Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 149510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 748(@200wpm)___ 598(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 149510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 748(@200wpm)___ 598(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
“Great job, Scottie!” Pam exclaims. “I can’t believe how strong you’re getting.”
“I don’t feel strong.” I blow out a breath of air from my pursed lips, and it forces a few pieces of sweat-drenched hair away from my face. “If you weren’t here, I would’ve ended up on the floor.”
“Scottie, it’s been two weeks, and the progress you’ve made is unreal,” she reassures with a soft smile as she hands me a glass of water with a straw. I take a sip. “Normally, you wouldn’t be able to do any part of a transfer until the four-week mark at most. Usually, for most patients, it can take six to eight weeks, depending on their upper body strength. You’re doing amazing. Don’t get discouraged.”
I try to take her words in and believe them as truth, but it’s hard. Then again, everything feels hard these days.
My entire medical team has been excited about my progress. Dr. Hurst was over the moon this morning when he found out I had managed to successfully ask a nurse to help me to the bathroom without having an accident. Prior to that, I was either pissing myself without knowing or the staff had to catheterize me.
Now, I wouldn’t say I’ve all of a sudden gotten feeling in my bladder, but I did feel the teeniest inkling of something, and when you combine that with the fact that I’ve paid enough attention to understand how often I usually go, it helped achieve that milestone. The me from three weeks ago never thought peeing in the toilet would be this exciting, but the me of today actually smiled over it.
It’s at least a tiny shred of normalcy.
“Do you need anything before I go?” Pam asks, and I shake my head.
“I’m good. Thanks.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Scottie.”
“See you tomorrow.”
“And while I’m gone, do me a favor and give yourself a pat on the back, okay? You’ve made leaps and bounds that I honestly didn’t think would be possible this early.”
I make a show of reaching up with my right hand to pat myself on the back. “Way to go, me,” I say sarcastically.
Pam just laughs and rolls her eyes. “One of these days, Scottie, I’m going to get you to say that, and you’re actually going to believe it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I retort. Pam grins before walking out of my door.
My rehab hospital room is different from the hospital room I was in at Daytona. And different from the first room I was in when I arrived at St. Luke’s. About ten days into my rehab process here, Dr. Hurst felt I was ready to be transferred to a floor that requires less care from the nursing staff.
So now, instead of getting checked on every two to four hours by the nurses, I only see them around mealtimes. It’s been a welcome change.
Though, if I had my way, all the flowers and balloons and cards and bears and everything else that people have sent me wouldn’t have followed me here. It’s not that I’m not thankful that everyone is trying to support me, but I’m trying to find a way to move on from feeling like a victim all day every day. When I look at it all, I get sad.
“Hey, hey, hey!” Wren greets as she walks into my room with her arms full of a duffel bag and a box, and I tilt my head to the side in confusion.
“I thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow?”
“I switched shifts with Jessica,” she updates and sets the bag and box down on the small dinette table near the window. “I’ll be here tonight, tomorrow, and until, like, three o’clock on Saturday because I have to work early on Sunday morning.”
She starts to pull items from the bag—a brush, a hair straightener, hair products, makeup, nail polish.
“What is all that?”
“I thought we’d enjoy a little girl time,” she says and flashes a smile over her shoulder. “A spa day, if you will.”
“You trying to tell me I look like a troll?” I tease. She shrugs, and I scoff. “Wow, don’t spare my feelings or anything.”
She laughs. “No offense, but you’ve been slacking on the self-care.”
“Well, I don’t know if you know this, but I recently became paralyzed.”
“Oh shit, really?” She snorts. “I had no idea.”
“Yeah.” I smile, and this time, I actually feel like I mean it. The humor feels good. “My legs don’t work. Like, at all. It’s nuts.”
“But…do your arms work?” she questions with pursed lips. “Because I’m pretty sure you don’t brush your hair with your feet…”
“You really went there, huh?” I retort with wide eyes, but I also laugh.
Wren grins and carries the box over toward me. “By the way, Dad sent a care package of all of your favorite snacks. I hope you don’t mind, but I ate half of the gummy bears on my drive here.”