me.
Arriving at the understanding that all would be okay happened there in rehab, but it was a gradual process. It didn’t mean I was okay with my injury—obviously, given the chance to change it, of course I would have. But the reality was that I couldn’t, so I found peace instead of beating myself up over my situation. It wasn’t about complacency; it was about dealing with what I had to deal with and knowing that making peace helped.
I can’t pinpoint the exact moment it occurred, but in rehab I just realized, “It is what it is.” I said that to myself a lot. I had to manage myself because no one was going to do that for me. I had to let it be. There was never a time when I was angry, but there were definitely spurts of sadness. I would always make jokes with the therapist, and then I would break down a little bit at night, when it was quiet and I was alone and wasn’t being kept busy. And that was natural to me. Of course I’d break down. Of course I was sad, but overall I realized there was nothing I could do to change what had happened. I couldn’t go backward; I couldn’t stay where I was, so I had to move forward. I simply didn’t want to be a depressed, negative person; I wanted to be myself. So I went forward with the same personality that I’d always had for the sake of my own mental health and for the sake of Chris. It wouldn’t have been fair for him to not only part with me physically but also lose me as a person. I knew my physical condition would not be the end of us and that he deserved to have the woman he set out to marry originally.
Another woman, Frances, really defined friendship for me. She was in rehab and helped me through a lot of tough moments. She was a volunteer and a quadriplegic herself, and she would visit me often. I had a lot in common with her. She was hurt in her twenties like me and was also very active. We had both taught aerobics. We had similar functions. She gave me some pointers on how to apply makeup. I learned through Frances that I was able to do a lot with my arms. I realized that there was no horizontal line cutting off my feeling and function, but that my biceps, wrists, and shoulders had a lot of strength and could compensate for my lack of triceps, so with time, I would gain mobility. For example, when applying foundation, I learned to pour it onto the palm of my hand and wipe it on my face. I had enough strength to lift my arms to do that. With eyeliner, I squeezed the stick together with two hands and could apply it.
Frances explained to me that I could ultimately do a lot with the strength in my wrist, like feed myself and eventually drive. She had a caregiver who helped her in the mornings and evenings, but Frances did many things on her own. She cleaned her own pool at home, washed her own car, and gardened. It was so motivating and enlightening. She kept me positive in general and was someone to laugh with and even ask the personal questions that no medical professionals could really answer.
Frances had a huge part in my recovery. I wouldn’t have been as positive without her as my mentor and my friend. She was there every single day, and we spoke for hours. I asked her hundreds and hundreds of questions over the two and a half months I was there.
Laughter helped, too. Samantha had a little Chihuahua named Marley. I don’t usually like that kind of dog, but I was really missing my Lab. One day, she showed up and opened her purse.
I said, “Oh my God, you brought your dog!”
She said, “Yeah, why not? No one will care.”
I explained we had to keep it on the down-low.
She had smuggled little Marley into rehab, past everyone who might have tossed her and the doggie out. All to cheer me up. You can’t have animals in hospitals unless they’re certified therapy dogs, so this was really breaking the rules.
We had to involve the nurse on duty because she was in the room a lot. But we knew she wouldn’t tell on us. We also needed to keep the