Free Joni by Joni Eareckson Tada

wash and set, along with brushing, became Jay’s duty to the five of us every week, until “regulations” put an end to her efforts.
    With my hair now growing out and sometimes even combed, I began to take a little interest in my appearance. The side effects of the medication had slackened somewhat by now too and I didn’t seem quite so grotesque. However, I was still thin and underweight, and my bones bulged through my skin, causing open, ugly bedsores.
    Diana White, a friend from high school and Young Life, began to visit me regularly. She was a sensitive, caring Christian girl, with a positive, outgoing personality. She always seemed happy and cheerful. Yet, she was practical as well as optimistic. Her attitude was not glib, happy-go-lucky naivete. Rather, she countered difficulty and pessimism with her own strong personality. She had an innate spirit of helpfulness and won instant acceptance with people. Diana’s wide face, dark hair, and eyes lighted up when she talked, and the corners of her mouth curled up in a smile, making me feel brighter, better.
    I appreciated her visits more and more because Jackie—now facing some inner turmoil of her own—no longer came as frequently to see me. Diana’s encouragement and reading from God’s Word also filled the void created by the fact that Dick’s studies prevented him from coming as often. Jason began to drift out of my life too. From others, I heard that he was dating a girl he had met at college and seemed serious about her.
    I was grateful when P.T. became a part of the daily routine, for it offered an additional element of variety to my life.
    At first the physical therapist, Barbara Marshall, came to my room to exercise my paralyzed limbs. After a few weeks, I was taken to the P.T. center for two hours of therapy every day. My first impression of this big room was that it resembled a strange torture chamber. There were bizarre machines and devices for stretching, pulling, and bending useless arms, legs, and bodies. But as strange as this room appeared, it had positive overtones for me—I was going to learn to walk like the others I saw moving with crutches and walkers.
    Joe Leroy, a brawny therapy aide with great patience, took me to the P.T. room to show me what would happen when the therapist put my limbs through the full range of potential movement to keep them from becoming atrophied.
    “Look,” he encouraged, “all this flat-on-your-back ballet really does have a purpose.” Joe then proceeded to explain how twisting, bending, and stretching my legs, arms, and limp body in arcs, circles, and all kinds of angles would help me.
    “It keeps your muscles elastic,” Joe explained.
    “But I can’t feel anything. Why does it matter if they get stiff?” I asked.
    “Makes problems for the blood—circulation gets bad. Also, when your muscles go, your body gets stiff, your limbs shrivel up, and your body gets all twisted up,” Joe said as he pointed to other patients being pulled, pushed, and lifted.
    The physical therapists worked with me twenty minutes each day, putting elasticity back into my muscles, even though they would never function again. Next, they began to work with me in order to get me out of my Stryker frame and into a regular bed.
    Then came grueling exercises to try to enable me to sit up. They fastened me to a tilt-board and lifted my head and lowered my legs. As they slowly raised me past the horizontal position, I felt blood rush from my head and waves of nausea sweep over me.
    “Wait. Don’t go any higher. I can’t take it,” I cried.
    Even just a few seconds with my head elevated was too much after nearly six months in a horizontal position.
    “Oh, Joe,” I sobbed, “I thought I was going to faint! Won’t I ever be able to sit up?”
    “Sure, Joni. Just takes time. We only had you elevated about 45 degrees. We’ll try again for a little bit longer. When you can take it for several minutes, we’ll increase the angle of the