me like a wave. Every muscle in my body relaxes simultaneously and my will to fight floats away on the tranquil sea that now surrounds me.
“I’m going to go put in that order for PT and I will do a patient search for Charlie. But I want you to promise me that you will stay in this bed and rest until your appointment with them later today.”
I unenthusiastically agree.
“The medication that we gave you will keep your anxiety at bay. It will also make you a little woozy. I expect you to keep your promise that you will stay in bed. I’ve seen more than a few people injure themselves by believing they were strong enough to behave normally soon after their return. Don’t be one of them.” He leans in closer and lowers his voice. “You still have another part of your journey to complete.”
***
Over the next few hours I lie in an almost stupor, staring mindlessly at the television. My nerve endings are no longer frayed; my neurons no longer fire at top speed. Every muscle in my body feels like a melted puddle of ice cream. I am unnaturally mellow, but I don’t have the will to object. I still feel the urge to run, but I can’t respond to it.
Episode after episode of home improvement shows play on the television in front of me. My need for a connection with Zoë and Charlie grows hollow and vacant. The well of my emotions has run dry. All I can do is exist.
Some time later, a short, muscular man from physical therapy, who identifies himself as Sam, comes to see me in my room. He asks me a standard list of questions about how I feel physically and I give him a standard list of answers. He asks the nurse if she can disconnect my IV and she obliges. He then surprises me by revealing that I can finally try getting out of bed.
A small spark of life ignites inside of me and I suddenly remember that this is what I want, what I need, more than anything right now.
He begins by explaining how he is going to manipulate my body to get me into a standing position, but I ignore everything he says and take things into my own hands. I prop myself up and slide my legs out from under the covers and over the edge of the bed. He scrambles to get himself in a position to help and clumsily holds my hands to support me as I put weight onto my feet for the first time in over a month.
“The first steps are always the hardest,” he says encouragingly, with a bit of trepidation to his tone. “I’m going to support you under your arms, around your rib cage. Your legs are fairly weak at this stage. It’s going to take some time to get you back to where you were before.”
I barely nod my head before pushing off the bed and onto my feet. Just as everyone has warned me, my legs are very weak. They wobble and buckle under my weight. Sam catches me before I fall to the ground and guides me into a wheelchair. I sigh in frustration.
“Don’t let it get to you. It’s perfectly normal to be at this strength level right now. I’m going to take you down to the therapy room so we can start working on building up your strength again.”
The change of scenery is long overdue, but it doesn’t do anything to improve my mood. Sam speedily wheels me down the hall and around a few corners until we reach a set of double doors. He hits a wall-mounted button and the doors open to what looks like a small fitness center. A few treadmills dot the back wall. Free weights take up the space in front of a wall of mirrors. Several single-sized medical beds sit at the center of the room.
Sam bypasses all of them and wheels me to an isolated corner of the room where a contraption that looks like gymnastics’ even bars is bolted into the floor.
“What’s this?” I ask, slightly concerned.
“It’s called an unloading device. Not a very glamorous name, I know. But it will help you regain strength in your leg muscles.”
“How does it do that?”
“There’s this harness that we strap you into. It’s kind of like a baby swing at a park. It supports your body weight, but lets you use your legs for walking again.”