Some scars are too deep
Nearly 18 months of therapy so far.
Over a decade was missing, and even then, my movement was limited by the time spent in bed. I was able to walk and talk, but any real activates were still beyond me.
I couldn't run or swim, just casually walk and I did dance for a good 10 minutes once, but that was the most before I was exhausted. My lung strength was still low. This hindered me quite a bit, but I felt I was getting stronger by the day.
When I woke in the hospital, Madison was anxious to take me in and help me fix my life. She was living in Los Angeles, in a decent apartment with some of the finer things floating around. It confused me, seeing her having to care for herself, but apparently her parents committed a bunch of white-collar crimes and fled the country...
She didn't talk about her profession much, she didn't seem to work much, so I naturally assumed she was into drugs. When I first moved in, she was suffocating me. Always wanting to help; Even though I had a therapist that spent most of the time with me.
"Kavi, just let me help you around the house?" She whined, following me as I took a load of laundry down the stairs.
"I have to do something. I can't just sit here all the time. I have to get my GED to get a job..."
"Ugh! I told you I make enough to take care of both of us! It's the least I can do after everything." She was running around in heels, trying to get ready as she wrenched the basket from my hands, "Just fucking relax, we'll have the maid come 4 times a week instead of 3." She pursed her lips, being the spoiled rich girl she was, just head-over-heels for herself.
"Come on, I can save you money by keeping the house clean. Just call it my share for now." I plead, frustrated.
She looked down. "Okay, if you'll feel better." She sighed, moving away. "I have an event tonight, don't expect me home."
It didn't matter to me, she wasn't home a lot, and most of the time she just showers and heads back out. This only added to the guilt I felt, not contributing to anything.
I studied for my GED test as much as I could, but I found myself too tired to concentrate. The doctor said I was depressed, and that coming to terms with the time I lost before I could move on. I had some things in my life that kept me sane. I loved to write; just about anything I could.
I had also made a friend. Well, he was technically my therapist, but over the last year, we had grown past that. I had therapy at 5, but it wasn't anything I looked forward to despite my inclination towards him.
Let me tell you about my therapist. Drew.
Drew was just a bit older than me. They assigned him to me to oversee my recovery. He was super kind and very attractive. I mean, tall, long, dark hair, gorgeous blue eyes and a Scottish accent. We spent hours a day together. He would take me to the rehab room and help me fight through my first steps.
He wasn't my first therapist, though. They assigned just the nurses to do my bed exercises with me, then a few of the hospital staff therapists spent a little time with me, trying to work on standing and more basics. By the time they had given up on me, Madison had contacted a private rehab company, enlisting them to work with me.
That's when I met him.
Drew showed up in my room in a sweatshirt and shorts. His face was stern, not the kind and caring fake smiles I normally got. "Good Morning, Ka-vi-elle?" He strained to pronounce my name right, looking over at me, raising his eyebrow.
His looks caught me off guard, not to say all hospital workers are ugly, but this man is someone you would expect to see as a model... Or an actor. "So?" He followed up.
I nodded and he continued, "My name is Andrew McAlister, I go by Drew, I'm going to be your personal recovery assistant for the..." He looks at the paper, then me, "for as long as it takes."
He smiles gently as we make eye contact for the first time. He took a moment, doing another quick glance at the file, closing it. "How are you feeling today?" he sat down on the chair next to me, smiling.
Avoiding eye contact, I murmured, "Still here."
He nodded. Taking a minute, he rebutted, "Yeah, I wouldn't want to be here either. Hell, I didn't much feel like coming here today myself."
Chuckling a bit, I asked, "Then why the fuck are you here?"
"Well," He started, matter-of-fact, "I have bills to pay, terrible student debt and this little habit called food, so can't afford to miss." A small smirk formed on his lips; maybe he wasn't so stern after all.
I laughed a bit more this time. "Oh, let me cry for you," I mocked. "I've been in this hospital for the last decade, can't walk, speech issues, can't even wipe my own ass."
His lips turned down, making a sour face. "Seen worse, seen better. It's all about perspective, lass."
I rolled my eyes, laying my head back now. "Can we just get this over with?"
"As I was saying," He continued, "I'm here because I read the first page of your file and wanted to try to help."
There was a long silence, then he spoke, "If you try, in 6 months I'll have you ready to go home. But I need you promise me that you'll put your all into this rehab. I am not going to waste my time like these other folks" He shook his head, still looking forward, "I need to know you want to take the first step towards moving on."
"Heh, I've already spent 6 months here and you see where I am."
"So do you just want to be in a wheelchair for the rest of your life?" He asked, frustrated.
"Fuck you, asshole, I don't want to be in a chair, I just," I yelled at him.
"Just what, lass?" He said, standing again, his huge frame towering over me.
He stood there, looking down at me, his eyes appearing to look through me, as I whispered, "I just want the last decade of my life back."
He knelt, reached out for my hand, "I can't give it back to you, but I can make sure the next decade is whatever you want it to be. I just need to know you're ready." The stern expression on his face melted; this since of empathy in his eyes.
I shook my head. "Yeah."
He stood, nodding once. "Okay!" His demeanor changed. "Get out of the bed."
"What?" I asked him, confused.
"I've seen your benchmarks, muscle mass, and endurance tests. You should be able to get out of this bed, either standing or, at a minimum, moving to your chair." He said, wheeling the chair over to the side of the bed. "Now, get to it."
"You have got to be kidding me. I haven't even been able to take a single step yet."
"I am absolutely serious. Part of moving on is coming to terms with the fact you may have to adjust to being wheelchair bound. These are the basics."
I huffed, looking from him to the chair and back. "I don't want to learn to live in a chair."
"If we get you into the chair, then we can just work from there." He shrugged.
I shoved the chair away, throwing my legs over the edge of the bed. I put my palms down, pushing up enough to move my ass in the right direction. He looked at me with a stern look. The tears were welling in my eyes as I looked away. I pushed again, pushing my legs, trying to get enough. I failed, falling back on my behind. The tears poured, then Drew said, "Let's grab the chair. I'll help you."
I pushed his hands away, pushing down again, the pain radiating through me as I straightened my back, looking up at him. "Fuck you." I sobbed, almost falling forward, Drew catching me before I face-planted.
He scooped me up, sitting on the bed gently. "I don't fuck cripples." He stood, a huge smile crawling across his face. "Don't report me," He laughed. "It was just too tempting not to." He kept laughing hard enough for it to bend him.
"What is wrong with you?" I scathed.
He had to gather himself a moment. "You looked so angry. I just wanted to fire you up! And it worked. You stood on your own."
I couldn't help but smile, feeling stupid for falling for his shit. "I could get you fired for this dumb shit."
"Yeah, but you don't want to," he emphasized, using two fingers, he pretended to hypnotize me, "you want to keep working with me, because you think I'm hot..." He cocked his eyebrow. "You will like me. You will like me." He chanted.
"Just chill, I'm not going to turn you in." he had me giggling now, unable to resist.
"Good, cause I really want to try to help you. That part was genuine." He sat back down now. "So, let's kick it for a little bit. You're already ahead of schedule."
Suddenly unsure of myself, I pulled myself back into the bed, laying down. "Are you always going to be this way?" I asked, tired of the silence.
"Yep, every day until you're better."
We ended up spending the rest of our session watching television and chatting politely. Needless to say, he kept his promise, had me walking well enough to move to Madison's before 6 months.