When I started this new blog, I made a conscious effort to make it less outwardly religious. Let’s face it – no one likes in-your-face preaching. But since I’m a storyteller, please have a bit of patience so I can tell you this true story.
As I write this, I’m about to begin my seventh week in the hospital following some delicate spinal surgery. The 10-hour procedure was successful, but it greatly affected my ability to walk. Basically, I couldn’t. My rehab has been intense, and early last week I was thrilled that my steps had grown stronger with the help of exercise and a walker.
Last Wednesday, however, I woke up knowing I had no legs. All the strength was gone. All of it. Gone. It was though I had rubber bands for legs. I was on the verge of panic, fearing something had gone wrong and I’d never walk again.
I had to stand twice before my actual physical therapy began. I needed to use only my arms, not legs, to hoist myself up on the walker. When the session actually started, my legs held, at most, five percent of my weight. Makayla, my therapist, asked me to try to turn the corner around the therapy table, two steps at most. I slowly shuffled, still using almost all arms. But for some reason, probably my Italian stubbornness, I asked to walk to a marker on the floor about four or five steps away. She said yes, and I did. And I kept going. All around the gym. The whole gym. On my legs.
I got back to the starting point and collapsed into the wheelchair, flummoxed and flabbergasted. Makayla had no explanation.
After another 10-minute rest and “How the hell did I do that” questions, I asked if I could try again. I took another lap around the gym and once again fell into the wheelchair with just as many questions as before.
“It’s a beautiful day,” Makayla said after a few minutes. “Want to wheel outside?”
It, indeed, was a beautiful day and, within a few minutes, she tossed out what I interpreted as a dare.
“Want to try to walk out here?” Makayla asked.
I pulled myself up, walked the perimeter of the courtyard, and happily sat down in the wheelchair. My legs were heavy, I was tired, and I heard my hospital bed calling. But my emotions were was sky high and my session wasn’t over yet.
“Think you have another one in you?” she asked.
My head said “no” but my stubbornness wasn’t about to give in.
I turned at the halfway point, though. Really – enough was enough! But after heading for home, I felt somehow energized. Nothing was wrong. No permanent damage. No lifetime in a wheelchair. Victory!
I don’t know why but I then did something that, in retrospect, was pretty stupid. I raised my walker in the air and kept walking. With no support. Just like normal. Ten unassisted steps! How did that happen?
Stealing legendary journalist Paul Harvey’s line, here’s the “rest of the story.”
A couple of hours before PT, I had a long, wonderful visit from Russell Tooke, a dear friend of 36 years from St. Joseph’s choir. Before he left, I asked Russ to break my normal routine and anoint me with oil blessed with a relic of St. Padre Pio. Russ was reluctant at first, saying he wasn’t worthy. But he gave in and anointed me with the holy oil.
The story is true. Take from it what you will.
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