So the other day my mom ran into someone in the airport that was very important to me while I was on the trauma floor in Parkland: my inpatient physical therapist, Stephanie. This just reminded me of how all three of my PT’s had such a crazy profound impact on my quality of life last year. They took me from this physically and motivationally broken person and pushed me to walk again. Thanks to Stephanie, Matt, and Kim, I’m running, jumping, dancing, and trying really hard not to fall down too much and destroy all the progress I’ve made.

Stephanie had to deal with me at my most shattered, most cranky, and most unwilling/unable to move stages of healing. I was finally done with my surgeries, heavily dependent on pain medication to function, and still ultra-sensitive to movement, sound, light, smells, and life in general. I literally couldn’t roll over in bed without two nurses and at least one family member’s help. Stephanie was so insanely patient and understanding, but she also didn’t put up with any of my flak. She would explain how every muscle in my leg was connected and why I needed to do certain exercises, and then make me do reps until I couldn’t anymore. She knew the difference between real “I need to stop” pain and “oww but this is harrrdd” pain. Learning how to get into and steer a wheelchair was also quite the experience. Slide boards are my worst enemy. I’m making mine into a shelf out of spite. I still have video of her playfully making fun of me the first time I tried rolling down the hallway in my wheelchair because I was terrible at steering. Wheelchairs are hard, ok? Stephanie picked up on exactly which method of motivation I respond best to (mostly teasing and challenges), and would not only push me, but knew exactly when I really needed to stop. She was so helpful and such a source of inspiration in such a crazy time. She helped me to recognize and enjoy the little victories like “yay I rolled over all by myself,” or “I sat up on the edge of the bed for like 5 whole minutes today.” These accomplishments just continued to get more and more significant as the year went on, but I had to start somewhere.

After I was deemed well enough to really start my rehabilitation, I was moved to the rehab floor for about a week. The rule of the rehab floor is you don’t talk about the rehab floor you can only stay as long as you’re in two different kinds of therapy: some combination of speech, occupational, or physical. Considering I was blessed with no head or spinal cord injuries, speech therapy was unnecessary and occupational therapy could only help so much. At this point, I was gaining a little bit more strength, they were finally letting me eat solid food again, and I was still really cranky because being a normally extremely self-sufficient person trapped in the body of someone with little ability to take care of themselves gets really frustrating. A lot of people suffered. A dietician wouldn’t leave me alone one day, so I literally asked her point-blank “what will it take for you to go away?” I was truly a joy to be around.

My poor, poor occupational therapists. They really were just doing their jobs, but they were so damn perky about getting me to put on pants that I wanted to hit them in the face. No, you try putting on pants with a healing pelvis, then get back to me. I flew through the rest of occupational therapy, with the help of my freakishly long arms that were very useful in wheelchair-bound situations, and my other superpower of doing literally whatever it takes to get people to leave me alone.

Matt was my physical therapist on the rehab floor, and he was probably the only reason I didn’t go on a rampage while I was up there. That, and the whole inability to move very quickly or far or by myself. He also picked up on the fact that I was a sarcastic pain in the buttock, and used that for motivation. I had to do what felt like a million of these leg exercises that just about killed me, but helped my recovery so much in the long run. There was one very memorable day that someone forgot to inform me that my pain pills were now “as needed,” which meant I had to call a nurse every four hours for norco or I would feel the wrath of my pelvis. I usually took these pills before my daily PT so that I could make it through without wanting to die, but that day I didn’t have that option. So I ended up just sobbing my way through physical therapy, which I’m sure wasn’t horrifying to anyone. Sorry again, Matt. He really helped me make it through my short time in rehab, just by treating me like a normal person. It’s strange how annoying babying can get, even when it’s absolutely necessary.

I saw Stephanie a few times in outpatient rehab after I was released from the Rehab floor. She would check up on me and make sure Kim wasn’t letting me slack on anything. When she ran into my mom in the airport, she asked how I was doing and of course made a comment about how my legs are still too skinny (I’m working on it!!). Matt also found me months later when I was back in the hospital recovering from yet another surgery. He actually did laps with me and my cane around the wing I was recovering in and we just talked like normal. It was really nice to see that these relative strangers cared about me even after I wasn’t their patient anymore.

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Leaving the hospital after an extended, eventful stay is really difficult. There are so many emotions attached to it: excitement because you get to leave, fear because you have to actually do what all these nurses have been helping you with for the past 6mo, and anxiety about change in general. I was originally scheduled to be discharged from the hospital on February 14, 2014. I remember because I was thinking, “wow what a delightful Valentine’s day for everyone this year.” However, on that previous Wednesday I believe(?), a nurse’s assistant came in at around 4am and changed my whiteboard to say my checkout day was the 7th. A week earlier than planned. I of course panicked and texted my Dad, who was probably loving being woken up by a super early text from his daughter in the hospital. My poor parents. The problem with this random change was I didn’t have anywhere to live. Before the accident, I had been living with my oldest brother in his house that was built in the 70’s. Know what the 70’s didn’t have? Proper door width requirements for wheelchairs. So, my whole living situation was still being arranged, but we had much less time than anticipated. Still, I had to leave because I was so over occupational therapy, and was deemed well enough for outpatient physical therapy. Luckily everything worked out, with my mom and I moving to an extended stay hotel and me starting physical therapy twice a week every week. I was dreading becoming such a burden to my mother, but I was also so intensely grateful that she was going to be there with me.

Another awesome moment of kismet in this whole ordeal was the fact that I’ve known my outpatient physical therapist, Kim, since her sister coached me in swimming when I was around 8 years old. The bond between a patient and their physical therapist is so important. It requires a new level of trust to believe these people understand how to make your body function again. It’s different even than the normal doctor-patient relationship, honestly. Doctors figure out what’s wrong, tell you what they’re going to do, fix it, and send you on your way. Physical therapy is collaboration between the PT and the patient. You both have to be willing and motivated to fix the problem, or else no progress can be made. Since I knew Kim personally, I actually had a huge advantage starting outpatient PT. I trusted what she said, and I wanted to get it right and do all the reps possible so that we would both succeed. So she would say “Are you done? Can you do 10 more?” And I would always say yes because I got really competitive with physical therapy and she totally exploited that (in the best way.)

I met quite a few physical therapists just from going there every week, twice a week, from February through August of 2014, and they were mostly competitive, athletic, and some of the best motivators I’ve ever seen. It was amazing to me to see that some patients would hold back their own treatment by refusing to show up, or not cooperating. The fact that they have these amazing PT’s ready to help them and just throw away that opportunity blew my mind. Maybe I just wanted to walk again so badly that I couldn’t see the issue? Nope, I was right to feel frustrated with those people. Because I felt so fortunate every time I had another little victory that I was sad those people wouldn’t allow their physical therapists to help them achieve theirs, too.