I listen to my dad and Nate as they discuss the latest baseball score, the sounds of their voices melding together until they almost become one.
Mom sits by my side, her hands busy as she crochets a blanket for the bottom of my hospital bed to keep my legs warm. “You won’t know when they’re cold,” she told me two days ago when she brought the yarn back to start it.
For two days it’s felt like I’ve been in a dark hole with no light in sight. The walls are closing in on me, the ceiling getting closer and closer to my head. I can’t keep listening to the same conversations and staring at the same things. Nothing is changing—nothing.
“Knock knock!” A woman’s chirpy voice sounds through the door before it’s pushed open and her face appears. I don’t move an inch as all conversation stops and everyone’s attention is fully focused on her. “I’m Traci, with an I.” Her deep-red-painted lips lift into a welcoming smile. “I’m your physiotherapist.”
I blink as she steps forward, my gaze trailing over the navy yoga pants she’s wearing with the same color polo shirt.
She holds her hand out to me as she comes to a stop next to Mom and Dad. “It’s lovely to meet you, Be—” I snap my mouth open, ready to correct her but she beats me to it. “Sorry... I mean, Amelia.”
A small smile lifts up the side of my mouth at her correction and I find I have some kind of instant connection with her.
“Nice to meet you, too,” I answer, my voice hoarse and croaky as I ignore the eyes I feel on me. For the last eight weeks I’ve barely spoken to the three people who mean the most to me in this world. In theory, they should be the people I want to talk to, but I don’t.
Control. It’s all about control. I may not be able to control how or when—or if—my body heals, but I can decide who I will and won’t talk to.
“Are you ready for your first session?” she asks, putting her hands on her hips. Not once has she acknowledged anyone else in the room.
When the nurses come in to check my vitals, or doctors come in to tell me what my progress has been—or lack of progress—they always look at my dad, my mom, or Nate.
For the first time since before the fall, I feel ready to do something other than sit here all day. I find myself nodding and as soon as I do, my dad stands up.
“Don’t you think it’s too soon?”
“Nope,” Traci replies, shaking her head and finally turning her dark-blue eyes toward him. “The sooner we start, the better. She’s had her cast off for two weeks, and apart from daily muscle exercises, she hasn’t used many of her muscles. She’s losing strength every day.”
“I agree,” Nate voices, coming to stand on the other side of me. “You should start as soon as you can.”
I bite my bottom lip but reach my hand out toward him, thanking him silently for the show of support. His warm hand grasps a hold of mine and he squeezes. My heartbeat goes wild in my chest, my pulse skyrocketing. I haven’t touched him for what feels like a lifetime, and right now, I want to simultaneously let go and hold on tighter.
The room is silent for several beats before Mom places her crocheting into her bag and stands up, hooking her arm through Dad’s.
“Come on, Carl. Let’s go and get some lunch.”
“Jan—”
“Let’s go.”
I turn my head toward them, watching as Mom narrows her eyes and has a silent conversation with Dad.
He huffs long and low before reaching over and planting a soft kiss on my forehead, pulling back and keeping his gaze connected to mine for a second. Spinning around, he leads Mom out of the room, leaving only me, Nate, and Traci.
“Right!” She claps her hands and blinds me with her wide smile. “Let’s start with you getting from the bed into a chair.”
I swallow against the lump forming in my throat, pushing back the tears springing to the surface as she turns around and pushes a wheelchair into the room.
It feels like this is the start of the end, like somehow if I settle on needing a chair to get around I won’t ever be able to stand on my own again. It’s a tug of war, one I’m losing, the flag almost coming over the line to say I’ve lost the whole game.
Nate’s hand squeezes mine again and I turn my attention to him, our gazes clashing. He nods his head, whispering, “You can do this, Lia.” With those words, the flag tugs in my direction, giving me more control and a possibility at a win.
“Okay,” I choke out, taking a deep breath and listening intently as Traci explains what I need to do and where I need to place my hands to push myself up.
Nate lets go of my hand and steps back when Traci says, “Let’s lower this bed and give it a go.”
I turn my wide eyes to Nate, looking for some kind of silent comfort, and when he tilts his head in a small nod, I know he’s right here with me.
The bed lowers right down so it’s at the same level as the chair and Traci hands me the control.
“Push it up so you’re sitting as straight as you can.” I press the button and wait as it lifts up. “Now place your hands here.” She takes hold of my hands, positioning them where they need to be. “Push down on your palms and shift your torso to the side… That’s it, now lift the leg closest to the chair by placing your hands under your thigh and swing it around before doing the same with the other leg.”
I move my shaky hands, lifting the blanket and seeing the legs that have been of no use to me for the last eight weeks.
I stare at them for several seconds, still with a niggling bit of hope they’ll magically start working again.
Pushing my hands under my thigh just above my knee, I move my leg, hating the sensation of not feeling it on my thigh but being able to feel my leg on the palm of my hand.
“Well done,” Traci praises, standing close by in case I need support. For the first time in eight weeks I’m sitting on the edge of the bed. My brain automatically wants to place my feet on the floor and push down on them so I’m standing at my full height. But I know I can’t do that, no matter how much I want to and how much my instincts are screaming at me.
“Now put your hands next to you on the bed. You’re going to push down as much as you can and then swing around to land in the seat of the chair.”
Hesitating, I chew my bottom lip. “What if I fall?”
“If I think at any stage that you’ll fall, I’m right here to help. You may not be able to do it properly on the first try: it takes practice to do it seamlessly.”
Gritting my teeth, I put all of my strength through my arms and into my hands, lifting and swinging. I lose my balance and as soon as Traci’s hands land on my biceps to right me, I feel another pair of hands on my waist from behind. Hands that a few months ago I shivered when they touched me, but right now they make me angry and frustrated.
“Stop,” I grind out. I pull out of his grip and turn my head to face him. “Leave.”
“I was just trying to—”
“Don’t.” I grit my teeth so hard I’m sure I can hear one crack.
He backs away several steps as Traci says, “Maybe it’s best you leave until we’re finished?”
Nate doesn’t look away from me as his eyes flash with remorse and he walks around the bed toward the door. The click of it has the breath leaving my body in a whoosh, and when I look up at Traci, she lets go of my arms and gives me a wide smile.
“Let’s try again.”
Determined, I try a second time, nearly falling again. For twenty minutes, I keep trying, not able to get the right traction or twist I need before finally making it into the chair.
It may be a small thing being able to get from the bed to the wheelchair on my own, but for me it’s the start of having my independence back.
Maybe the chair isn’t the end of something but the start.
I watch as Amelia hoists herself up, getting stronger day by day. Since the first therapy session four weeks ago when I tried to help I’ve been sitting silently on the sidelines, watching. Her upper body strength is slowly growing with the use of her wheelchair and these sessions, but much to everyone’s dismay, there’s been no progress with the feeling in her legs.
I can tell she’s growing frustrated, but as everyone keeps reminding her, it’s only been four weeks since she started therapy. But to her it’s four weeks of her life she hasn’t been able to walk or do simple everyday things like getting herself a drink if she’s thirsty.
It ignites the niggling thought I’ve been toying around with: where is she going to go when she’s eventually discharged from the hospital? Not back to her apartment, that’s for sure.
I know with every fiber of my being where I want her to go, but apart from the fact I don’t know when that will be, it’s not my decision. But that doesn’t stop me from enquiring on her behalf.
As Amelia wheels herself out of the room after her session, I stay behind. I know she always likes a moment to herself after them anyway, so she won’t miss me.
“Traci, can I have a word?” I ask her physiotherapist.
“Sure.” Her kind smile invites me to talk about whatever I need to.
“I know you can’t give me a timeframe, but I wanted to talk about the possibility of having Amelia back home for Thanksgiving.”
“That’s only seven weeks away, I wouldn’t like to say.”
“What do we need to do to make it happen?”
She sighs. “At the moment it’s touch and go. She’s still here because she needs to be.”
“But wouldn’t her being more comfortable in a place where she can maneuver around by herself be better for her?”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “And I suppose you have a place in mind?”
“Actually… I do.”
She chuckles at the look on my face. “This place would have to be equipped with everything she needs. An elevator or stair lift if there’s stairs, lower beds, lots of space.” I make a mental note as she ticks things off on her fingers. “She’d need a place to continue her therapy and unwind, but all of this will cost money.”
“Money isn’t an issue,” I reply seriously.
She nods. “Then I’d suggest getting her a personal physiotherapist.”
“What about you?”
She rubs the back of her neck. “I’m employed by the hospital, I don’t do house calls.”
“But she knows and trusts you.” She seems comfortable with Traci and happy to let her help her in her recovery, I’m not sure how she’d react to someone completely new.
She sighs. “It’s something I’d definitely be willing to do.” She pauses. “Let me talk to a few people and get back to you.”
I smile, thinking of the possibility of having Amelia come home with me where she belongs.
“So, Thanksgiving?”
She shakes her head. “I’m not promising anything. Get everything put into place and then we’ll all talk.”