The life of a paraplegic in recovery is a full on roller coaster. Not the gentle Disneyland kind of roller coaster that is mostly plateau with a few dips and twirls here and there. (Note: This is not a dig at Disneyland. I almost daily try to convince the hubs that we should be season pass holders. I love it that much!) It’s a roller coaster from a two-bit carnival: rickety, slow to start, not quite sure it will actually make it up the steep parts, not quite sure it will hold the weight on the down parts, nausea and tear invoking, thankful to be alive at the end kind of ride.
Thursday was possibly the worst day of my post-hospital therapy yet. I arrived at the session full of eagerness for the session ahead. Ok, it was a 7:30am session, and I’m not a morning person. Plus, the hubs had kept me up all night by his
fog horn restoration snoring. So, maybe it was destined to not be the greatest of sessions. But, I was still eager. My PT showed me this contraption she wanted me to work on. It was part fork lift, part swing. Ok, it was neither of those things, but that’s how I picture it in my head. It’s a harness on this tall crane-like structure. It’s supposed to hoist you up so you can walk. Well, this one was broken. Something about a dead battery. But that didn’t stop my PT. I pulled myself into a standing position from my wheelchair and they strapped me in. They told me to let go with my hands. That was fun. I was suspended in mid-air as if on a swing in a playground. I could handle this. Then they told me to take steps. My brain relayed the message to my legs, but my legs seemed to not be home. It could be that the machine had me at a half-standing position with my legs bent at 75 degree angles. It could be that my legs don’t work right. Whatever it was, they wouldn’t move. I told my PT this. Her assistant PT then sat on the machine and moved my legs forward for me. What was the point of this?? I can’t be in a swing with someone moving my legs for me all the time. (Or can I?? That actually sounds kind of fun. I could sit in the swing drinking mimosas while they so the work of moving my legs. Note to self: rethink this whole contraption. And buy orange juice.) I proceeded to get really frustrated and was on the verge of leaving this session. They unbuckled me from the machine by literally unbuckling the snaps and letting me slop down onto my wheelchair. I then asked to use the normal support walker that I like to use. We tried that. I took a few steps and had to stop. The assistant PT was still trying to move my legs and was more in my way than I needed her to be. I’m stubborn and independent and like to do as much as humanly possible. I sat down again, feeling the burn of tears I was fighting back in frustration. I kindly (read: not sure of my exasperated tone) asked her to not move my legs and let me do it. We tried one more time and I walked about 15 feet. I was so tired from all the failed attempts that I couldn’t do more. And beyond frustrated. Have I mentioned that I was frustrated? My PT told me to not worry about the bad days, as she jumped up and down, did ballerina twirls and plies, the running man, and any other move that required moveable, workable legs. Ok, she really didn’t do any of that. She just stood there. But when you’re frustrated that you can’t walk, someone even standing seems like an amazing and enviable feat.
Thursday afternoon I received a call that a session on Friday morning opened up. I jumped at it. I didn’t want to end my week on a bad note. Friday morning I went (at a more reasonable time of 9:30) to the session with my folks who had come down to see me. We strapped on the leg braces and I was ready to go. We had my normal support walker and a path with no obstacles. I need nothing else in life. I popped up out of my wheelchair, steadied my legs below me and was off. 10 feet. 20 feet. 25 feet. I got to the end of the path and had to make a turn. I made the turn at a very wide angle. The kind of wide turn like big rigs have to make which necessitate the signs on the side of their trucks to not try to sneak by on their right. But I made the turn and kept going. My PT was in front of me rolling backwards. I informed her that there was an abandoned wheelchair behind her that she was going to roll into. Another PT in the room thought I said I needed a wheelchair and, clearly freaked out that no one was going to help me, literally ran over to say I needed a wheelchair. That was very nice of her. But I didn’t need a rest. I was ready to keep going. They cleared the obstacle and I took another step. Apparently a few seconds of stopping made my legs think it was break time. They didn’t want to move. Not exactly sure how long I went, but it was great (read: fast with big strides). My PT then informed me that turns were actually harder than going straight. Break time was over and I made the trip back. Then came a turn. My legs, remembering that they were just informed that turns were hard, decided they needed another break. I firmly believe that ignorance is bliss. If I know something is hard, I will dwell on it. “Mental block” is my middle name. But, I made it back to the starting point, and probably did about 60-65 feet in great, big, normal strides. My PT told me that now she wants me to go slower to work on form. I told her that that is harder. Apparently she knew this. (Reminder to self: take her cookies at next session so she won’t be as hard on me.)
The point of all this is that one day I’ll have the worst session and the next I’ll have the best session. It’s hard to remember this in the midst of a bad session. And in the midst of a good session, it’s hard to think of anything except for sheer exuberance. Hence, the roller coaster.