Physical Therapy

When I was at the nursing home I slid out of my wheelchair in my room. It was a private room. I had not figured out where the nurse call button was. I didnt have the lung capacity to yell. So I put my head on the side of my chair and looked at the oddly twisted legs which were attached to my body. The same legs that helped my college roommate and I drag down dressers and desks from the second floor of our house. My left one began to twitch and spasm uncontrollably. My hands were clenched up in two fists of rage and couldnt be released. My neck could not hold up my head.

Eventually a nurse scooped me up and back in bed I went. The next day I began my first round of Physical Therapy (PT). I had to be lifted out of my bed on a board. I was then wheeled down to a room where I was stuck upright in a contraption that made me think of the movie RoboCop. I stood for only ten minutes but it seemed hours. Sweat ran down my back and my contracted muscles sent amazing waves of pain up both legs. Every day I went through this. I couldnt process if there would be an end to this. The therapists gave me as much encouragement as they could without raising my hopes up too high. In a few weeks I was moved to a rehabilitaion hospital.

Strapped down in the back of the wheelchair I remember getting enough strength in my neck to see my girlfriend following the ambulance to the hospital. I had regained enough strength in my legs now to (with assistance) pull myself up onto parallel bars. Dragging my seemingly dead legs I pulled myself along. This would become easier over the next months. I was massaged after by a nurse or a therapist. Not as sexy as you might think. Somewhat mobile now, I began to use my feet to wheel myself down the hall and to my room. A simple 500 foot distance had now become agonizing to me. More times then not I stopped mid-way to rest. Nurses would walk quickly by carrying trays of meds or food. It was impossible not to have jealousy gnawing at me as I watched perfectly healthy people make their way down a hall. How easy it was for them to stride. Easily execute a perfect heel-to-toe strike. Just to lift and plant a foot seemed an impossible task. I began to hate them for the simplest things I could not do anymore. Then I hated myself for hating them.

Six months there and I was told I was going back to Ohio. Another hospital. Another team of therapists and doctors. Flying on a plane for the first time since my accident was fun. I was wheeled through the airport and my wheelchair was searched and I was squeezed into the plane. The changes in altitude made me puke like prom night. My muscles hurt from being in a seated position for hours. The same night I was tucked into a new hospital bed. Upgrade on food. Better Jello and friendlier nurses. Bed baths here not sexy either. I graduate to a stationary bike. Here I work on my stamina. I struggle to move my legs up and down on the pedals which have my shoes strapped into them. I can motor my wheelchair now all the way back to my room after therapy. Woo hoo! I'm a big boy now. I start to use my wheelchair now as a walker. I put the death grip on the handles and wobble around for five minute intervals and collapse in bed waiting for my Jello. My needs are simple now.

My then-girlfriends father is a neurosurgeon at the Ohio hospital. Remember? Inside scoop. My PT consists of building my legs back up to where I can stand on them for longer periods of time. I somewhat succeed in this goal in a relatively short time (less then a month) and am 'transitioned' to nursing home number two. This is what is called a "step down unit". Stepping down after acute care to a life at home. Only i'm in Ohio now. Not back to my home in Florida. Insert personal story line here. I have enough strength now to get in and out of bed. It is here I begin my limited strength training. Nautilus equipment is used and I was again surprised (and somewhat embarrassed) at how little I could lift. With legs or arms. My left leg still spasms. The Physical Therapist (PT) tells me this will go away the stronger I get. Still no time table. I thrive on deadlines. 'The more you work the quicker you will heal' is the new poitive mantra I get around the nursing home. So I conitinue to work. I dont see improvement as fast as I want to and this lack of improvement drives me nuts. But I get a rolling walker now!

My left foot is somewhat dragging and turned at an awkward inside angle. As much as I concentrate straightening it out when I walk, it does not. No matter how hard I concentrate on keeping it at the proper angle it chooses the flat-footed clumsy manuever. Its maddening that my mind cannot tell my foot to go in the direction I want! I yell at my foot. I say 'unhealthy' things to my foot. If I make it feel less of a foot it will eventually do what I tell it to! But, like the man its attached to, its stubborn. Its going to wait me out and get straight in its own sweet time. I dislike my left foot. With its two contracted toes.

I learn something life-changing at the nursing home. This private experience is going to put me on a plane again. Next stop: Charlotte, North Carolina. If you think you need a program or a flow chart there, think about how I felt. I turned 31 in that nursing home and it is the year 31 of my life I will spend with my father in Charlotte. Good times. Countless hours on a treadmill and again with the stationary bike gets me to graduate to a cane. Its not a flashy one made of wood with a gold handle. No. This one is aluminum and does its job of helping me regain my balance when I almost make a face plant. Curbs, hills and grass still make me struggle. After a little over two years of PT I can almost lift, press and curl the wieght I had prior to my wreck. My muscles seem less contracted. My joints are far less tight. My balance is still not there. Heck, I still walk like the town drunk. But it is getting better. That annoying left foot, the bane of my existence, is cooperating.

Everything from here on out can be done by me at the local gym I am told. With my other therapies at the same (or near) point I make the decision to go back to Florida. This is surely a condensed version of PT and the numerous trials and strategies I went through. When you are done in the hospital dont take any time off. Get a gym membership and continue there. Dont worry about how you will look as opposed to everyone else. You may have a limp. In my book, its worse to shave your back hair and look at yourself in the mirror every two minutes. You are not there to look pretty. You are there to get better. Get a personal trainer or have someone go with you for a while until you are comfortable with all the excercises.

Like I said before in My Story. Its ok to be angry. But use it to your advantage. I'm not chanelling Tony Little, but heres what I did: when you get tired with however many sets it takes to make you out-of-gas, do it again for the people who were never nice to you. Then do another set for people you love. Then do the last set for yourself. Walk by a mirror and tell yourself how pretty you look and do it all over the next day.