Just before my first physical therapy session, more new faces appear in my doorway.
"Sarah?" Asks a pretty girl with her reddish-blonde hair wound into a neat braided bun.
I nod and she comes in followed by two men. All three of them are wearing navy blue coveralls with assorted badges on their arms.
"I'm Megan," says the girl. I love the strawberry blonde color of her hair, a completely different shade than mine or Sam's, even though the three of us have some red in common. "This is Roy, and this is Jason." She motions to the men with her. "We're the paramedics who responded to your accident."
I swallow a lump in my throat. I have a growing list of people to whom I owe my life. "Thank you," is all I can manage to say. I mean, what else is there, really?
Megan walks right up and hugs me. Roy and Jason shake my hand. "How are you feeling?" Jason asks. His square jaw and crew cut make him look like a professional wrestler.
"I'm doing all right," I say, deciding to skip the joke about being hit by a truck and try to muster my best smile.
Roy, a stocky older gentleman, joins the conversation. "You're looking well. You're a lucky girl."
Sure, I'm so lucky to be cursed with a disability at the age of twenty one. But it's to their credit - and Ethan's - that I'm alive, so despite my lingering sadness over the situation, continue the conversation. "So, was mine the worst accident you've ever responded to?"
Jason answers honestly. "It was pretty bad. But not the worst. And you look pretty darn good for going through that."
I don't feel like hashing out any more details of my accident after that. We chat a bit about general things like college and family. Then they wish me well and leave.
Just a bit later, a tall, lean, good-looking man arrives with a wheelchair, which he pushes up next to my bed. "Hello, Sarah. I'm Patrick. I'll be doing some physical therapy with you this afternoon."
"Will I be in a wheelchair for the rest of my life?" I ask, warily eying the device next to my bed that I had to use first for my shower this morning and now for therapy.
"I highly doubt it," he answers. "You're very young and healthy. There are a lot of neat advances in prosthetics. You should be able to walk just like normal."
I cringe at the word neat. Yeah, it will be really neat to walk around on a wooden leg, I think.
Physical therapy actually turns out to be kind of interesting. I mean, if I was able to watch someone else doing it, it would be really cool. Patrick puts me into a harness that looks like a baby swing. He fastens it around my waist and around my leg. I use a walker, too, but not for walking yet. Just for standing and balancing.
It hurts. I can't imagine how much my right leg, or what's left of it, would hurt if they hadn't put the numbing medication in through the catheters. For now, it just hangs there and feels heavy. My left leg hurts no matter how I try to stand on it.
After ten or fifteen minutes of standing and balancing, the novelty has worn off and I'm exhausted. "I know I haven't gotten very far, but I'm so tired and everything hurts," I cringe at Patrick.
"Okay. It's your first day, and you did get further than than you think. You went through a major trauma only a week ago. You're not going to walk today. But you will get stronger very quickly. We'll work on a little more every day."
I accept his encouragement, but I think to myself, I'll believe it when I see it.
Back in my room, I'm pleasantly surprised to find that Cam and Morgan are waiting for me. Cam has the same red, curly hair as Sam, except much shorter. I can tell he just washed it because the curls are forming tight little ringlets along his face. I grew up with Sam and Cam, the redheaded twins, mischievous hot-tempered, and fiercely loyal to one another. That was, until we met Morgan in college. Cam fell for her instantly, detached from Sam and became joined at the hip with Morgan. Luckily, Sam and I love Morgan as well, so we're the perfect foursome.
Cam, just like his sister had done, hugs me while his tears flow freely. Morgan is a little more reserved with her emotions, but I can tell it pains her to see me in a wheelchair. Once Cam releases me, Morgan gives me an intense hug and kisses my cheek.
My voice gushes along with my own tears, "I'm so happy to see you!"
"You, too, girlie," Morgan says. "How are you feeling?"
"Tired right now. Just had my first physical therapy session and it wore me out after fifteen minutes."
"Well, you've been through a hell of a lot," she replies. "You'll get stronger, don't worry."
"Yeah, that's what my physical therapist just told me."
"Hey," Cam jumps in, abruptly changing the subject. "That guy on Four South finally got kicked out." He's referring to a guy in the dorm who played his music ridiculously loud at all hours of the night and had received many warnings. Apparently, the university finally took action.
"It's about time!" I cheer. "How's everyone else?"
Cam immediately launches into gossip mode and tells me something about everyone who lives on our floor. He's funny like that; he really loves keeping everyone up to speed on the latest news. But he finishes by saying, "Everyone asks about you. Now we can tell them you're almost as good as new!"
"Ha!" I scoff. "I'll never be as good as new. But I want to visit as soon as they let me out of this place. And please tell people they're welcome to come and see me here. I feel like I'm in prison, being so cut off from everyone."
"Yeah, I'm sure that sucks," Cam says. "I'll tell them."
"I won't be going back this school year," I sigh in a forlorn voice.
"That's understandable," Morgan tells me.
"I know," I mutter. "It's just not fair. I didn't sign up for this. All I want is to get back on track and graduate so I can move on with my life."
"You will," she assures me. "You're the most tenacious person I know!"
I smile at her compliment. I love it when people applaud my brains or my abilities, or even my effort. I couldn't care less if they tell me I'm pretty or if I'm wearing cute clothes. Well, that's not exactly true. Every girl likes to feel pretty once in a while.
I can't fight a huge yawn. "I'm sorry, but I think I need to catch a little sleep," I tell them as I fight back a second yawn on the tail end of the first one. After more kisses and hugs, they leave me to my nap.
I sleep most of the afternoon, awakened only by the arrival of my dinner. It looks a little more appetizing than whatever was served the day Ethan ate with me.
I'm just finishing when my mom and dad come back in. They set down a sack of cookies from my absolute favorite bakery, The Sugar Shack. I open the bag and find a half dozen of the best cookies on the planet, margarita cookies made with white chocolate and lime.
"Thank you," I gush. "I will most certainly put on about ten pounds right now because I'm going to eat them all!"
"Pace yourself," my father says with a laugh.
"How was your first day of therapy?" My mom asks. She had tried to get away from work, but she's saving up her family leave time for when I'm released from the hospital.
"Interesting," I say. "I didn't last very long, though. I got tired really fast."
"I'm sure that's normal," says my dad. "You'll build up your stamina quickly. I'm sure you're drained from the trauma as well as just lying around all day, letting people wait on you." He winks, letting me know he's teasing.
It turns out to be a pleasant evening. We find an old movie on TV and watch it together, making minimal small talk. By the time it's over, I'm completely wasted. I'm not used to getting so tired easily. It makes me feel like my body is betraying me.
My mom and dad say good-night, noticing that I'm fading fast.
"See you tomorrow, mi corazon," my mom says. And my dad kisses my cheek.
The next day, after ADL's and another physical therapy session, Dr. Fischer stops in to check on my stump of a right leg. Another doctor follows in behind him.
"Sarah, I'd like you to meet Dr. Philip Nash," Dr. Fischer says.
Dr. Nash reaches out his hand and says, "Nice to meet you, Sarah."
"Likewise," I say.
Dr. Fischer continues. "He will be taking over as your doctor now that you're situated in therapy. You'll still have some follow ups with me so I can make sure your leg is healing properly. Dr. Nash is a physiatrist, and he'll be overseeing your rehabilitation."
"Physiatrist. There's a new word," I say with a small smirk.
"Technically, I'm a specialist in physical medicine and rehabilitation. You can call me that or just a PM&R doctor, or physiatrist works too," he tells me smiling. He's pretty cute. And young. I wonder if a lot of eligible men are entering the health profession, because Patrick is a looker, too.
"I think I'll just stick with Dr. Nash," I tell him and he laughs.
Unfortunately, neither of them got the memo that I'm not ready to see my stump au naturel. Dr. Fischer tells me that if it looks like it's healing well enough, he may dress it more lightly. He will also teach me how to care for it and change the dressings myself.
"I don't really want to see it yet," I tell him, my throat going dry.
Dr. Fischer is gentle, but insistent. "I know it must be scary for you, but it's part of your body. You will have to get used to it eventually."
I gulp down my apprehension, take a deep breath and nod. For just a brief moment, I have a thought that takes me by surprise: I wish Ethan were here to hold my hand.
Dr. Fischer gently unwinds and pulls away the bandages while Dr. Nash looks on. When he gets to the last layer, I tell him that I almost fainted when I first felt it. He asks the nurse to bring me a bin in case I feel the need to vomit.
That's encouraging.
As Dr. Fischer peels away the last bit of gauze, I brace myself. However, I'm surprised at how clean my skin looks. I was expecting an ugly, jagged scar. Instead I find my normal skin with a neat line of stitches along the bottom of the stump. The skin looks like it must have closed up a lot since the accident. It still feels weird to think that this is part of my body, but I'm not nearly as freaked out as I thought I would be. Not at all, really.
I breathe in a huge sigh of relief.
"See? Not so bad, is it?" Dr. Fischer smiles at me.
"No, it's not," I agree. I mean, it's still kind of disorienting to not see the rest of my leg in place, but it's not gory or gross in the way I thought it would be.
It turns out that one of the bandages that was on my leg was a firm piece of elastic called a shrinker. Dr. Fischer had put it on a few days after surgery, before I woke up. He tells me that it helps to prevent swelling in my stump. Then he shows me how to put another one on, telling me that I will have to take care to do it right or it could cause more damage. That's enough to make me pay close attention.
"Stretch the lower half of the shrinker firmly up your thigh," he begins. "Then you pull the top half up the rest of the way. Be careful to spread it evenly because you won't be able to feel how tight it is with the numbing medication in your leg. Dr. Nash will check on it daily, too, to make sure there are no problems."
I'm glad he's doing it while he talks me through it. I hate to think of doing any further damage to my leg. But he makes the process look easy enough that my anxiety about it quickly diminishes. In addition, he shows me how to check it periodically for areas that maybe irritated or not fitted correctly.
I find it a little bit odd that there is so much involved in taking care of a leg that's no longer there. But the strangest part of the whole process is when I tell the doctor who cut my leg off, "You did a good job."
* * * * *
While I was writing this book, I "met" (it was a virtual meeting) a lovely, tenacious and inspiring girl named Rachel Schneemann (now Rachel Thornton). She is a recent amputee, and she provided me with invaluable insight into the life of an amputee.
In the YouTube video above, she's the amputee walking her dog at the very end. It's a commercial for St. Joseph Mercy Health System in Southwest Michigan, one of the best in the country.
Check out her blog, https://myelephantsintheroom.wordpress.com.
You're sure to be inspired :D