Chapter 9: Casting Dreams

Week 7, Day 50 – The Casting Appointment

The prosthetics clinic smelled like rubber and antiseptic. Industrial. Clinical. Nothing like the hospital’s familiar sterility—this was a workshop where bodies were rebuilt with carbon fiber and silicone.

Ji-Eun wheeled through the entrance, Brent walking beside her. A receptionist with kind eyes checked them in, and they settled into a waiting room filled with people in various stages of prosthetic use. A man in his sixties adjusted his below-knee prosthetic casually, like tying a shoe. A younger woman—maybe early thirties—walked past with barely a limp, her blade-style running prosthetic visible below athletic shorts.

“They make it look easy,” Ji-Eun whispered.

“They probably said the same thing about you when you were standing for twenty minutes,” Brent replied.

Before Ji-Eun could respond, a prosthetist called her name. “Ji-Eun Park? I’m Marcus. Come on back.”

The examination room was larger than expected, with parallel bars along one wall, a raised platform for measurements, and equipment Ji-Eun couldn’t identify. Marcus was mid-forties, efficient but warm, the kind of person who’d done this a thousand times and still cared about number one-thousand-and-one.

“So,” Marcus said, reviewing her chart. “Seven weeks post-op, BKA, healing’s been textbook according to Dr. Morrison. How’s the residual limb feeling?”

“Okay. Some phantom sensation. The shrinker helps with swelling.”

“Good. We’re going to do measurements today, take photographs for reference, and make a cast of your residual limb. That cast becomes the foundation for your test socket.” He rolled his stool closer. “Mind if I take a look?”

Ji-Eun’s hands clenched in her lap. Brent moved closer, offering silent support.

“Yeah. Okay.”

She removed the shrinker—practiced now, efficient. The residual limb emerged, still pink where the incision had healed, tapering cleanly. Marcus examined it with professional detachment, palpating gently, checking skin integrity and bone prominence.

“Dr. Morrison was right. This is beautiful work.” He made notes on his tablet. “Length is ideal—gives us great leverage. Shape is even. You’ve been doing your therapy religiously, haven’t you?”

“Every session.”

“It shows.” Marcus began taking measurements—circumference at various points, length from knee to end, bone landmarks. “We’re looking at about four to six weeks total. Two weeks for the test socket, then another two to four for the definitive prosthesis once we’ve made adjustments.”

“Four to six weeks,” Ji-Eun repeated. More waiting.

“I know it feels long. But we only get one shot at the definitive prosthesis—we want it right.” Marcus smiled. “The test socket will give you something to work with in the meantime. You’ll be able to start gait training, build tolerance, see how everything feels.”

He positioned her on the raised platform, took photographs from multiple angles. Ji-Eun stared at the wall, trying not to think about the clinical documentation of her body’s new reality.

Then came the casting. Marcus wrapped her residual limb in casting material—wet, cool, molding to every contour. Ji-Eun held perfectly still while it hardened, Brent’s hand resting on her shoulder.

“Almost done,” Marcus said. “Once this sets, we pop it off, and I’ve got everything I need to build your socket.”

The cast came off with a sucking sound. Marcus held it up—a perfect negative impression of what remained of Ji-Eun’s left leg.

“Two weeks,” he said. “Then you’ll have something to stand on.”

Days 51-53 – The Waiting

Waiting was worse than working.

At least with therapy, Ji-Eun had structure. Goals. Measurable progress. Now she just ... existed. In Brent’s condo, doing exercises Keisha had prescribed, counting down days until the test socket arrived.

She tried to stay busy. Physical therapy three times a week. Shrinker routine morning and evening. Strength training. Scar massage. But between sessions, time crawled.

Brent worked from his home office, emerging periodically to check on her. They’d gotten better at communication—she asked when she needed help, he waited to be invited. But she could see the concern in his eyes when she stared out the window too long, when she scrolled through her phone without really seeing anything.

On Day 52, her lawyer called.

“Ms. Park, just checking in. How’s recovery going?”

“Fine. On schedule.”

“Good, good. Listen, we’re building the case, but we need updated medical documentation. Bills, therapy notes, prognosis reports. Anything that shows ongoing costs and impact.”

“I’ll get them to you.”

“Great. And Ms. Park? This is going to take time. Settlement negotiations rarely happen before six months post-accident. More likely eight to twelve.”

Eight to twelve months. She’d be walking by then. Maybe back at work. But still living in limbo, dependent on Brent’s charity, waiting for money that would prove she deserved compensation for losing part of herself.

“I understand,” Ji-Eun said. “Thank you.”

After the call, she sat in her room, door closed, and cried. Not dramatically. Just quiet tears of frustration and exhaustion and the relentless weight of knowing this was her life now.

A soft knock. “Ji-Eun? You okay?”

She wiped her face. “Yeah. Fine.”

“Can I come in?”

She should say no. Should maintain boundaries, keep her breakdowns private. But she was tired of being alone in her grief.

“Yeah.”

Brent entered, took in her tear-stained face, and said nothing. Just sat on the bed beside her wheelchair and waited.

“Lawyer called,” Ji-Eun finally said. “Settlement’s going to take eight to twelve months.”

“That’s normal for injury cases.”

“I know. It’s just—I’m so tired of waiting. Waiting to heal. Waiting for the prosthetic. Waiting to know if I still have a job. Waiting to stop being completely dependent on you.”

“You won’t always be.”

“When?” Her voice cracked. “When do I get to be me again? Not patient Ji-Eun or disabled Ji-Eun or charity-case Ji-Eun. Just ... me.”

Brent was quiet for a long moment. “You’re already you. You’ve just got a different body than you had two months ago. But you’re still sharp enough to eviscerate me verbally. Still stubborn enough to try things alone even when they’re hard. Still brave enough to cry in front of me instead of pretending you’re fine.”

“I don’t feel brave.”

“Brave people rarely do.”

She leaned into him—awkward with the wheelchair, but close enough. His arm came around her shoulders, and they sat like that until the crying stopped.

Day 54 – The Discovery

Brent needed to pick up groceries. Ji-Eun insisted on coming—anything to break the monotony of the condo.

The store was busy, mid-afternoon chaos of after-work shoppers and parents with screaming toddlers. Ji-Eun navigated the aisles, hyper-aware of stares and people who didn’t move out of her way.

She was examining pasta options when Brent disappeared.

Ji-Eun looked around, spotted him two aisles over, talking to a woman. The woman was maybe forty, athletic build, wearing capri leggings that showed—

A prosthetic leg. Below-knee, like Ji-Eun’s would be. But this woman wasn’t using a traditional prosthetic. Instead, she wore something that looked like a knee crutch—a platform strapped to her knee, with a peg extending down to the ground.

Ji-Eun wheeled closer, curiosity overriding embarrassment.

“—really saved me during the waiting period,” the woman was saying. “Between losing the leg and getting my first prosthetic, I was going crazy in a wheelchair. My PT suggested trying an iWALK, and honestly? Game changer.”

“How does it work?” Brent asked.

“You strap it to your thigh and knee, rest your shin on this platform, and walk. It’s not perfect—you’re still learning balance, and it’s weird at first. But it got me mobile way faster than waiting for a socket.” The woman demonstrated a few steps—a bit awkward, but functional. “I still use it when my regular prosthetic needs adjustments or my residual limb’s too sore. It’s my go-to backup.”

Brent noticed Ji-Eun approaching. “This is Ji-Eun. She’s about seven weeks post-op, waiting for her test socket.”

The woman smiled. “Oh, you’re in the hardest part. The waiting’s brutal.” She crouched slightly so they were closer to eye level. “If your residual limb’s healed enough, you might be able to try something like this. Just talk to your PT first—you need clearance.”

After the woman left, Brent pulled out his phone and started researching. Ji-Eun watched over his shoulder as he found the iWALK 3.0 website, read reviews, watched demonstration videos.

“This could work,” he said quietly. “If Keisha approves it.”

“Brent—”

“I’m not saying you should buy it today. I’m saying it’s an option. Something to ask about.” He met her eyes. “You’re going crazy waiting. This might help.”

Hope was a dangerous thing. Ji-Eun had learned not to trust it. But watching that woman walk—not gracefully, not perfectly, but walk—stirred something she’d been trying to suppress.