled. I was smiling too, so glad to see both his spirits and his body lifted.

He stood there, a pursed-lipped, little-boy smile on his face, waiting for me to make good on my promise.

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So I lifted my shirt over my head and tugged it off, sending my hair cascading over the lacy white bra I wore underneath. I tossed the shirt on the chair and stood with my hands on my hips, turning my shoulders in slightly to accent the plumpness of my breasts beneath the fabric of the bra. I saw his eyes travel over me, darting back to my eyes in a glance that seemed to say 'are you sure this is okay?'. His face coloured an even deeper pink.

He wanted to ask something, that much was apparent from the nervous way he met my eyes. I could guess what he was going to ask next.

"The bra too?" I suggested.

"Hey, this was your idea," he said, then, when I didn't move, he managed a nervous nod.

"No bra? Well, for that you'll have to walk to the window and back." I said matter-of-factly, marvelling at the success of my motivational trick, wondering if I'd use it the next time I needed to inspire someone. Obviously, it wasn't something I could put in his official chart, but it was working so well, it would be a shame to let such a thing go to waste.

Without hesitation he put one shaky leg forward and then the other, moving toward the window. He had done this before, but only with other physios guiding him and pushing him and urging him on. It was wonderful watching him stumble forward on his own accord. All he needed was motivation.

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He paused after a few feet, seemed to almost lose his momentum. It was painful, I knew. It was tiring, and hard to accomplish, something we all went through in our first year of life but take for granted now. He had the added disincentive of pain and genuine fatigue. So I reached behind and unclasped my bra, letting it hang loosely from my arms to show more of my breasts.

"Come on, Jason. You've come this far. You don't want me to get dressed again, do you?"

He smiled and pushed forward, holding on to the back of the chair for support as he inched forward. I so rarely feel sorry for my patients, I never indulge in pity, but my heart went out to him at that moment, such a vital young man who faced what he considered to be a miserable future. To see that smile on his face, to see that Herculean effort he was putting out just for a glimpse of a woman again... I made a mental note right then to buy a copy of Playboy that afternoon in order to surround him with as much beauty as I could.

He came up to the window, and stopped proudly about two feet in front of it, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. He positively beamed as he stood as tall as he could, and turned to face me.

"I did it," he said ebulliently.

"I know, Jason. That was wonderful, congratulations!"

"Now...are you going to keep your end of the bargain?"

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I was so proud of him I found it surprisingly easy to let the bra fall away from my breasts and to put my arms over my head in a gesture of victory. I threw my head back and whooped, laughing as I looked down to see him taking in the curves of my body with unabashed delight. He didn't make a move to touch me, he just let his eyes wander over every inch of my chest. He looked into my eyes with complete admiration.

I let him look for another moment or so. I stood so that he could drink me in all he wanted.

When it was time to get dressed again I put the bra on slowly, gracefully, like a strip tease in reverse. He pouted like a baby when I put my shirt back on, trying to make me laugh. His face was flushed with pleasure, his eyes brighter than I'd seen in a long time, and to my great surprise he turned and walked slowly back to the bed on his own, with no help or request for it. He settled himself onto the bed again, looking tired but very happy.

"Thank you." he said finally. "You're beautiful."

"Thank you." I said. "You're my hero."

He closed his eyes and smiled. I left the room wondering if he was picturing my breasts.

I knew he was, and smiled myself.

© 2003 by Lеаnnе Bеll | Photos © 2003 by Alеxаndеr Fеdоrоv

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