Moving Forward in Reverse

by Scott Martin

  ‘And make sure you keep after him. He’s mighty lazy,’ she added facetiously.

  ‘That shouldn’t be a problem,’ Amber replied. I wasn’t sure she had caught the tongue-in-cheek aspect of Lindy’s quip. ‘We know how to coerce slackers into doing what we want around here.’

  Lindy snickered and patted Amber on the shoulder as she passed on her way out. At the door, Lindy looked back over her shoulder at me. Grinning, she winked and waved good-bye.

  ‘So, Scott,’ Amber said, ‘welcome to Rehab. Is there anything you need now that you’re here?’

  ‘Actually, yes.’ A smile began to grow on my face at the thought of the things I could have now. ‘A cheeseburger, please.’ Amber laughed, tossing her head back briefly so that the sound carried to the ceiling.

  ‘All right, one cheeseburger coming up. Anything else?’

  ‘Could you raise the head of the bed up slightly?’ This would become a common request until I became strong enough to do it myself. After a month of almost exclusively lying flat, I longed for any change of position I could get.

  She walked over to the right side and used the controls to raise me until the head of the bed reached forty-five degrees. When I was satisfied, she left to retrieve my cheeseburger and I took the time to familiarize myself with my new surroundings.

  The first thing I noticed was the private bathroom in the corner. Not going to get acquainted with that for a while, I thought glumly.

  There was a vinyl, forest green chair sitting at two o’clock from my bed and beside it a large, south-facing window. Outside, the world was basking in the summer sun: windows shining with its reflected light; trees casting dark shadows across the ground; cars shimmering on the road below. Across the street, large, two-story family homes stood in a line, the shadow of one falling across the front of its adjacent neighbor.

  I let my vision travel down the road as if strolling along the sidewalk. I couldn’t remember a time when I had been cooped up inside for this long. When was the last time I had felt the warmth of the sun’s rays? The crispness of an evening breeze? When would I get to feel such things again?

  How I wanted to be outdoors! The more I thought about it, the denser the weight of my longing and the air in my room became. I may no longer have been at risk of dying in my sleep, but it became terrifyingly clear that the rehabilitation of my morale was wavering far behind that of my physique. I could hide behind sarcasm and humor, but in the privacy of my own mind, I knew things were not as they should be.

  I wondered which would be harder to heal: my damaged body or my shattered spirit. Could you recover one without the other?

  ~~~

  As promised, Amber returned with a cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke from the cafeteria. (Mmm, real food.) I enjoyed the act of eating so much I could almost forgive the fact that I still couldn’t feed myself. Almost.

  Amber patiently cut and transferred pieces of possibly the best hospital-issue cheeseburger ever made to my mouth, watched me chew and swallow with the keenness of a toddler’s mother, then repeated the process. When my meal was over and Amber had left me, I let out a loud, satisfying belch. I was a little surprised by how well the sound carried, seeming to reverberate off of the solid walls surrounding me.

  ‘Excuse me!’ I yelled out for the benefit of anyone who might have heard. Audience or no, it was still worth getting that off my chest.

  When the air had cleared, a man in a white lab coat appeared in my doorway. He had dark brown hair without a hint of gray neatly combed to the left and a two-day old beard masking the lower half of his dark complexion. I gave him a quick once-over, mentally commending his Dockers. I fondly remembered my usual high school social studies teaching and match day coaching attire: a crisp button down shirt and tie with Dockers and polished shoes.

  ‘Hey there, Scott,’ he called as he walked the rest of the way into my room. ‘I’m Dr. Molin, the head honcho here in the Rehabilitation Unit. Mind if I chat with you for a bit?’

  ‘By all means,’ I said inclining my head towards him. He looked about my room with his hands clasped behind his back as if he were eyeing an elaborate sitting room. His eyes lighted on my collection of cassette tapes in the corner. He sauntered over and idly began flipping through them, taking each one out in turn to scan the cover.

  ‘So, rehab,’ he said, still looking down at the tapes. Seemingly as an afterthought, he glanced up and smiled at me. ‘Welcome.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I was trying to get a read on this new doctor, but the handful of words he'd shared and the fact that I approved of his taste in clothes were too little to go on. As far as I was concerned, Dr. Henrickson had left big shoes to fill.

  He went back to the tapes as he continued speaking. ‘The goal of rehab is to prepare you for prosthesis to be fitted, to learn how to use them competently, and, ultimately, to get the hell out. Is this a Jackson Browne tape I see?’ He laughed to himself, holding the tape up so I could see its cover.

  ‘Sure is. You a fan?’

  ‘Yeah I am.’ Affectionately, he lowered the tape back to the box, then resumed his perusal.

  ‘So you were an athlete before coming here, right?’

  I nodded, recoiling from his use of the past tense.

  ‘Good, then you should have no problem accepting a training regimen. But you may be bored. Oh, look at that! You’ve got Steve Miller and Boz Scaggs in here, too. Very nice. So what injuries have you had and rehabilitated from in the past?’

  ‘As a teen I had two knee surgeries.’ He nodded along as he kept rifling through my tapes.

  ‘Well, that’s good. You’ve been around the block so you know the drill pretty well. This’ll be like recovering from your knee surgery except longer and harder. Think you can handle it?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Now wait a minute.’ His right hand withdrew another cassette from my box. ‘What is a white guy from Wis-con-sin doing with a funk tape?’ he asked, mocking the Midwest accent as he drawled, Wis-con-sin. ‘Are you lost, white boy? Look at this! You’ve got Wild Cherry... and War, too. Yup, your compass is definitely off.’

  ‘I love funk! There aren’t many of us, but some Wis-con-sin-ers do have taste,’ I quipped back, exaggerating the slow drawl and enunciated ‘ah’ in Wiscahnsin to mimic him.

  ‘Could’ve fooled me,’ he retorted. ‘You may be the hippest Wisconsiner I’ve ever met.’ Abandoning my tapes, he walked over to the foot of my bed, crossed his arms, and asked, ‘Now, Scott, how are you handling the amputations?’

  The quick change in the tone of the conversation brought me up short and left me grinning dopily like Lenny in Of Mice and Men’ I was still busy playing mental cat-and-mouse before his words registered and I realized the game was dead. I blinked and swallowed, straightening my lips into a firm line.

  ‘Scott, you’re handicapped. And pretty bad, too.’ I swallowed again and looked self-consciously down at my body; saw the points where my arms ended much too soon and the sag in the blankets where my toes should have been, all laughter forgotten.

  ‘It’s okay if there are days you don’t want to work or speak with anyone.’ He paused, allowing the words to sink in. When the silence had lasted long enough for it to not only sink in but to dissolve completely, I looked up at him to see if he was expecting me to add to this part of the conversation.

  When our eyes met, he continued, ‘You’ll need to come to terms with that and the sooner you accept the prosthetics, the sooner you’ll move forward.’

  We stared at each other for a few breaths until I finally nodded and glanced away again.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Dr. Molin nod to himself and turn as if to leave.

  ‘Ah, do you like bagels?’

  I frowned at him, still standing half-turned towards the door. What was this guy getting at? First he chats it up and jokes with me, then he reminds me just how bad my new life can be, and now he wants to talk about my taste in food?

  ‘Uh, sure?’ I replied.
<
br />   ‘Good.’ He faced front and marched through the door. No explanation, no follow-up nor uplifting pep-talk after all that.

  Welcome to Rehab.

  What’s Up With Bagels?

  Like Ebenezer Scrooge on Christmas Eve, I was visited next by a woman with the biggest smile I had ever seen. Before entering, she wrapped her knuckles against the doorframe and leaned her head across the threshold.

  ‘Is Scott Martin in?’ she asked. When she smiled at me I felt the radiance of it like a gust of hot wind threatening to knock me off the bed. I blinked dumbly as she flitted into my room, her feet skipping lightly across the tiles as if she were carried by an invisible wire. Still blinking bewilderedly, I mentally told myself to close my mouth. By the time she had reached the edge of my bed, I had recomposed myself sufficiently to answer her question.

  ‘I’ve been called that,’ I said, trying to sound coy and confident but ending up with hoarse and pathetic. ‘Among other things.’ I was sure her smile couldn’t have become any larger, but when she looked back up at me after scanning the room, her face was quite nearly half smile and half brown, twinkling eyes. I smiled back at her, but felt like a dead bulb on a strand of Christmas lights in comparison to her radiance.

  ‘Well I’m Kathy and I’ll be your occupational therapist. I’ve heard all about you, Scott Martin.’ Her smile shrank to an impish imitation of its earlier vibrancy and her head cocked to the side so she could look at me through the corner of her eye. When she continued to speak it was as if she were performing a well-rehearsed script. Her words, perfectly enunciated so the t’s were sharp and the vowels long, were emphasized at all the right moments and interposed with well-timed pauses.

  ‘You must think you’re pretty-tough-stuff, but you should know. . . that I’m tougher. I’m going to challenge you like you’ve never been challenged before. I’ll make you work harder and longer than ever before.’ She watched me as she said this and I could see the humor in her eyes fade slightly as a calculating wariness crept into its place. She’s trying to take my measure.

  ‘Go for it,’ I deadpanned in response.

  That seemed to make her happy. She turned back to face me squarely and her smile regained some of its original exuberance. Her eyes were relaxed when they met mine the next time. Straightening her shoulders, she took a deep breath and released it as she ran her hands along the rim of my bed frame.

  ‘Good. Now on to more important matters: Should I call you Scott, Mr. Martin, or Miracle Man?’ When she said Miracle Man she flashed her mischievous smile at me and winked.

  I chuckled at her expression and said Scott would do fine. ‘Miracle Man? Really?’

  ‘Because your heart rate was continuously at 170 beats per minute during your entire first week in the ICU.’ She studied me a moment, then added a tad softer, ‘You should have died.’

  I nodded gravely, barely managing to choke out an ‘okay’ in response.

  ‘We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other, Scott,’ Kathy carried on, whisking away thoughts of heart rates and death with plans for the future, ‘so I hope we can get along. I’ll be working with you twice a day every day. Our first goal is to get you strong enough to sit up unassisted. Then, once the prosthetics have been fitted. it’ll be my job to make you proficient at using them.’ She paused and angled her head again to give me a sideways look with squinted eyes and pinched lips in an exaggeratedly stern expression.

  ‘I’m the boss,’ she said, her mouth slowly sliding out of the confines of a firm line as if it couldn’t bear to be so serious for even a moment.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ I replied, far more capable at maintaining an austere façade. ‘We’ll see how far that goes.’ I waited a breath, watching her eyebrows lift over narrowed eyes, then let my own eyes crease at the corners to ensure she knew the last comment was intended as a joke.

  ‘Ha! You sure are a tough guy, aren’t you?’ she quipped back.

  ‘Yup.’ I smirked, lifting my chin as high as I could in an effort to affect a can’t-touch-me posture. The impression was probably diminished by the fact that I could barely raise my chin more than two inches, but a guy’s got to try, right?

  ‘This is going to be fun.’ A devious grin split her face as she nodded to me, tilting her own chin upwards in a defiant manner, and began to walk to the door. Before she had made it all the way out of my room, I caught a glimpse of a huge smile blossoming on her face.

  I was smiling to myself until long after she had left. Between Kathy, Amber, and Dr. Molin I felt confident that my time in Rehab would be as enjoyable as any time spent recovering from a serious injury in a hospital could be. Just how pleasurable that would prove to be, I really couldn’t say. Yet.

  ~~~

  A short time later, I received a pretty good idea of the answer to that when a tall, slender woman with brown hair cut short and clean just over her ears strode into my room. She walked to the end of my bed with no comment and no expression. In one hand she carried a clipboard, her eyes glancing down at it as she took five long strides to reach my bed. In the other hand, two long, neoprene-wrapped objects with Velcro closures were caged in her slender fingers.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ she said in a cool voice that took the joy right out of ‘good’. ‘My name is Helen. I’m your physical therapist.’

  ‘Nice to meet you. My name is Scott. I’m your patient.’ I smiled up at her, still ready for the joviality of Kathy. What I got in return was a flicker of a smile as she clutched her clipboard to her chest as if to shield herself from my gaiety.

  ‘I’m aware that you were a soccer player and a college-level coach before joining us here at Mercy Hospital,’ she intoned, ‘so I won’t bore you with the general information regarding a training regimen. The goal of Rehab is to get you capable of returning to a more independent lifestyle. In order to do that, we have to build your body back up so you can learn to work with the prosthetics and then to use them efficiently.’ She paused, I think allowing me a moment to comment. There hadn’t been much room for discussion in her brief monologue, so I just gave her a shallow nod and waited for her to continue.

  After a breath, she did exactly that. ‘Kathy is going to help us reach that point. She will focus on sitting exercises while you and I work with these weights.’ Her eyes turned down to indicate the green, neoprene wraps in her left hand. She raised them for me to see. ‘These are ankle weights, but we’ll also use them on your arms.’ Another pause. ‘Do you have any questions, Scott?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Good. For today just rest and tomorrow we can start strength training.’ A nod in my direction like a metaphorical check mark and she left my room.

  So that was my physical therapist. It was probably for the best that she seemed to be tough as nails and serious to boot. At least I knew we could work hard together. Seeing as I was probably going to be here for a while, having friends among the staff would be an asset, but if I wanted to get out of here faster, I needed stern and unrelenting. Helen the Physical Therapist certainly seemed to fit that bill.

  ~~~

  The next day, about an hour after my first gourmet, hospital-issue breakfast in the Rehabilitation Unit, a dainty woman with brunette hair flying out behind her came twirling into my room. I watched, amazed, as she twirled again and again, dancing in the direction of my bed. She slowed her spin as she drew near, and twirled one final time before coming to a standstill at the end of my bed. When the dizzying blur of her had stilled into the form of a solid person, I recognized the beaming smile of my occupational therapist.

  Kathy looked at me with her twinkling eyes locked on my own, clapped her hands, and sang out, ‘Time to get to work!’

  I simply gawked at her for a moment, staring as she walked over to my right side where the bed controls were. As the bed carried my upper body closer to vertical, my brain struggled to catch up. This had to be the strangest way of motivating someone I had ever experienced. Who was this woman?

  She hummed t
o herself – or to me; maybe both – as she waited for the bed to reach the desired height. It was like working with one of Santa’s elves or some other mythical creature. She was a conundrum. But she was also my coach. When I put that together, I realized I didn’t mind that she was eccentric as my trainer. In fact, once I had my wits about me again, I found that any remnants of sleepiness had been yanked away by her performance like an old Band-Aid: gone before you even knew it was going.

  When the head of my bed was at a forty-five degree angle, Kathy lowered first the right, then the left guard rail and pulled back the tan blanket and white sheets that hid my atrophied legs. I glanced down, glimpsed the knobby knees too big for my bony legs, saw the sagging flesh where hard-earned muscle used to be, and looked away.

  She reached under what was left of my thighs and calves then carefully pulled my legs to the left, twisting my lower body so my bandaged feet stuck out over the edge of the bed. They looked too small for my legs – puny – wrapped from calf to end so the ankle disappeared; just two long, mangled peg-legs. I hated the disproportionateness of my body: the starved shapes of my limbs and cavernous feel to my abdomen juxtaposed by the bulging joints and mangled ends. But I was going to change this – Kathy and I were going to change this.

  She rested her right hand on my left shoulder and met my eyes. ‘Ready to try sitting up without the bed for support?’ Her eyebrows were dark arches over wide eyes twinkling with challenge and excitement.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  She inched herself against my left side, butting against my ribcage as she wrapped her right arm around my back.

  ‘Go ahead and lean on me, Scott.’

  I obliged and she began to push me towards the edge of the bed. I used the end of my right arm to help scoot myself in the same direction until my legs were dangling over the bed.

  ‘Wow,’ she chirped when I was settled, my breathing the only thing worse for wear. ‘I only needed to help you balance and the rest was all you. Talk about a head start.’ I smiled, glad we were doing well so soon but a little dismayed by how much effort moving those few inches had required of me.