Chapter 3 - THE REPORT THAT DISAPPEARED FROM MY MEDICAL FILE
My first instinct was revenge.
That fact embarrassed me less than it should have.
“Bring Vincent here.”
Elena, unfortunately, was still in the room.
“No.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“You have evidence somebody hid a maintenance report.”
“Yes.”
“You do not have evidence your cousin sabotaged your car.”
“He buried the warning.”
“Then investigate.”
“Elena.”
She stepped closer.
“You spent five years angry at your body because you thought it betrayed you.”
That stopped me.
“Don't spend the next five angry at the wrong person because revenge feels faster than evidence.”
I hated how much sense she made.
Marcus looked away again.
Coward.
“Fine.”
Independent investigators.
Outside counsel.
No Whitaker security except Marcus.
Then Elena said something worse.
“Review the medical records too.”
I frowned.
“Why?”
“Because if somebody wanted you disabled rather than dead, the crash would only be half the plan.”
Cold moved through me.
I had seen the best doctors money could buy.
Or so I believed.
Dr. Harold Vance oversaw almost everything after my injury.
Old family physician.
My father's friend.
He coordinated surgeons.
Rehabilitation.
Second opinions.
For three years, every specialist received records through his office.
Then I stopped trying.
We sent everything to an independent spinal-cord specialist at the University of Washington.
Dr. Natalie Chen.
She reviewed old imaging.
Operative notes.
Rehabilitation tests.
Then requested something nobody else had asked me for.
“Where is the twelve-week neurophysiology report?”
I stared.
“What report?”
“EMG and evoked-potential assessment.”
“I don't know.”
“It is referenced here.”
She pointed.
A surgeon's note:
Preserved conduction requires follow-up evaluation.
Preserved.
My heart started pounding.
“What does that mean?”
Dr. Chen remained careful.
“It does not mean you should have been able to walk.”
“Then what?”
“It means your injury may never have been neurologically complete.”
I stopped breathing.
“For five years I was told—”
“I know.”
She held up one hand.
“Do not jump ahead.”
Good doctor.
Infuriating.
“We need new testing.”
“What happened to the old report?”
“I don't know.”
Again.
That word.
Testing took two days.
Electrical studies.
Imaging.
Strength assessment.
Muscle response.
Then Dr. Chen sat across from me.
“You have residual motor pathways.”
I stared.
“English.”
“Your spinal cord injury is incomplete.”
Silence.
“Can I walk?”
“Not normally tomorrow.”
My chest tightened.
“Ever?”
She leaned forward.
“I cannot promise that.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I'm saying rehabilitation options exist that you were apparently never offered.”
My hands began shaking.
“Options like what?”
“Intensive locomotor rehabilitation.”
“Functional electrical stimulation.”
“Possibly epidural stimulation depending on additional evaluation.”
“Orthotic support.”
Each phrase sounded like an accusation.
“Why didn't anyone tell me?”
May you like
Dr. Chen's expression hardened.
“That is a question for whoever removed the original report from your record.”
