He’s right. Sitting up used to be automatic. Now it’s work.
“The program here is intensive,” Jason says. “Physical therapy twice a day. Occupational therapy once a day. We’re going to keep testing the lower extremities for any response. Every session, we check.”
“Every session?”
“Yes. Spinal cord injuries are unpredictable. We’ve had patients who showed no response for weeks and then started getting twitches, sensation. The spinal cord heals on its own schedule. Our job is to keep pushing and be ready to build on whatever it gives us.”
“I’m going to push hard,” I say. “You should know that about me.”
Jason nods. “That’s good. But I’m going to tell you what I tell every motivated patient. The physical part isn’t going to be your problem. You’re strong, you’re young. The problem is going to be the days when you push as hard as you can and nothing changes below the waist. The days when you do everything right and the legs don’t respond. That’s where patients break. Not from the work. From the waiting.”
The work I can handle. I’ve lived my whole life in the work. Football practice, academy drills, twelve-hour shifts.
“I hear you,” I say. “Let’s get to work.”
The rest of the morning is hard work, the kind that leaves my upper body shaking and my arms burning in a way that feels almost good. Wheelchair push-ups where I lift my full weight off the seat, and my triceps scream after eight, and I push to fifteen. Transfer drills, bed to chair, chair to bed, until my shoulders are on fire and the sweat is running down my back and soaking the waistband of my shorts. Core exercises where Jason pushes me off balance, and my body learns, rep by rep, to compensate for legs that can’t do their part.
At every break, Jason tests. A fingertip down my shin. Pressure on the sole of my foot. “Try to move your toes.” Thesignal goes out. Nothing answers. Jason makes a note and moves on without telling me what it says. I don’t ask.
Leah takes the afternoon. Occupational therapy is different. Less about strength, more about the daily logistics of living in a body that only half cooperates. She starts with a T-shirt and it takes me two minutes and four resets to put it on because every time my arms go over my head, my balance shifts and my hands shoot down to catch the armrests. Put it on. Take it off. Put it on. Take it off. Each time a little faster, the catches earlier, the corrections smaller. By the fifth time the shirt goes on almost straight and Leah nods, which from Leah is a standing ovation.
“Tomorrow, we add pants,” she says.
“I can’t wait.”
“You’re going to hate pants.”
“I already hate pants. I’ve been wearing a hospital gown for two weeks.”
“Pants are going to feel like three marathons. But you’ll get there.”
Five o’clock and the day is over. Jason comes back for the last transfer, bed to chair to bed, and this time I lead it. His hands are up, ready, but they never make contact. I shift forward, press down through arms that have been working for seven hours, lift my weight off the chair in one shaking push, pivot, and lower myself to the mattress.
Six inches of space. The hardest six inches of my life. And I did it alone.
He leaves and I’m exhausted. My arms ache, my core is sore, my shoulders feel like I’ve been carrying my full weight all day, which I have. But it’s the good exhaustion. The kind that earns sleep.
My phone has four texts from Benji. A photo of the finished arch with the white ribbon and the bamboo poles golden against the Gulf. A photo of Dante in a white shirt bossing a vendor. A text that says “florist delivered the correct pots. UNGLAZED. Dante is a miracle worker.” And one from an hour ago: “wedding starts in 2 hours. I’m terrified and confident which is my natural state. How was your first day?”
The arch looks like a goalpost to me and I hear Benji arguing with me about it and the imagined argument makes me smile.
Mickey:First day was brutal in the good way. I worked hard. My arms are jelly. The therapy team is solid. Jason the PT is going to kick my ass daily and I’m going to let him. The arch looks incredible. Go crush the wedding.
Benji:The wedding was perfect, Mickey. She cried. He cried. Callie’s mother cried the most. The candles stayed lit. The arch held. The chairs were ivory. I did it. WE did it. Your bamboo backup and your LED candles and your grocery store arugula saved this wedding and you weren’t even in the building. The stars are out, and I’m so tired I could sleep on this concrete terrace. I miss the chair in your room. Goodnight, Mickey.
Mickey:You did it. Not me. You pulled that off with broken ribs and no sleep and a florist who doesn’t know what unglazed means. That’s all you, Benji. I’m proud of you.
I type it and send it.
Benji:You made me cry. Again. I hope you’re happy. The cleanup crew is staring at me. Goodnight.
Mickey:Goodnight.
I put the phone on the pillow and close my eyes. My arms are sore and my core is screaming. I worked harder than I’ve worked in years.
Six inches. That’s how far I moved on my own today. Six inches from the chair to the bed.
Tomorrow I’m going for seven.
