Fear Nothing Read Online Free PDF Page A

wooden chair versus the low-slung sofa that was also available. Without even examining her medical charts, I could tell she suffered from acute neck and shoulder pain. It was written in her stiff posture, how she rotated her entire body to take in the room, versus simply turning her head. Not to mention the tight way she held her left arm tucked against her side, as if still protecting herself from an incoming blow.
    I suspected the blond detective was rarely described as a soft-looking woman. But now, with her dark-rimmed eyes, grim-set mouth and thinly drawn cheeks, she appeared harsh, a woman well beyond her forty-four years.
    “The basis of my practice is the Internal Family Systems model,” I explained patiently.
    She arched a brow, didn’t say a word.
    “One of the basic assumptions of IFS is that the mind can be subdivided into a number of distinct parts. First and foremost of those parts is the Self, which should serve as leader of all the parts. When your Self is clearly differentiated and elevated from the other members of the system, then you are in the best position to understand, manage and control your own pain.”
    “I fell down the stairs,” D.D. said flatly. “If my self was supposed to manage that, it’s a little late now.”
    “Let me ask you a different question: Are you in pain?”
    “You mean, like, right now?”
    “Like, right now.”
    “Well, yeah. According to the docs, my own tendons ripped away a chunk of bone in my left arm. It hurts.”
    “On a scale of one to ten, one being slight discomfort, ten being the worst agony you can imagine . . .”
    The detective pursed her lips. “Six.”
    “So slightly above average.”
    “Sure. I want to build in some room. Tonight is shower night, which will bring me to a seven, followed by attempting to sleep, which I’d place at an eight, because I can’t seem to stop rolling onto my left side; then, of course, there’s getting out of bed tomorrow morning, which is an easy nine.”
    “What would you consider a ten?”
    “I don’t know yet,” she said tersely. “I’m still new at this walking-wounded business, but from what I can tell, that’s what physical therapists were put on earth to find out.”
    I smiled. “Many of my patients would agree with you.”
    “I know about the scale,” D.D. said. “Russ Ilg, my personal torturer, already walked me through it. Don’t think of pain as a single point, but as an entire spectrum. Where are you on the spectrum right now, this afternoon, for the whole day, for the week? Then, instead of just being in pain, you can experience the full rainbow of physical agony. Or something like that.”
    “He has you rate your level of discomfort when he is working with you?”
    “Yeah. He raises my left arm. I yelp. He tells me to breathe through my mouth. I yelp some more. He asks me if I’m at an eight yet. I say no, he raises my arm an inch higher.” D.D. wasn’t looking at me anymore. Her gaze had gone beyond my right shoulder, to a spot on the wall, while her right leg began to bounce restlessly.
    I had scanned her medical reports. The avulsion fracture she’d suffered in her left shoulder was a particularly rare and painful injury that called for an even more agonizing remedy—physical therapy. Lots of extremely excruciating exercises designed to keep her left shoulder from locking up, while minimizing scar tissue during the healing process.
    According to the detective’s charts, she worked with a physical therapist twice a week. Most likely, she ended those sessions with tears running down her cheeks.
    I wondered, already, how that must feel to a woman accustomed to operating under complete control.
    “So you take the time to consider and rate your pain?” I asked now.
    She made a motion that may or may not have been a nod.
    “How often?” I pressed.
    “Well, you know, when Russ asks me.”
    “So during physical therapy?”
    “Yes.”
    “What about at home? Say you wake up in the