“I’m fine.”
“You don’t get extra credit for lying.”
Once the dizziness passed, she placed the wheelchair at an angle beside the bed and reminded me where to put my hands. I shifted toward the edge, keeping my weight centered over my right foot while she steadied the transfer belt around my waist. The first attempt got me halfway up before pain tore through my hip and I dropped back onto the mattress.
“Shit!”
Denise kept one hand beneath my arm. “Breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“You’re cussing and that’s different.” She replied. I glared at her and she smiled. “Ready to try again?”
“No.”
“Good. On three.”
By the time I settled into the wheelchair, sweat had perspired across my forehead. My arms shook from supporting more of my weight than they were used to, and frustration sat so close to the surface that I wanted to knock everything off the bedside table.
The therapy gym was brighter than my room and twice as irritating. Parallel bars ran through the center. Exercise mats covered one side, while walkers, wheelchairs, resistance bands, and equipment filled the rest. Other patients worked with therapists around the room as well facing different obstacles. Everybody seemed to be trying and that irritated me too.
My therapist, Claire, rolled me between the parallel bars and locked the wheelchair. She was small, energetic, and too cheerful for somebody whose job involved making injured people do things they didn’t want to do. “Today we’re going to focus on standing tolerance and balance,” she said.
“I tolerated standing for twenty-six years. I think I understand the concept.”
Claire didn’t react; she had already learned that sarcasm was the only thing I had left some mornings. “This is different.”
“I noticed.”
She placed the gait belt around my waist and positioned herself slightly behind me. “Your arms will help you push up but try not to hang all your weight through your shoulders once you’re standing. We want you using your right leg and your core.”
My hands wrapped around the bars, and I hated that I was afraid. Standing had once been something I did without thinking. Now my body treated the floor like it couldn’t be trusted.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Claire said.
I pushed against the armrests, shifted my weight forward, and forced myself upright. My right knee wobbled immediately. Both arms locked around the bars. The missing weight on my left side threw everything off. My brain kept expecting my foot to touch the ground and kept sending messages to a limb that wasn’t there. A sharp tingling sensation ran through toes I no longer had. I sucked my teeth and swallowed my tears.
“Easy,” Claire said. “Don’t rush.”
“I’m not rushing.”
“You’re gripping the bars hard enough to bend them.”
“I’m trying not to fall Claire.” I corrected her.
“And I’m not going to let you.”
I loosened my hands slightly, but my body remained stiff. Sweat slid down my back beneath the loose hospital shirt. My right thigh began burning after less than a minute.
“This is stupid.”
“It’s hard, I know, but it will help.”
“It’s standing Claire, that’s it.”
“For you, right now, standing is hard.”
The words hit a place I didn’t want touched. My eyes filled before I could stop them. “I know what it is,” I snapped. “I’m the one missing a fucking leg.”
