Patrick arrives in the morning to take me to another physical therapy session. He assists me in transferring to my wheelchair and I feel a beam of pride warm my face when he compliments my strength and graceful ability to do it mostly myself.
I'll admit that even though I'm still a bit jaded about the circumstances, I like Patrick. I mean, not like a crush or anything.
Well maybe it's a little crush.
I had spent a little extra time this morning with my makeup and hair. Of course, I still feel like a freak with only one leg, but Patrick is so gentle and encouraging. He's also pretty good-looking with his bleached blonde hair, angular jaw and blue-green eyes. He seems to keep just enough stubble on his face that I can't tell whether he's trying to grow a beard or if he just favors the scruffy look. Either way, it looks good on him.
As he adjusts the footplate on the wheelchair, I take quick notice, smiling inwardly at the lack of a wedding band on his finger.
Oh, geez, Sarah, he's just a very nice physical therapist! I eventually scold myself. This is his job, to be helpful and friendly and encouraging. Stop thinking about him that way and definitely do not flirt with him!
We use the harness during therapy again, a process that Patrick calls it unweighing. Basically, the contraption takes most of my weight off of my body so that I can learn to stand, balance, and walk without putting too much pressure on my damaged leg. I manage to last a little bit longer this time, making it a half-hour session. After we're finished, I feel more encouraged than I have in days. My left leg is feeling stronger, even if the pain is ever-present. It simply feels good to be upright. And it doesn't hurt that Patrick is so friendly and encouraging.
When we arrive back in my room, he informs me that I will have another PT appointment in the afternoon, but I'm disappointed when he tells me that a different therapist will be working with me on some strengthening and stretching.
I decide to stay in the wheelchair for a bit instead of climbing back into bed. I eat my lunch while browsing channels on TV, settling on a goofy slapstick movie that gives me a few good belly laughs.
Ethan appears just as I'm finished eating, and my laugh turns into a broad smile. I'm starting to look forward to his visits and I'm glad he keeps coming back, even if I'm not sure why. Maybe he has an overactive sense of responsibility for me or something, but I won't complain. I like his company.
"Hi!" I greet him with more enthusiasm than usual.
"Well, hello, Sarah!" He grins back at me and leans in to plant a small kiss on my cheek.
"You look bright and cheerful today," he observes. As he pulls up a chair across from me, I flick off the TV. He brings one leg up and lays his ankle across his knee. That's when I notice that he's wearing a rather garish pair of cowboy boots. I wonder if he's a country music fan. I can't stand country music, but that doesn't seem to bother me in the least right now.
"Yeah, I guess my spirits are up a little more than normal," I shrug, and then I tell him about the things I've been doing in physical therapy and that I feel like I'm getting stronger every day.
"That's great, I'm sure you're working really hard," he tells me with an emphatic nod. Then, pulling a deck of cards from his coat pocket, he asks, "Do you want to play?"
"Um, sure. Do you always carry playing cards around with you?" I ask, a little incredulous.
"Not always," he says with a wink. "Just when I'm visiting pretty girls in the hospital."
Okay, wait a minute. Is he hitting on me? Flirting, maybe?
No, dummy, he's just being nice.
I wasn't prepared for that, but I can't say I didn't like his compliment. My slight blush goes unnoticed, thankfully, as he starts to deal out the cards. We play and talk for over an hour. It turns out that he's got a great sense of humor which I think is one of the reasons he puts me at ease.
While we play, I learn that he grew up in a family of six kids. He's the oldest and, in his own words, he is "fiercely protective" of his younger siblings.
"Do you have any pictures of them on your phone?" I ask.
He gives me a look that tells me that was a silly question and that, of course, he has pictures. He shows me the phone. "This is Stephanie. She's 18 and she'll be graduating from high school this year. This is Tanya, she's 12." He scrolls past a few pictures that look like paintings and then shows me another picture. "This is Zachary, my 15-year-old brother."
"Oh, my gosh! He looks just like you!" I remark. In other words, he's a cutie, too.
"Yeah, he's a little mini-me in more ways than one. We're pretty close since we're the only two boys in the family, even though he's ten years younger than me." He scrolls one more time and arrives at a pair of girls with curly pigtails. "These are my twin sisters, Amy and Annie. Their real names are Amelia and Annabeth. They're eight."
"They're absolutely adorable," I gush. "If I didn't know you, I would think they were your own kids, the way you're so proud of them."
His face turns solemn and he nods sadly. "That's probably because I've helped raise them for the past seven years. My mom was killed in a car accident when Amy and Annie were just one year old."
"Ethan, I'm so sorry." I bite my lip to hold back the tears that have dampened my eyes. He seems so strong and peaceful but I can't imagine how he could have been through a loss like that and still be so...stable.
He nods with a quiet "thanks" and puts his phone away.
I'm not sure how to resume the conversation after that somber piece of news, so I change the subject completely. "What were those other pictures?" I ask. "They looked like paintings."
"Oh," he answers shyly. "You saw those huh? I, uh, do a little painting. I just took some pictures with my phone because I wanted to show a friend at work."
"Sooo, can I see them?" I nudge.
He pulls the phone out again and pulls up the pictures. I scrutinize the photos for several minutes and I'm completely floored by his talent.
"Ethan, these are amazing!" I gush. "You have a gift!"
His cheeks actually turn a little red as he deposits the phone into the pocket of his jeans one more time. "Thanks."
Dr. Fischer returns after my afternoon PT session and a well-deserved nap. Once he had removed my bandages a few days ago, he showed me how to change the dressings and wrap my stump. I have to use a tight-fitting bandage, but I'm not supposed to wrap it too tight. We have to try to prevent swelling so that I can be fitted for a prosthesis as soon as possible. He's going to check today to make sure I've wrapped it correctly and that the swelling is being controlled.
He unwraps my stump and seems pleased with the job that I've done, as well as with the lack of obvious swelling. Before allowing me to replace the bandage, he shows me how to massage the stump to improve blood flow. We will gradually increase pressure on the stump to "toughen it up" for the use of a prosthesis.
When my mom arrives after work, I bring her up to speed on my self-care lessons. She went back to work this week, after spending my first week in the hospital with me. Well, she's actually been making lesson plans and working to bring her long-term sub up to speed. She teaches third grade, but she will be taking a leave of absence to take care of me after I'm released from the hospital. Hopefully that will be as soon as next week.
It's helpful for me to re-tell her everything from my day as it helps me to internalize everything that's happened, and to cement my understanding of what's going on with my leg.
"That's wonderful, mi amorcito," she says in her most encouraging mama voice. "I'm so proud of you."
"Thank you, Mamá," I manage with at least half a smile.
"Oh, look what I bought for you!" My mom hands me a paisley-printed bag from Barclay's, our favorite store.
"Eeek!" I give her my little-girl squeal. My mom and I have a time-honored tradition of shopping together. Often. As in, almost every weekend. She spoils me, I freely admit it. My dad makes a lot of money, which hardly makes up for the fact that he's never home. But it means my mom uses most of her income for fun stuff, including shopping for me, her only child. We have the same tastes in most things, which makes it all the more fun for us to shop together.
She and my dad married very young after a whirlwind courtship, and she had me a year later. At only 40 years old, my mom is more like a sister to me.
I pull out a gauzy infinity scarf first. It's a springy print, with delicate turquoise and yellow flowers. Next, I find a few lightweight shirts and an adorable pair of earrings. It's been our tradition to start shopping for the warmer weather as soon as the spring styles hit the racks. My mom was born in Mexico and grew up in southern Texas. I wouldn't say she hates the Michigan winters, but she dislikes them with a passion.
Obviously, my sledding accident has only added to her disdain of the upper Midwest. I've often wondered why my parents didn't settle in Texas since my dad travels so much and it doesn't really matter where his home is. But his company is in Bloomfield Hills, so a Michigan base makes sense. I've always appreciated the changing seasons much more than my mom.
I wrap the scarf around my neck and don the earrings. I pull some lipstick out of my side table and apply just enough to my lips.
"Thanks, Mom," I give her a genuine smile this time.
"There's one more thing!" She says. "Look in the bottom of the bag."
I start to salivate as I pull out a box of truffles from our favorite chocolate shop. "Thank you, Mom, You have no idea how badly I've been craving chocolate!"
My spirits are lifted with this pleasant reminder of the normalcy of life. I do notice, however, that my mom conspicuously avoided skirts, shorts, or shoes during her shopping spree, even though summer sandals are our favorite.
Finally, she pulls a small bag out of her purse. She opens it and lays out an assortment of nail care items, including a new bottle of coral-colored nail polish.
"I'm going to give you a mani-pedi," she announces.
"Mom...." I begin.
"Just because you only have one foot now, it doesn't mean you can't have pretty toes."
I laugh at my mother's reasoning. I look at my fingernails and realize that they are in need of some attention, so I let my mom begin her pampering.
It actually relaxes me quite a bit to have her massage my foot and toes. The pain in my left leg has lessened considerably as I've allowed my muscles to loosen. The feeling of the cool polish on my toes is yet another pleasant reminder of normalcy. Mom is just finishing my fingers when Ethan walks in.
He stops in his tracks. "Wow!" He says.
"What?" I laugh. "You've never been to a spa before?"
"You look fantastic," he grins as he places the standard kiss on my cheek.
"Hello, Ethan," my mom smiles. He kisses her cheek, too.
Okay, so I'm not the only one he greets with a kiss, I think with a bit of confusion. In one way, I'm relieved because then I know it's something he does with everyone. Then again, I find myself just a teensy bit excited to think that maybe he has feelings for me and I thought maybe he only kissed me.
Which makes everything more confusing. Why does he keep coming to see me? Does he feel like he has to see me through the entire process of recovery? He already saved my life. That's more than enough.
"Hey, guess what?" I prepare both of them for my exciting news. "Tomorrow, I get to try a prosthetic leg." The words sound strange coming out of my mouth, considering that just a few days ago, I was revolted by the thought of having to walk with a prosthetic. "Just to get me used to the feeling of using one. They will make one specifically for me when my stump is fully healed." I stop and think for a moment. "Should I use that word, stump? It sounds so weird, but it's more of a mouthful to say residual limb."
"Whatever you feel comfortable with, honey," my mom assures me and Ethan nods in agreement.
"So, can you come to therapy with me in the morning, Mom? I think my appointment is at 10:00."
"I can try to take an early lunch break, hon, but I'm trying to get things squared away at school so I can take you home next week." She gives me an overly-excited grin.
Ethan jumps in, "I can come to therapy with you, if you'd like. I'm free at 10:00."
I hesitate. Ethan is great, but I feel a little bit like he's stepping inside of my comfort zone. He's not family - is that okay? He won't be taking care of me after I'm released from the hospital, but then again, he can probably help me to remember things to tell my mom if I forget.
More confusion. When did seemingly simple decisions become so difficult?
"That's great, Ethan. Thank you," my mom tells him before I have a chance to answer. She turns to me, "I'll still try to make it over here on my break, okay?"
"Great," Ethan says. "I can't stay tonight. I just wanted to stop by to say hi and I'm glad I did. See you tomorrow."
"He likes you, Sarah," my mom says bluntly, after she's sure Ethan is gone.
"I like him, too," I say.
"Mija, I think he really likes you. Like he's interested in you."
I shrug nonchalantly while my insides do a little squirmy dance. "I was wondering why he keeps stopping by." Then I sigh deeply and fall back onto my pillows. "I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not in a place to think about a relationship right now. I have to get my life back, first."
"I know, hon, I know," she assures me. "I just think you should be aware that he's interested."
"Yeah, I'm becoming more aware every time he visits. But I think I have a crush on Patrick," I admit to my mom and the two of us giggle like a couple of high school girls.
"Wait," she teases me, "you just said you weren't ready for a relationship!"
"I know, Mom, but a crush isn't a relationship," I reason and we both burst into giggles again.
"Well, Ethan's not too bad, either," she winks. "We had a lot of time to talk for your first two days here. I like him a lot."
"He really is a great guy," I agree. "But I think maybe you're reading too much into his actions. I think he just feels obliged to hang around because he saved my life or something."
When the hell did I become so interested in guys and crushes and dating anyway? I still have to think about finishing school and starting my career after I'm done with this recovery and therapy stuff!
I continue, "Besides, Mom, have you seen his cowboy boots?"
"You mean wouldn't date a guy just because he wears cowboy boots?" My mom asks.
I roll my eyes and tell her, "That's not what I mean. I'm saying that he probably likes country music. And if that's the case, that's a deal-breaker right there!" We both laugh again because it's a well-known fact that my mom and I absolutely hate country music.
My mom changes the subject. "How about if I order some Chinese food for dinner?"
"Yes! I would love that!"
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