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Then, the doctor comes in.
She’s in her mid-forties, with her sleek brown hair slicked back into a perfect bun. She wears a red-orange lipstick which compliments her tanned skin beautifully. Her whole presence is warm and calming, which melts away all of my preconceived ideas about how this meeting was going to go.
“So, how often have you been doing your exercises?”
“Every day, sometimes multiple times a day,” I reply, feeling some of my confidence returning.
“Multiple times a day? You’re very lucky to have that kind of time,” she replies, making notes in my chart just like the nurse.
I smile, thinking about the way that Adas would never make me get a job. He wants to be the only one providing for me. “Yeah, my husband works, so I don’t have to.”
The doctor glances at me with an unspoken note of playful jealousy. “What does your husband do?” she asks, suddenly making me feel like I’m out for coffee with a friend.
However, no matter how casual and friendly her approach is, I have no idea how to answer. It’s such a simple question, and I’ve never thought of finding an answer before.
What would the old me have said?
“He works in sales, pharmaceuticals,” I say, feeling the slime of my guilt dripping off me.
“Oh wow, that’s impressive,” she replies with that sameknowing glanceshe had shot my way before.
She types a few things in my notes, then turns to me. “So, you’ve been doing very well, I hear. What’s your progress so far? Can you show me?”
I feel my face flush at the request. I’ve been mentally preparing for this moment for days now, practicing for this very minute alone.
“Um, yes, I can,” I reply with resolution.
Slowly, I start to make my way out of my chair, easing my way up as I focus on a mark on the wall. The best strategy I have for success is to zero in on something unrelated to the task at hand, occupying my neurotic, overprotective mind for just a few minutes.
She reaches out to help me, but I put my hand up in resistance. I’ve got thison my own. That’s the whole point. I can do it alone.
I stand up straight. Now half the battle is over.
I want to look at the doctor to see her reaction, but I know that I’ll fall if I lose focus.
One step towards the door down, then two. Two becomes four, and eventually, I’m all the way to the other side of the room with no help from anyone.
“Wow, you’ve recovered beautifully!” she exclaims.
When I look at her face, she’s absolutely glowingfor me.She’s proud ofmefor making this progress, for being able to do this on my own.
“I’m not done yet,” I say, finding another point of focus, the letterEon a poster about the risk of stroke in smokers.
On my first step forward, I falter a bit. The doctor glances at me worriedly, but I catch myself on the corner of the desk just before I fall flat on the floor.
Two more steps and I’m feeling my legs getting tired.No. I’m going to complete this.
I pick up one foot carefully, moving it forward. All I have to do is repeat this motion until I get back to my wheelchair.
“You’ve got this. I know it,” the doctor says, cheering me on from the sidelines in her own little way.
I’m halfway there, and my legs would give out on me right now if I let them.
But I won’t.
I reach my wheelchair, easing myself back down versus flopping into it as my exhaustion catches up to me.
“This is amazing, River. I’m so, so happy for you,” she says, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.
