Therapy, Therapy and More Therapy
...Maggie (my physiotherapist) brought me to the rehabilitation gym in the ward and put me on an EasyStand. I had no idea how it would work but I settled myself into the chair. Next, I was strapped in and just as I was convinced it was impossible, (how do you stand when you’re strapped to a chair?) she pumped the lever at the side and the EasyStand unfolded and hefted me into a standing position! It felt really secure too, because I was strapped in and there was a tiny “table” in front of me where I could rest my arms and adjust myself. Nonetheless, even with straps holding me and offering some support, I only stood for less than 3 minutes and even that thoroughly exhausted me.
Now, many may think that I would love therapy. After all, they were little building blocks that aided me in my recovery. However, my wits were still addled and I really just wanted to be left alone to rest. Any exertion of any sort, physical or mental, was baaaAAAD. Plus, my body was still unimaginably weak and my whole body trembled violently and uncontrollably every single time I tried to do something.
So when Maggie told me that I was going to try walking, with the aid of a walking frame, instead of looking joyfully forward to it, I dreaded it with every fibre of my being. If sitting already took so much out of me and standing was such a horrible chore, wouldn’t walking be much worse?
As it happened, I was very right. Even with the walking frame, walking 3m from my bed to the door damn near killed me (or so I thought). It had actually been quite a “production”. Aside from Maggie and her assistant, there was also a nurse on standby. My neighbours all sat up in bed and watched me, some calling out encouraging words as I stood up shakily. As I huffed and puffed my way slowly to the door, I threatened to fall a lot, but watchful Maggie was always there. Each time I stumbled, she steadied me and helped me recover my footing.
As I sat in front of the door, panting and trembling with exhaustion, I dripped with perspiration. Rivulets of sweat ran down my scalp and my clothes were drenched with the “fruits” of my physical exertion. That 3m-walk was, to me, as strenuous and tiring as running a full 42km marathon. I really just wanted to go back to my bed, but first, I would have to walk back to it. The thought made me want to cry. Dad was looking encouragingly at me and I knew he was silently cheering me on. I wanted to wail “I can’t do this! I’m not strong enough!” but my damnable pride wouldn’t let me utter the words. I was going to have to walk back to the bed or die trying. Oh well, like I’ve always told myself, dying while trying is better than not trying at all.
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