Fighting Our Way (Broken Tracks 2)

It feels like this is the start of the end, like somehow if I settle on needing a chair to get around I won’t ever be able to stand on my own again. It’s a tug of war, one I’m losing, the flag almost coming over the line to say I’ve lost the whole game.

Nate’s hand squeezes mine again and I turn my attention to him, our gazes clashing. He nods his head, whispering, “You can do this, Lia.” With those words, the flag tugs in my direction, giving me more control and a possibility at a win.

“Okay,” I choke out, taking a deep breath and listening intently as Traci explains what I need to do and where I need to place my hands to push myself up.

Nate lets go of my hand and steps back when Traci says, “Let’s lower this bed and give it a go.”

I turn my wide eyes to Nate, looking for some kind of silent comfort, and when he tilts his head in a small nod, I know he’s right here with me.

The bed lowers right down so it’s at the same level as the chair and Traci hands me the control.

“Push it up so you’re sitting as straight as you can.” I press the button and wait as it lifts up. “Now place your hands here.” She takes hold of my hands, positioning them where they need to be. “Push down on your palms and shift your torso to the side… That’s it, now lift the leg closest to the chair by placing your hands under your thigh and swing it around before doing the same with the other leg.”

I move my shaky hands, lifting the blanket and seeing the legs that have been of no use to me for the last eight weeks.

I stare at them for several seconds, still with a niggling bit of hope they’ll magically start working again.

Pushing my hands under my thigh just above my knee, I move my leg, hating the sensation of not feeling it on my thigh but being able to feel my leg on the palm of my hand.

“Well done,” Traci praises, standing close by in case I need support. For the first time in eight weeks I’m sitting on the edge of the bed. My brain automatically wants to place my feet on the floor and push down on them so I’m standing at my full height. But I know I can’t do that, no matter how much I want to and how much my instincts are screaming at me.

“Now put your hands next to you on the bed. You’re going to push down as much as you can and then swing around to land in the seat of the chair.”

Hesitating, I chew my bottom lip. “What if I fall?”

“If I think at any stage that you’ll fall, I’m right here to help. You may not be able to do it properly on the first try: it takes practice to do it seamlessly.”

Gritting my teeth, I put all of my strength through my arms and into my hands, lifting and swinging. I lose my balance and as soon as Traci’s hands land on my biceps to right me, I feel another pair of hands on my waist from behind. Hands that a few months ago I shivered when they touched me, but right now they make me angry and frustrated.

“Stop,” I grind out. I pull out of his grip and turn my head to face him. “Leave.”

“I was just trying to—”

“Don’t.” I grit my teeth so hard I’m sure I can hear one crack.

He backs away several steps as Traci says, “Maybe it’s best you leave until we’re finished?”

Nate doesn’t look away from me as his eyes flash with remorse and he walks around the bed toward the door. The click of it has the breath leaving my body in a whoosh, and when I look up at Traci, she lets go of my arms and gives me a wide smile.

“Let’s try again.”

Determined, I try a second time, nearly falling again. For twenty minutes, I keep trying, not able to get the right traction or twist I need before finally making it into the chair.

It may be a small thing being able to get from the bed to the wheelchair on my own, but for me it’s the start of having my independence back.

Maybe the chair isn’t the end of something but the start.

I watch as Amelia hoists herself up, getting stronger day by day. Since the first therapy session four weeks ago when I tried to help I’ve been sitting silently on the sidelines, watching. Her upper body strength is slowly growing with the use of her wheelchair and these sessions, but much to everyone’s dismay, there’s been no progress with the feeling in her legs.

I can tell she’s growing frustrated, but as everyone keeps reminding her, it’s only been four weeks since she started therapy. But to her it’s four weeks of her life she hasn’t been able to walk or do simple everyday things like getting herself a drink if she’s thirsty.

It ignites the niggling thought I’ve been toying around with: where is she going to go when she’s eventually discharged from the hospital? Not back to her apartment, that’s for sure.

I know with every fiber of my being where I want her to go, but apart from the fact I don’t know when that will be, it’s not my decision. But that doesn’t stop me from enquiring on her behalf.

As Amelia wheels herself out of the room after her session, I stay behind. I know she always likes a moment to herself after them anyway, so she won’t miss me.

“Traci, can I have a word?” I ask her physiotherapist.