The Seven Longest Yards

by Chris Norton

  Bright and early on New Year’s Day, Chris and his friend Brock pulled up in front of my parents’ house in his van, while his parents followed in a U-Haul. Chris supervised while the rest of us loaded the moving truck with the new furniture and decorations I had picked out over the past couple of months. It didn’t bother me that Chris couldn’t help. My parents raised me to be extremely independent and take care of myself. I didn’t mind carrying boxes and lifting furniture, and I certainly didn’t need him doing everything for me. Actually, if he did that, it would drive me nuts.

  The temperature barely hit double digits that day, which meant my face and hands were freezing while I was sweating under my parka. Winters in the upper Midwest are brutal, but it wasn’t like we could wait until the weather warmed up to move. Chris was scheduled to start his workouts at Barwis Methods on January 4. We didn’t have any time to waste.

  CHRIS

  Moving day should have been exciting, and it was. But it was tough for me to sit back while everyone else did all the work. Emily didn’t mind, but I did. In spite of my injury, I still thought I should be the heavy lifter like my dad was. Growing up, my dad always manned the steering wheel for long car rides. He fixed loose floorboards and leaky faucets. If there was a problem, he took care of it. He was right there in the middle of our move as well. Even though he was well into his fifties, he still grabbed the heaviest boxes and the biggest pieces of furniture, and Emily was always right there with him. She is fearless and always wants to do the most difficult task. While I find that trait quite endearing, I worry about her getting hurt. That didn’t stop her from jumping in with my dad to carry a large dresser, couch, or mattress. Watching them, I couldn’t help but think that it should be me, not them. I understand that I had no choice in the matter, but it still ate at me and made me that much more motivated to do everything in my power to regain as much mobility as I could.

  Once we arrived in Plymouth, Michigan, we had three days to unpack and get settled into our new apartment before my first training session. Those days are a blur to me because I was so excited about getting started with Mike. The night before my first workout, I could barely sleep. My mind kept replaying the tape of my previous workout with Mike Barwis. Mike had such a charismatic, commanding presence that might have intimidated me under other circumstances. That day in August, though, he got my legs to move in a way they hadn’t since my injury. I saw Mike as my great hope, my answer to prayer.

  The next morning, I felt butterflies in my stomach as Emily drove us to Barwis Methods. This is it, I thought. A few months here and I’m not only going to crush the graduation walk, I’m going to get the chance to walk independently. Mike is going to break me out of my chair. Emily looked over at me and smiled. She was as excited as I was.

  But my excitement died when I arrived at the gym and discovered that Mike Barwis was not going to be my trainer. Instead, I had to settle for a trainer who was so new to the team that he still had someone watching over his shoulder.

  After my first session with the new guy, Emily and I went to the front desk to schedule some times to work with Mike, even though we understood he couldn’t be my everyday trainer, due to demand. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Chris,” the front desk staffer said. “Mike’s not going to be at the gym until February. Even then, he’s going to be in and out before he goes to Florida in March. He helps the Mets with their spring training, so he’s going to be there a while. We can’t schedule anyone with him due to his fluctuating schedule.

  Oh, wow. I knew coming in that Mike was a busy guy and in high demand, but I assumed he would at least be in the building. Emily and I had just moved ten and a half hours from home to work with him, and now they were telling me he wasn’t going to be around for months? My rock-solid optimism started to crack.

  I didn’t say a word during the whole drive home. Emily tried to coax me out of my shell. “I know your trainer is not the person you thought you’d work with, but I’m sure he will still be great,” she said. “We’re definitely in the right place. We’re supposed to be here.”

  I could barely muster a nod. “Yeah. Maybe you’re right,” I lied.

  EMILY

  I had never seen Chris so down, and it scared me. He’s always so positive and able to see the bright side, so to see him completely defeated after his second day of therapy threw me for a loop.

  He practically spoke in grunts during dinner and was silent as we watched TV afterward. “I think I’m ready to head to bed,” he finally said. “I’m just tired. It’s been a rough day.”

  I could not stand the thought of Chris going to sleep without talking through his feelings. I needed to find a way to make him feel better about the situation. So, of course, I had to talk to him about how he was feeling.

  To transfer Chris to bed, I help him up and he does a standing pivot, but when I helped Chris stand up, I held him up before he could crash down into bed. I said, “Let’s work on your standing balance.” Some nights Chris and I would practice balancing, where he would find a spot he was balanced and hold it for as long as he could by himself.

  “Emily, just let me go to bed. I’ve had a long day already.”

  “Let’s see how long you can hold it.”

  He balanced for a few seconds before he started toppling over, then I grabbed him back to an upright position.

  “Emily, that’s enough. I can’t balance today. Let me go to bed.”

  Okay, I thought. This definitely isn’t like him. He never gives up. Ever.

  “Okay, what’s going on?” I said in frustration. I sat him back in his chair. I crawled onto his lap. He was not going to bed this upset.

  He wouldn’t look at me but instead just stared at the floor. Chris hates showing his feelings. “I think this whole move was a huge mistake,” he said with his voice cracking. He was trying so hard not to cry.

  I looked Chris in the eye. I had seen him tear up maybe once before, but never anything like this. Tears started to run down his face. “I’m never going to walk at my graduation,” he continued. “I’m not where I need to be physically. I uprooted you from everything, and I never should have done that. What if we are wasting our time here and now there is no turning back?”

  My heart melted as I wiped the tears from his eyes. “Chris, we are not wasting our time!” I cried, tears in my eyes too. “This is going to work. I have a gut feeling. I know God has us here for a reason.”

  Chris shook his head as he tried to stop crying but couldn’t quite do it. “I hope you’re right.”

  By now I was done crying. I could see he was spiraling downward, and I had to stop it. My tears were replaced by a different but very familiar feeling—sheer stubborn determination. I knew it came from God. I hopped off Chris’s lap and said, “That’s it. We’re going to walk.” I didn’t wait for him to say yes before I pushed his wheelchair down the hallway, past the bathroom, and into the kitchen. “We’re walking you to bed,” I said firmly.

  “What are you doing?” Chris sputtered. “We’ve never walked that far. If we get going and get stuck in the hallway, that’s it. We don’t have anyone who can help us. This is insane.”

  I didn’t let him sway me. “Well you better make it to the bed then,” I said. “Just trust me.”

  We assumed the position—Chris’s hands on my arms, my hands on his waist. Both of us stared at our feet. We easily made it out of the kitchen, and I held my breath as we stepped into the hallway. This was the tricky part where if we fell, I wasn’t exactly sure how I would get him back on his feet.

  But we kept moving. Step. Step. Shuffle. Step. Slowly, we pushed past the last corner of the hallway and through the doorframe. Playfully I pushed Chris into bed as we both took a moment to realize what we had done.

  “You and I can do this together,” I said. “We’re an unstoppable force. It doesn’t matter who’s training you. I know it’s going to work because we’re together.”

  CHRIS

  Emily pushing me that January night
when I was at my lowest point was exactly what I needed to pull me out of a dark place. When we walked that night, I went from doubting whether we’d made the right choice in moving to Michigan to thinking that maybe this was going to work after all.

  The next day of therapy was a little better. And the day after that. And the day after that. My trainer, Mike Rhoades, may have been new, but he by no means took it easy on me. He pushed me harder than I had ever pushed myself. Each day I felt a little stronger than I had the day before. Seeing tangible progress made me that much more eager to get back to work the next day. My workouts soon had a regular pattern. Every day Emily and I drove together to Barwis Methods in time for Rhoades to set me up in the walker by 10:00 a.m. Emily stayed during my training to help with transfers and extra support. Each movement was a victory—keeping my body upright and balanced, picking up my feet and moving them forward. Emily was right there behind me in case I lost my footing as I walked five to ten yards.

  Once I was warmed up, it was time for the mat table. Rhoades laid me down and we started with stretches—quads, hamstrings, calves, ankles, every muscle in my lower body. Rhoades didn’t stop until I was loosened up and ready for some strength training. I tuned out the clank of weights being dropped and the grunts of someone straining for one more rep as I focused every ounce of energy on movement—driving out my bent knee to the other side of my hips, driving my knee to my chest. We worked my core with sit-ups, bicycle crunches, and twists.

  All the exercises were designed to get me closer to my goal. It was important that every muscle in my legs became as strong as it could in order to support walking. When one muscle group fatigues, that means another muscle group has to do more. When a muscle group has to do more, it causes more strain and imbalance in my body, making it very difficult to take a step. For example, if I am trying to take a step forward with my right leg but my right ankle can’t lift my foot up, that means my hip flexor, which picks up my knee, has to lift higher for my right foot to move forward without dragging on the ground. Or if my left leg glute and quad aren’t strong enough to support most of my body weight in order for my right leg to step forward, that means my right leg will lock up to compensate for the instability in my left leg. Therefore, it is important that every muscle group can carry its own weight.

  I loved the intensity of my workouts. I always smiled when we headed to the squat rack. True, it wasn’t like the squat rack of my football days. This one had an air suspension system in which I stood in a harness, and a hydraulic system off-weighted me so I could squat down and up. Each set, Rhoades decreased the amount of assistance I was getting. Seventy pounds. Sixty-five pounds. Sixty-pounds. Over time, I didn’t need the help anymore and even wore a weighted vest for squats. Once I was out of the squat rack, Rhoades would lay me back on the floor as I drove my legs into his hands. The two of us were completely in sync. We knew exactly what we needed to do to help me progress.

  On paper the three-hour workouts didn’t compare to my long hours in football camp or college practices. But those hours I spent at Barwis Methods were hands down the most taxing thing I have done because it was so mentally challenging. By the time Emily and I left at 1:00 p.m., I was mentally drained. It is exhausting to focus on each muscle required to activate a single movement. Then when it doesn’t work, frustration builds and makes it difficult to continue focusing.

  I wasn’t finished for the day, though. After lunch I was ready to get back at it. At our apartment we had an RT300 therapy bike set up in our family room. I pushed right up to it in my chair, and Emily set my feet in the pedals and strapped the electrodes to my hamstrings, calves, ankles, and abs. As I pushed my feet, the electrodes would fire and would activate my muscles so I could pedal. I normally watched a TV show as I biked seven or eight miles. It also had the option to use it as an arm bike so I could keep my upper body strong.

  In the evenings we’d have dinner or go out to eat. My insurance from the NCAA paid Emily to be my full-time caregiver, which helped cover our expenses. We would play cards or watch a movie together. Sometimes we’d just talk. And always we walked together one last time before I went to bed. For some reason I was at my physical best at night. Those walks not only helped me train but also gave me a big confidence boost.

  EMILY

  Before Chris and I moved to Michigan, I had always lived with roommates who helped take the garbage out and empty the dishwasher. Now everything fell on my shoulders. If it had to be done, I did it—grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning, laundry, everything. On top of that, I was Chris’s full-time caregiver. I filled his water bottle, emptied his leg bag, set him up on his bike, stayed nearby in case he fell, and helped him get ready each morning and night. And that’s not counting the time I spent at his therapy sessions.

  It was a lot, but honestly, it didn’t feel like work. I loved Chris and I wanted to help him. Helping others is what I love to do; it’s what makes me feel most alive. And most of the time, he genuinely seemed like he appreciated everything I was doing.

  But sometimes I’d make a nice dinner and he wouldn’t say thank you. Or instead of asking nicely for what he wanted, he’d just tell me he needed more water or he was ready to get out of his bike. I knew he didn’t mean anything by it, but it was hard not to feel like he was taking me for granted in those moments.

  I still didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life anymore, but I wasn’t ready to let go of the idea of helping kids, not completely. At this point it wasn’t feasible for me to look for a job, not when I was so busy helping Chris with therapy. But Chris was determined to help me find a volunteer opportunity or something where I could use my gifts.

  “You’re the most intelligent, passionate girl I’ve ever met, and you’re putting your life on hold for me,” he said. “You can’t just take care of me. You have to fulfill your potential.”

  “I would love that too,” I said. “But I don’t even know what that would be.”

  One day I went with Chris to talk to Mike Barwis about his foundation that helps with spinal cord injuries. He described the foundation’s mission and how Chris’s foundation could potentially partner with it. When I heard him mention a program for at-risk kids called Athletic Angels, my ears immediately perked up.

  “Wait, what?” I interrupted. “I love working with at-risk kids. Is that something I could help with?” I had to physically keep myself in my seat as he described how they had just partnered with a local group home and were starting a program to mentor the kids and let them work out at Barwis Methods. A few questions turned into a three-hour conversation, and before I knew it, Mike had me leading a new mentoring program for Athletic Angels. It was only a weekly commitment—perfect for our schedule. As part of Athletic Angels, I helped to create the mentoring and athletic program for a local group home. I went every week and worked on life skills with the kids, created relationships with them, and helped with the workouts. A trainer from Barwis led the workouts; I just helped. I could tell Chris was relieved that I was once again doing something I was passionate about.

  Overall, we were happy, but the wall I had built up that previous summer wasn’t going away. Everything was not all sunshine and roses in my life. My phone constantly buzzed with texts from Whittley and Sophia. Whittley tried killing herself within weeks of our move, and for the first time, I couldn’t rush to the hospital and sit by her side. A pit grew in my stomach as I worried that one day she would finally succeed.

  Then that March my phone buzzed with a single text from Sophia as I was just about to fall asleep. My heart beat faster as I read just two words: “Love you.” Something is definitely wrong, I thought. I was so tired. It had been a long day, and I just wanted to go to sleep. I thought, Someone else will help. Maybe it’s nothing and she just wants me to know she loves me. But what if no one helps? I knew Sophia struggled with depression and other mental health issues. Her body was already covered in scars from self-harm and past suicide attempts. I had a terrible feeling as I dialed he
r number and waited breathlessly for her to pick up.

  Miraculously, she answered the phone, but it was as bad as I had feared. I got her to admit that she was walking along the interstate, carrying pills and a razor blade. I listened in horror as she told me she planned to walk to a secluded place, take a fatal dose of pills, and carve her body with the word “worthless” and other names her mother and people in her life had called her. I thought back to when Whittley called me in a very similar situation. Feeling like you are the only person responsible for whether someone will live or end their life is the most terrifying feeling. My heart was racing, but I went into action and was ready to do everything possible to stop her from going through with it.

  “Sophia, listen to me. Stay where you are. I’m going to stay on the phone with you.” My voice shook as I spoke.

  “I’m here,” she said. “You don’t have to stay on the phone. I just wanted you to know that I love you and it’s not your fault.”

  I woke Chris and rapidly scratched out a note telling him what Sophia planned to do and where she was. I shoved it in his hands. He stared at me in horror as I mouthed, now! I dialed 9-1-1 on his phone and handed it to him.

  “I love you too, Sophia.” I listened as Chris spoke in hushed tones to the police in the still-dark room. “Don’t do this. You don’t want to do this.”

  Please let the police get there soon! I thought. I said anything and everything to keep Sophia on the phone and distracted, which I successfully did for nearly thirty minutes. I wondered how I would know when the police had arrived. But when Sophia started screaming a few minutes later, I knew what had happened.