Chapter
5:
Rehabilitation
Days passed by
slowly, my depression increasing. I passed the time by pretending this was all
a terrible dream... These fantasies were always interrupted by the doctor and his
crew of nurses running test after test on my mutilated body. Good news was, I
found out I had a teeny, tiny bit of feeling in my manly area. When I
say teeny, tiny - I do mean that. It was such a minimal amount, I really don’t
even consider it a feeling...it’s like a very light tickle. And as for my legs,
they were not working. I wouldn’t feel anything if my legs were chewed off by
rabid animals. I mean that, it’s not an exaggeration. Other than my legs and
genital area, I had feeling everywhere else. Which was good...because I suppose
it could be worse. Well, that’s what the nurses told me.
I was out of
the hospital within a few days, and they relocated me to my rehabilitation
station...some kind of special SCI hospital or something. Physical and emotional
therapy was what I had to look forward to. Yea. And then I’d have a support
group meeting once a week... This was going to suck.
When I read
over the brochure, I didn’t understand it all. “Okay, let’s see...” I looked it
over. “Supported walking program...and, uh...
The hospital
smelled too sterile. Bleach. Cleanliness was a good first impression, I
suppose.
I met my team
of nurses the first day. Olivia, Thompson, and Harmony. Harmony was by far my
favorite. She seemed like she actually cared about how I was doing...whether
she actually did or not was uncertain, but it was still a comforting feeling
with being in a new place like that. She was short, and had blonde hair a
little past her shoulders. She was very pretty and was probably around my age.
I liked her a lot. She was someone I'd consider sleeping with, if I could even
do that sort of thing anymore.
My second day
there was better than the first. “Well hello there, Nick. How are you feeling
this fine morning?” Harmony asked me as she walked into my room. Her hair was
completely something out of the 70's - a Farrah Faucett 'do from 'Charlie's Angels' - and she had a smile
on at this early hour.
I stared at
her awkwardly.
“What’s wrong?
Aren‘t you feeling well?” She asked, as she scurried over to the bed.
Am I feeling
well? Taking a quick inventory of my body, I replied, “Uh, no. I’m all right.”
“You don’t
look like you’re all right. You’re not scared of this place, are you?” She
laughed.
“Not really.”
“You know, you
can talk to me about your feelings and everything. I know what you’re going
through.”
Doubtful. She
didn’t know what I was going through - who was she trying to kid? I laughed, “I
don’t think you do.” Nobody that pretty could understand what I was going
through.
“Why wouldn’t
I?” She asked, taking a seat beside my bed.
“You just
wouldn’t.”
“Why do you
think that? Because I’m not faced with your condition?”
I nodded.
“My brother’s
paralyzed. I’ve taken care of him ever since he was in his accident. I know all
the trauma you’ve been through - trust me.” She smiled.
“What kind of
accident was he in?” I curiously asked.
“He was in a
car accident - just like you.”
“Oh.”
“So, if you
ever need to talk about anything, and don’t feel comfortable talking in your
support group, you can come and talk to me. I’ve seen everything,” she
smiled again.
I nodded,
“Thanks.”
“It’s no
problem, really.”
I sighed
heavily. So, what did she come in here for anyway?
“I wanted to
ask you about your daily...routine.” She stressed the last part like she
was avoiding asking me something straight-forward.
Routine? My
eyebrows arched. “What daily routine?”
“Your routine.”
She stressed again. Hmmm...routine? She laughed slightly at the confused look on
my face. “The bathroom, Nick. How often and at what time normally do you use
the bathroom?”
“Oh...” I felt
my face grow flush. This wasn’t a topic I normally discussed with a female. And
definitely not one so pretty. “Uh, usually as soon as I get up each day. That’s
what the doctor suggested, so...that’s what I do.” My lovely routine: Catheters
and a regular bathroom visit each morning to relieve myself of...bodily waste.
I wasn’t comfortable discussing this stuff with her.
“Don’t be
embarrassed, Nick."
I couldn’t
look her in her eyes. It was embarrassing.
“Did the
doctor at the hospital you came from discuss different methods?”
Oh, man...I
didn’t wanna talk about bowel movements with her. Methods of getting
that stuff out especially didn’t seem like a good topic. “Yeah.”
“Okay. Just
making sure.” She paused. “Have you already gone this morning?” Was this what
it was going to be like every day with her? I didn’t answer. “You know, you’ve
gotta get over this shyness. This is just one of many things you’ve got to
adjust to, okay?” I nodded, pensively. “It’ll take some time, but you’ll get
used to it.”
No. You just
can’t get used to this. Ever. Pissing into a bag was bad enough, and...the
gross methods they showed me how to do for relieving myself was just one
hundred times worse - and now I was supposed to talk about it? I don’t think
so... sorry.
I changed the
topic quickly, “So, what kind of stuff am I doing today?” I didn’t wanna sit in
my bed all day long anyway, so I might as well get up and move around as best
as possible...
“Well, we’re
going to go to therapy first. You can talk to a few counselors about your
feelings and whatever else may be on your mind. After that, you will get to go
to therapeutic swimming.” Boy, didn’t that sound like fun? I wasn't going to
ask how a paralyzed man is supposed to swim.
***
