Trauma by Daniel Palmer Page A

and these are ultimately your decisions. But I have some years and some perspective, so I ask only that you hear me out. A couple of weeks ago I went to a dinner on Parkinson’s disease sponsored by a pharmaceutical company. I sat next to a man who was taking their drug, a patient. Turns out he had deep brain stimulation to help his treatment and now, with the combination of DBS and his meds, he’s doing better. He was able to attend meetings like this one.”
    Carrie knew all about DBS, a surgical treatment involving the implantation of a brain pacemaker and wires that delivered electrical impulses to targeted areas of the brain. It was used to treat movement disorders such as Parkinson’s, but researchers and clinicians were exploring other applications, including treatments for OCD, major depression, and chronic pain.
    â€œThis man was very pleased with his results,” Howard said. “He talked at great length about his treatment at the VA under Dr. Alistair Finley, whom I know from way back when I did my internship. I haven’t seen him since, but why don’t you go talk with him? He’s right in town. Use my name. We weren’t especially close, but I’m sure he’d remember me.”
    â€œThanks, Dad,” Carrie said. “I’ll give it some thought.” She turned her coffee cup in her hands. “I’m not particularly interested in Parkinson’s. I mean, that’s not what we really do in neurosurgery.”
    Howard conceded with a nod. “I understand it may seem less glamorous. But maybe, given your … your reluctance to get back in the saddle, it could be just what the doctor ordered.”
    Carrie smiled. She was about to tease him about dads being doctors when the doorbell rang.
    Howard got up to see who was there. A moment later, Carrie heard him exclaim, “Oh my gosh!”
    Howard returned to the kitchen with a tall, lanky man who was bleeding profusely from the nose. The oily rag he was using to stanch the flow had smeared a good portion of his face with engine grease.
    â€œAdam apparently took offense to something.” Howard spoke without emotion. He’d long since realized it didn’t help to get upset about his son’s new hair-trigger temper. “Could you please get this gentleman some ice? I’m going to go look for your mother and my boy.”
    Carrie took the stranger by the arm and led him to a chair at the kitchen table. “Tilt your head back,” she said once he was seated. He looked like a boxer ready to concede the fight.
    â€œI’m David. I’m from the Lowell Observer .” Between the rag and the injury, his voice was especially high and nasal.
    Carrie got a clean roll of paper towel from the pantry, then filled a plastic bag with ice from the freezer. Applied to the bridge of the nose, the bag of ice reduced the swelling and the pressure, and the bleeding stopped after a minute or two.
    â€œWhat the heck happened?”
    David smiled sheepishly and shook his head. “It was my fault,” he said. “Really. I’m to blame here, not Adam.”
    Carrie gave David a fresh paper towel and refilled his plastic bag with ice. She studied her patient. Probably around her age, he had attractively messy hair and a kind face. She suspected he was something of a charmer.
    â€œGo on,” Carrie said. “I’m all ears.”
    â€œI came here to interview Adam for a story I’m writing about PTSD, but your mother showed up and Adam had a change of heart. No longer wanted to talk.”
    Carrie grimaced. “You didn’t take no for an answer, did you?”
    David laughed, and Carrie thought the sound was warm and inviting. He was obviously embarrassed, but he had enough humility to see a little humor in it.
    â€œNo’s not my style,” he said. “I didn’t think I was being pushy, but I don’t back down so easily.”
    Carrie thought of her