First steps

Day 117.

I haven't written much in the last little while. There hasn't been anything that stood out. Every day has been the same, the same routine, the same food, the same white walls to stare at. Today was different. Today was the big one. The day where we discovered if my body could do it. Unlike most of the last 117 days, I want to be able to remember this day as detailed as possible:

Sophia comes into the room, turning on the dim light, the wheels of the vitals monitor making a swishing sound on the linoleum.

“Good morning, you are already up.” She says.

“Yep.” For once I am awake not because of pain raging through my body, but because I am excited and nervous. I free my arms from the thin bed sheet and offer them to her. She traps my left index finger in the oxygen reader, while my right arm is wrapped in the cuff, to see what my blood pressure is doing. It is low, as always. Maybe that will change later?

“Do you want to take some extra pain medications, to help with today?” Sophia asks, while she is browsing through my file, popping pills into a little plastic cup.

“No thanks.” I want to be able to feel how it is going to be like, even though I might regret it.

“Are you sure? Let me know if you change your mind. We could do it just before the session?”

“Thank you, but I'd like to try without.”

She just shakes her head and hands me the pills and a cup of water, as always not impressed by my will to endure pain and refuse medications. Thankfully she doesn't start that argument again. Instead she asks the question nurses are excited by the most.

“Did your bowel move already this morning?”

A few month ago I was embarrassed whenever this question got asked, so about ten times a day. Eventually I got used to it. Understanding why they are so happy if you answer the question with yes helped. It is a sign of a healthy body, in my case a sign that my body is recovering from the operations and handling the medications.

“No, not yet.” I say.

“Ok. Do you need anything else for now? I'll be back later for the shower.”

“Perfect, thank you.”

She and the vitals machine leave the room. I try to read, but can't concentrate. Instead I look out the window. Watch hospital staff arrive for work, walking around outside like it is the easiest thing in the world. To them it is. For me it was once. Technically it was only a few months ago that I shouldered my pack and walked up the hill like any other day to go for a fly, but it feels like years ago. Time passes differently in a hospital. Manipulated by the lack of natural light and pharmaceuticals.

Breakfast comes and I force myself to eat, knowing I'd need the energy today.

When Sophia comes back, I sit up and shuffle across into the wheelchair. Being able to do that was another big day a few weeks ago – regaining some of my independence. Today is hopefully going to be the next step towards it, literally.

I can wheel myself into the bathroom now, but to speed things up she pushes me. She takes off my moon boots that I still wear, routinely checking the scars on my back and side to see if anything is opening again and helps to undress me. Being in a hospital for so long makes you not care about who sees you naked anymore. No one cares, No one judges. It is what it is.

Sophia helps me shuffle onto the shower bench and hoses me down, helps me apply soap, and hoses me down again. Another first to look forward to: my first shower by myself. Hopefully it'll be more pleasant than my first shower, like any other first since the accident it was incredibly painful. I push the thought away, hoping today is going to be different.

Eventually I am back on my bed, washed and dressed. Resting, waiting for the moment the door opens to reveal Mary.

Just before 10 I get myself back in the wheelchair, so I am ready for when she comes. My runners lying in my lap. But the door stays shut. Maybe it wasn't today? Maybe she has forgotten? Had something more important to do? What could be more important than seeing if I could weight bear?

Finally Mary blasts into the room.

“So sorry to keep you waiting, you ready?” She grabs the handholds on the back of the wheelchair.

“Let's do it.” I say, while she is already pushing me out the door and down the corridor towards the gym, as they call it.

“Sit down on that bench there.” She points at one of the exercise benches and I wheel myself closer and get onto the bench, my feet never touching the ground. That's about to change. Mary helps me put on my shoes. We have to loosen the laces all the way to get them onto my swollen feet.

“Ok. What we'll do is: I raise the bed, you sit on the edge, put this harness around you and then we'll hoist you up.” Mary says. “You ready?”

I nod and look at the contraption dangling from the ceiling in front of me. White straps of fabrics, buckles, a steel bar. More complex than a paragliding harness. This looks like it belongs into a torture chamber, maybe an abandoned asylum, not a hospital.

Mary puts the straps around me and tightens the buckles as much as possible.

“I'll slowly start hoisting you up.” Mary looks at me, waiting for my sign to start.

I nod again, concentrating too much on my body to be able to speak.

“Let me know if it hurts too much.”

The motor whirs to life and the straps are pulling tighter around me, lifting me off the bed. In the end my feet are touching the ground, but my body is held by the harness.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes.” I say. So far I am not in too much pain.

“I'll slowly lower you. Let me know when it gets too painful.”

I concentrate on my feet, my hands grasping a rail in front of me, to keep my balance. It feels alright. Not too much pain. Not much else either. No dizziness. No nausea. I take this as good signs.

“You are standing unsupported. How do you feel?” Mary asks.

“Really? I feel alright.”

“Just lean yourself back against the bench for a moment.” She says and goes to rummage around behind me. When she returns into my field of vision she holds a pair of crutches. My eyes go wide. Crutches! I smile. She takes off the harness and helps me feed my hands through the cuffs, then supports me to stand up. I am wobbling, needing to be steadied until I manage to lean onto the crutches.

“If you want to you can try to walk, move one crutch then follow with one foot.”

I do as she says. Moving one arm and a crutch takes most of my strength, pain slowly spreading through my back and feet. But I ignore it. Moving one foot I sway. Mary puts a hand on my back to steady me. Now the other side, slowly I lift the crutch, put it back down and follow with one foot. More pain. But I keep going. Crossing the room until I stand in front of another bench, unable to figure out how to turn. Mary followed me with the wheelchair.

“Sit down. I think that is enough for today.”

I let myself sink into the wheelchair. Exhausted. Exhilarated. Tired. Sore. All at once.

“Good job! You did very well.” Mary says.

Back in my bed the full impact of what I achieved today settles on me. Now that I have time to think about the consequences of completing this first, I allow myself to think about the possibilities from here. I have taken my first steps. It means that my spinal chord is strong enough, even with one less vertebra, being held in place by various bits of metal. My feet are strong enough, now that the breaks are healed, held together by screws and plates. I will be able to walk. I will get my independence back. I will be able to go home soon.

Sophia comes with a dose of painkillers that I happily accept.

I drift off into the world of dreams – dreams that now may become reality again, replacing the hospital whiteness with the vibrant colors of nature.

Day 118

Diffuse light is starting to color in the sky outside the window. I am sore, very sore. Even though it is a different soreness I still couldn't sleep well until I succumbed to an extra dose of drugs. Pain is no longer a reminder of all the things I might not be able to do anymore. Now it is reassurance. Reassurance to be free off a wheelchair. Reassurance for normality to return to my life eventually.

Today I am going to the pool with Mary, to let the water carry the weight of my body and practice walking. I better get myself ready.