The Things He Shattered

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Chapter 14 (v.1)

Submitted: April 12, 2013

Reads: 565

Comments: 20

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Submitted: April 12, 2013

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29

I am woken up just before 6am to very loud talking and laughing. I have no idea what is going on. It is only later that I will find out that the noise is made by nurses preparing for their morning shift. They are very noisy. They do not seem to have regard for the patients who are not awake yet.

It is my first full day here, so I do not understand this yet. I just wake up to the talking and laughing wondering what is happening. I lie there. Outside it looks like winter. It’s Friday November 19th, 2010. I grab my cell phone and give my mom a call. She tells me that she is feeling extremely sick. She will not be able to come by to see me today. I tell her that is fine and I hope she gets better. I ask her to bring some of my clothing because I cannot participate in any activities until I am dressed properly. She tells me she will attempt to do this tomorrow.

Only 3 months have passed since this happened to me. I will turn 26 in just over a week. I will turn 26 in this hospital.

Over time Travis’ texts become sparse. I now hear from him maybe once a week. But I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever I can get from him. I do not tell anyone about this. I certainly don’t tell Loupe or James about this. They both have a very low opinion of him and have insisted I never speak to him again. I simply can’t remember what he did or why I deleted his number. I do know that I love him over anyone else, and I know that I will die feeling this way. I think about him and wonder what he’ll be doing on his 26th birthday since it’s on the same day as mine.

A nurse comes into my room and lets me know that she will be taking care of me for a few hours. She quickly takes my wheelchair and begins to wheel it out of the room.

"Wait! What are you doing? Why are you taking it away?"

"I’m just going to leave it in the hall. You haven’t been assessed yet, so I don’t want you using this on your own until you have been given permission."

"But what if I need to go to the washroom?"

"Just call. Use the button attached to your bed. It’s located to your right..."

"Yes, thank you for that. I know where it is. What if it’s an emergency?"

"Just call"

"Um hum, and then wait 15-20 minutes for someone to show up and then take their time rolling me to the washroom?"

"Well it won’t be that long. It’ll only take a minute."

"I seriously doubt it will only take a ‘minute’. I’ve been here for less than a day and I have seen how quickly things operate here. It will not take ‘only a minute.’ There is more of a likelihood I’ll end up peeing myself."

"I’ll make sure to hurry." I can tell the poor woman wants to end this conversation, so I decide to give her a break and keep my mouth closed. For an entire 2 seconds.

"Actually before you take that away from me, can you please take me to the washroom now so that I will not have to bug you in like half an hour. Might as well do it now."

She stops and tries not to show how agitated she is. I feel bad. I feel like I’m being a total jerk, but I can’t help it since I’ve become so dependant.

She brings the wheelchair back and helps me into it. I get up quickly and sit in my chair and she tells me to never do this again. I must develop patience and take things slow until I am assessed, or else I’ll injure myself even further. I am annoyed by this. I know what my body is telling me and what it can and can’t handle. I have to slow down for someone else’s piece of mind. Not my own. I really don’t need to go to the washroom, I just go because I’m afraid I won’t have the opportunity to do this later when I actually need to. She wheels me to the washroom, helps me stand up and motions me to the toilet then wheels the chair out, just in case I decide to use it on my own. She shows me what button I should press on the wall when I’m ready for her to collect me. I take less than a minute. I guess she wouldn’t have gone far so I press the button and wait. And I wait... I look in the mirror and study my face. My nose is a lot less crooked. It’s straightening out. My hair is extremely short. I finally have a large enough mirror in front of me to get a good look at it. I knew it was short, but I had no idea it was that short. Months have passed since it was buzzed off, and it’s hardly there. They must have pretty much just went ahead and shaved my head. The bangs are getting pretty long. Those were not touched. When I saw myself in the tiny hand mirror, I mostly just saw my bangs, and those looked good, so I didn’t concern myself with much else, thinking it was all the same length, despite of what it felt like when I touched it. At most it is about a quarter of an inch long now. I frown at my reflection. I look like a boy. I know I will never understand why that was taken away from me, as if I didn’t lose enough. I press the button again. I wait. Finally there is a knock on the door. It’s the nurse, and I tell her I’ve been ready and waiting. I decide that next time I have to go through this, I will ask the nurse to just wait for me on the other side of the door since I don’t take long.

 

 

30

I’m rolled back to bed, and I sit and wait for something to happen. Anything. Time goes by and a young man and a very pregnant woman come into my room. They inform me that they will be my physio therapists. The young man does most of the talking because English is not the first language for this woman. When I ask her, she tells me that she is Portugese. The woman tells me that the young man who is her assistant is volunteering. He needs to put in a certain amount of hours to get into the program he wants to take in college. He’s a few years younger than me. In all honesty I forget their names as soon as they introduce themselves. My memory is horrible, and for some reason I’m not really interested. So I’ll refer to them as the volunteer and the pregnant one.

I’m told that they will take me to another floor and begin their assessment of me. Of my physical abilities. They then encourage me into my wheelchair that they brought along from the hallway. As I am transporting myself the pregnant lady says,

"Oh, put on the neck collar before we go anywhere." Her English is actually good. She just has a thick accent, but it does not bother me at all. Her request bothers me.

"I don’t wear a neck brace."

"According to our files you do. You had a lot of trauma to your neck. It was broken not too long ago. Now please put your neck collar brace on."

"Yes, I once wore a neck brace, but it was taken off weeks ago."

"Well we do not have notice of this. Please put it on. I would feel much better."

Where the hell do you expect me to pull it out of?

"I didn’t actually hold on to it. I really hated it, and didn’t become attached. It does me a great disservice because Doctors and rehabilitation therapists seem to have a challenge communicating with each other about my progress."

It will be much later that Gwen will explain to me how badly my neck was broken, and why it was such a surprise for everyone that I stopped wearing my neck brace so soon. I only had it for 3 months, and my parents had told me I would need it for at least 6.

The pregnant one is now intent on acquiring a neck brace for me. She tells me she will speak to someone and get me a new one. I collect myself and try to keep my anger in check. I stay very calm as I say,

"I would actually much rather have you shoot me in the face than to ever wear a neck brace again."

At that moment she understands that she needs to drop this. It will not happen and I may become very unpleasant. The neck brace is no longer discussed.

We head to the elevators, and a security code is entered in the security lock that’s locking the door to the elevators. The pregnant lady enters the code, and keeps it covered with her left hand so that I do not see the numbers. A little insulting, but I’ll overlook it for now.

We head up to the 8th floor and I am pushed into an empty room, after the two therapists have a hard time finding a vacant one.

This rehab seems to be packed with patients. No wonder I was initially told I would have to wait several months to get in. After some searching, they roll me into the empty room and begin the evaluation. I am asked to stand. I do. The young man counts to 30. My head spins, but I stand. They then ask me to close my eyes. I do and my head spins even more and I begin to lose balance. Out of reflex I quickly grab the pregnant one to steady myself.

"Oh, so you’re having trouble with that." I know that if my head didn’t spin this much I would be able to stand with my eyes closed, but unfortunately I do not have such a luxury. They continue to get me to perform more physical challenges, and I do, but my body begins to hurt. I tell them I have to stop for now. I am told that despite all of my injuries I am doing very well. I ask them to let me keep my wheelchair in that case, and explain to them that it was taken away from me.

"Oh! Well we’ll make sure you’re allowed to hang on to it. It looks like you have no trouble getting on and off." I’m very grateful for this. They allow me to have what I should have had in the first place.

It is time to let me go back to my room. I will sit in my room until I have an appointment with another therapist. This time I am allowed to wheel myself back. The volunteer and the pregnant one accompany me. The security code is not needed to get in, only to get out.

I wheel myself back to bed, and am told that they will see me on Monday, because they do not work on weekends. I am left alone in my room. My neighbors are not there. I’m guessing they are off doing their therapy, so I decide to relax.

 

 

31

I lie in bed for only a moment when a young woman comes into my room. She introduces herself as the ‘speech therapist,’ and tells me to head down to her office with her. She will do an assessment with me to see where I’m at. I follow her. We go to the front door and she covers the number buttons with her hand to keep me from seeing this very secret security code.

We take the elevator to the second floor and I roll to her office. We begin with some pleasantries, and finally get to the exercises. She shows me different pictures of animals, and I have to tell her the name of the animal. I have trouble with about 15% of it. I see a picture of a camel, but cannot come up with the name. I know what the animal is, but I cannot remember what it is called. This bothers me, and I ask her to give me the names of the animals I’m unable to name. She says she will do this at the end of the exercise. She doesn’t. She doesn’t make me do too much because it is my first day. She assesses me, nods, and says that what we have done is enough for today, and that I will get my schedule by the end of the day. We go back upstairs, and she holds the door open as I wheel myself back in. She asks me if I know the security code. I’m a little surprised by this question considering she covered what she was doing with her hand, when she was imputing the code into the security lock about half an hour ago. I tell her that I do not know what it is and she tells me she’ll give it to me. She tells me and asks me to enter the code for practice. I get the hang of it. She accompanies me back to my room where she gets out a scrap of paper and writes the security code on it for me to refer to.

She tells me that for the first week or so, my therapists will come to get me, so I won’t really need the code for that, but if I want to get to the kitchen to use the fridge or microwave I’ll need it to pass through the locked door. She tells me to ask a nurse working at the front desk to help keep the door opened, while I wheel myself out, since I’ll have trouble doing two things at once.

I’m in my room when a nurse comes in to see me. She looks to be about my age and carries a large plastic bag in both hands. I know I’ve seen her before. I saw her yesterday.

"I noticed you’re still wearing your hospital gown. You need to wear your own clothes to participate in physical activities with other patients."

"Yeah, I don’t have anything else. My mom said she’ll come by tomorrow to bring me some clothing."

"Oh, okay. I brought you some of mine here. I got married so I gained some weight so I’m not gonna fit into them. You look pretty thin... if you don’t like them, just let me know and I’ll donate them to someone."

I’m taken aback. I didn’t expect this and I let her know that I am very thankful. I take out the clothing, look through it and pick what I want to wear. I retire the hospital gown. I now feel like am returning to my normal self.

 

 

32

It is Saturday, and my parents come by. They bring me clothes. My mom has picked it out, and I can tell right away because these are all thing I sleep in. Basically they are all pajamas, and I ask her why she didn’t feel like bringing me a pair of jeans. She shrugs and I’m very happy that the nurse brought me her clothing, and glad that my mom brought me something to sleep in. Technically things have worked themselves out.

In the evening a woman comes by to give me a schedule. I remember I had seen her yesterday. She had introduced herself as Dr. Lee, the family Doctor. I put the pieces together. This is the woman who spoke to my father on my first day here. She was the one who gave his concerns no credit, and explained to him that I belonged here. I remember the manner in which she had spoken to him would suggest that he suffered from severe brain damage as well. I guess this is understandable because she has to deal with so many brain damaged people to let things slide, but I still took it personally, because it is my father, so I feel insulted for him.

I look over my schedule, and the names of the therapists are written there. I am also given a photocopy page of all of their pictures, so I can put a name to the face when I see them.

The weekend seems to progress fast. I don’t have a desire to leave my room to go to the common area or whatever it is called. I am happy it goes by fast, because there really is not much to do. Most patients are gone for the weekend.

 

33

On Monday I stay in my room, and I just lie in bed looking up at the ceiling, when a male and a female Doctor come in. They introduce themselves. He is Dr. Toworski, she is Dr. Abin. They are going to test my memory skills and some of my physical skills as well. I am asked if I have any books with me. I take the one written in English and hand it over. It is a third novel in a series of novels. It had been on sale for a dollar, so I grabbed it when I was still in university, not realizing it would have been good to get the first two. But that was the novel my mother picked out for me. I take a liking to Dr. Toworski right away. He’s young and good looking. Dr. Abin says she’ll be right back, so it is just the two of us. Dr. Toworski asks what happened to me. Unlike every other medical professional who doesn’t believe me, and sounds like a broken recorder saying, "Oh, no, no, no. Cops are very good people, cops are here to protect us," Dr. Toworski sympathizes right away.

I don’t even bother telling anyone anymore that I lived through my own murder, and it was caused by a cop, because no one wants to believe it and simply assume these are rumblings of a severely brain damaged lunatic. But I like this Doctor right away. There is something reassuring about him. I feel that he sees me as a person, not a medical problem, like 99.9% of the other Doctors seem to.

"A cop tried to kill me. He threw me off the 7th floor."

"The 7th floor?"

"Yes, the 7th floor"

He looks down at the papers in his binder.

"Yes, it is written here. Otherwise I wouldn’t believe that you fell from the 7th floor. I still can’t believe it. I can see you’re in a wheelchair, but that’s about it. People who fall from the 7th floor would look nothing like you, even if they manage to somehow survive. You must call a lawyer. Get one on your case and put this man behind bars." He looks at my name written in my file and asks,

"Where are you from?"

"St. Petersburg, Russia."

"Really? My father went there one year. Told me it was incredible. Why did you move from there?"

"My parents thought we would have a better future here. They watched these Hollywood movies where the main characters always lived in huge beautiful mansions, with beautiful cars parked in the garage. I guess they were mislead by movies about life in North America and thought that everyone here lived a splendid life."

The mansions and cars looked very appealing. And the Cold War was over. So they assumed Canada would provide them with a very happy life, where we would be rich and live in a gorgeous house, and not end up in a two bedroom apartment sinking into credit card dept. The West seemed like a paradise. When we finally moved here, things were hard. The church found us a family to live with. It was a single mother who lived with her daughter that took us in.

My father found a low paying job. It required a lot of physical labor. Employers were very uncomfortable hiring a Russian. Technically the Cold War was over, but not for employers. He got a job then, and the single mother along with the church managed to find him a used bicycle. He would ride it to work. It would take him about two hours to get there, and two hours back. He’d come home exhausted every day, dealing with the fact that our family uprooted themselves to Canada to have a better life than we did in Russia, only to realize that now we lived in someone’s basement. It was in no way a step up from the one bedroom apartment we owned in St. Petersburg.

Our English was bad, we had no family in Canada, and on top of that we were looked on as less then humans, but "commies." The cold war was over, the grudge remained, and we as a family would pay for it. The single mother would sometimes threaten our family saying that she would send us back to where we came from, to which my father would eagerly reply,

"Really? When?"

She ended up using my parents. My mother was to take up the role of a maid and was expected to clean and cook the family meals. My father was required to fix broken appliances and wallpaper her whole house as a thank-you for lending us her basement even though she received financial compensation for from the church.

 

As time passed my parents had put all of their hopes in me. They were optimistic that I would make something of myself in this new country. I think by now we’ve all seen how wonderfully I’ve managed to fuck that up.

 

Dr. Toworski continues, "St. Petersburg is a gorgeous place. One day I want to go there."

"Some refer to it as the Venice of the North. It was basically built on water. There’s water everywhere. Canada doesn’t really have anything similar. So now and again I get homesick. Especially now."

He looks sympathetic and nods. Dr. Abin comes back.

Dr. Toworski says,

"Okay. I’m gonna read you a paragraph from this book and your job is to summarize it an tell me what it was about. He reads. He stumbles through it, then finishes and looks at me. I try to summarize, but in all honesty I have no idea what the paragraph was even about. It was read completely out of context. Dr. Abin jumps in,

"That’s actually not the easiest paragraph to summarize unless you know what the book is about." So the two Doctors decide to just drop it. The next thing they want to do is see how my facial muscles work now, since my face in the beginning was destroyed. Dr. Toworski tells me to do what he does. He begins by showing me his teeth then he grinds them. I try to follow but my mouth can’t open that way. I give up the dream and notice that he has braces, so I feel the need to let him know about this.

"Yeah... I’ll get them off soon," he says almost apologetically, and we smile at each other. Dr. Abin interrupts the moment by telling me that I will need to work on that since I can’t open my mouth all that wide. I wonder why she is even present, considering she has done absolutely nothing useful. I’m bored and I tell the male Doctor I like his shoes, they look like mine. He is probably the only medical professional I have met that I actually like in this rehab.

I am of course asked why I am not wearing my neck brace by the woman Doctor. Yes. We are still on the neck brace topic. I tell her that it had been taken off weeks ago by a Doctor who specializes in this area. She tells me that she has no notice of this. I tell her that I am aware that this rehabilitation organization has no notice of this. The communication problems they experience with hospitals is in no way a concern of mine, and I will not pay for what they lack in. I will not wear the neck brace under any circumstances.

Dr. Toworski speaks,

"That’s not surprising. Often messages do not get transferred. I actually had a question after looking into your file and seeing that your parents came here with you initially. It says in the file that your parents are divorced and you live with your mother."

"Really? I wonder who’s covering our expenses considering neither of us work. If my parents are divorced someone should let them know, because they seem to be going about it all wrong." I laugh a little.

"I kinda thought that was made up." He smiles at me.

Dr. Abin says that that is all they needed to cover today, and I ask the male Doctor,

"So we’re finished making faces at each other?"

"Yeah," he smiles at me.

I do not even look at Dr. Abin. There is something about her that I find very unsettling. The Doctors leave, and I have the rest of the day to find something to occupy myself with.

 

 

34

Helena is back in the room, so I decide to shoot the shit with her for a while. I wait for the time to pass. I am a new patient, and nobody wants me to feel overwhelmed, so not much happens today. I try to play a game on my cell phone. I get bored. I try to read, but the words begin to merge into each other as always, so I’m bored even more. I wait. My cell phone tells me that it’s 8pm on the dot. I resolve to call my nurse and ask her for my sleeping pills. She agrees to bring me my medication now, and she seems to like me. She gives me a smile when she comes into my room, hands over the pills, and does not require me to swallow them in front of her. The nurse who does require this and asked me to open my mouth for inspection the day before comes into my room. She directs her attention at me,

"Did you take your pills already?"

"No, I was just about to." I reply as the nurse comes closer to me to inspect the paper cup with the pills.

"Those are sleeping pills in there." She looks at me and the other nurse. "It’s only 8pm."

"I know what time it is. I woke up before 6am because it’s noisy. So if I fall asleep earlier I’ll get more sleep."

"Well it’s too early to take them now! Wait at least two more hours," she reaches out her hand to me to take the pills and my nurse for the evening quickly intervenes,

"Tonight she is my patient and not yours. She is my responsibility. If she wants to take her pills right now she can take her pills right now."

The two nurses stare at each other. My nurse is calm, the other, uncomfortable. Without saying a word she leaves, and my nurse looks at me with a smile. I like her a lot.

I take the sleeping pills and wait for them to kick in while I play a game on my cell phone, as always, as I do every day. Every day feels the same. I am very thankful for the sleeping pills. The less I am awake and conscious for what has become my life, the better. All I think about is that one night. The punch to the face. How so much of me and my life was killed that night, but physically I still exist. It replays constantly, but when I sleep it doesn’t. I don’t think I even dream anymore, and I don’t really care. I fall asleep.

 

 

35

I wake up on a Tuesday, and it is 5:55am. The nurses have already gathered and are laughing loudly. At least someone is experiencing fun. My first appointment is at 9am with the physiotherapists. It’s still a 3 hour wait, so I roll myself out of the room to take a shower. It is always evident that my body can no longer move the way it did once. My right knee can hardly bend. It is a long process, but I get there. There is a bench to sit on in the shower, and I can roll my wheelchair right up to it, so I will need to do as little walking as possible. I take the shower-head in my hand to avoid splashing water on the wheelchair. I study the huge scar in my stomach. It is bumpy because no one bothered themselves to take the stitches out and my skin simply grew over them. It doesn’t look pleasant, but I’m relatively nonchalant . All I want is for the day to progress at a speedy rate. That is my main concern. That, and the physiotherapists re-teaching me to walk like I used to. This is what I’m here for. At least that’s what I think rehab should be about. I’m also extremely naive.

I lie in bed and wait. I rest my eyes. Time passes so very slowly.

The pregnant lady and the volunteer come into my room because it is almost 9am. I get ready. The volunteer starts to roll me down the hallway and the pregnant one tells him to let me do it myself. Physically I can do it myself without a problem, but I can see that the young man is trying to be a gentleman, and I appreciate this. We get to the door with the security code and out of habit the pregnant lady covers up the numbers with one hand, and inputs the security code with the other.

"You really don’t have to hide the code from me. I already have it written down and memorized."

She looks surprised,

"How did you find this out?"

"The speech therapist. She told me what it was."

"So she has determined that it is okay for you to know the code?"

"Why... would it not be okay?" I’m again taken aback about the lack of communication between the medical staff. I wonder if the pregnant one will crawl up my ass again about the blasted neck brace. The day has just begun, and I’m already annoyed.

I am taken into a large room with home gyms, treadmills etc... It reminds me of when I actually had a job. When I worked for Fitness Now. I look around, and I grade the fitness equipment in my mind, out of habit. I realize that most of the ones that are there have only been bought because of the brand name. I remember my boss would tell me he would never buy particular machines. People just tend to buy these, not because of the quality, but because of the constant advertisements. And whoever bought the home gym that I am rolled to , most obviously bought it because of the commercials. I am very familiar with the brand name. The store I used to work for would never even floor such a contraption. I am told to begin doing arm curls. It is set at 30lbs, and I have some trouble doing this with my left hand, because months ago my left arm was broken. The weight is reduced to 10 lbs. I do not feel it, but I am told that I am benefitting from this. My right arm was the only limb in my body that was not damaged.

I ask the two therapists when we can start focusing on my legs. I am told to be patient. I keep doing arm curls until I’m exhausted, and I am told that they will focus on my legs now. They put a plastic bowl on the floor and a quarter beside it. They tell me to use my toes to put the quarter into the bowl. The bowl is beside my right foot, so I gather that I should do this with my right foot. As mentioned before, Gwen will tell me about my injuries at a later time. She will tell me that two bones in my right foot had disintegrated and had been replaced with metal. But this is not the issue. My big toe, and the one beside it can not touch each other anymore. It has become physically impossible. The only way I can make them touch each other, is if I bring the two toes together with my hands. I tell my therapists that the two toes cannot meet, and that this is as possible for me to do as flying would be. The pregnant one tells me this is what I’m here for and to keep at it. She has to attend to another patient and focuses her attention on an older man. I try again, but it is not happening. The two toes cannot physically touch each other. I give up. I place my foot over the coin and press hard. I put as much weight as I can on it. The coin sticks to my big toe and I hover it over the plastic bowl, and the coin drops. Technically I did what I was told to do. I used my foot to put the coin into the bowl. I tell the two therapists that it is done.

"Oh great. See, you can do it. Okay, we’ll take you back to your room, or do you think you can do that yourself."

"I can do it myself, but when am I gonna learn how to walk?"

"You will, you will. Give it time. This is enough for today."

I’m a little disappointed but try to remain optimistic. I take the elevator to the 4th floor and head back to my room. The main door is of course closed, so I wheel myself closer to the front desk and ask for someone to help keep it open as I make my way inside. I ask the nurse working the phones to just hold it open for me real quick. She is annoyed and tells me to hold on a second, and continues to shuffle through papers. I wait. Another nurse comes to join her and they both start a conversation followed by stupid giggling. They must be sharing an inside joke. I wait. Another nurse now joins them and begins to tell them how her car broke down and how this caused trouble for her to get to work. I cut in and ask for someone to please help open the door and hold the door open as I wheel myself in. Technically the door is located right there, so they won’t even need to stop their conversation. I estimate it’s about 3 or 4 steps away. Maximum. One of the nurses, the one I had first asked to help me with the door turns to me and gives me an annoyed dirty look. I’m surprised by this. I was calm. I in no way raised my voice or showed them any kind of attitude. She responds with a snappy, "We are busy here. Please wait." She gives me a look that would suggest I should keep my mouth closed or suffer the consequences. So I wait. The last nurse explains how her tire went flat, and what a pain it was. The other two nurses sigh in sympathy. I wait. The story continues. Apparently she then had to call a friend and ask her for a ride to work. The other nurses nod in unison encouraging her to continue this story. For some reason, that is beyond me, they seem to be captivated by her transportation problems. I wait. I decide to give up the hope that anyone would bother to help me and attempt to open the door myself. Granted, the first time I do this, it is tricky to hold the door open and wheel myself in all at the same time. But I did it. I know I will do this again, and I know I will get better at it. I roll back to my room, and I know I have another appointment soon.

I check my schedule, and I see it will be with a therapist I have never met before. So I sit and wait, and he shows up right on time. He introduces himself as Gary and tells me that he will be working with me on my memory. He tells me we don’t have to go far, because his office is on the same floor, and he begins to wheel me out of the room. He wants me to play an educational computer game, and rolls me to one of the computers in the office. He lifts me up along with my wheelchair to get me as close to the computer screen as he can. In this game I have to match things up. An image flashes before me and I have a choice of options to pick from, of what the image was. I don’t find it too challenging, and Gary tells me I’ve done an awesome job. He tells me that I am done for the day, and if I want to, I can check my e-mail. I say I would like that. It’s been three months. I have a lot of e-mails and I sort through what is mostly junk. And yes, I have no problem remembering my username and password. Some e-mails are from friends wishing me a speedy recovery. They are short and to the point. Of course none of them are from Travis, but at least once in a while I get a text message from him, and that’ll carry me through, even if it’s about nothing important. I’m happy it’s something.


© Copyright 2019 Criss Sole. All rights reserved.

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