Free Dying For A Chance by Amy H. Allworden Page A

if...my people were designed to be quitters and I’m just fighting nature?”
                He laughed at my attempt to squirm out of therapy. “I never believed that. In every therapy unit I’ve ever been to there was always this one kid who looked small and weaker than everyone else...those were usually the kids who did the best.” He shook his head, “Nah... I think success is measured by what you put into it, no matter what you have to start with.” It sounded like one of the inspirational posters I had seen hanging on the walls.
                I hoped he was right, judging by my first day I got the impression that I was going to have to put a whole lot more into it than I was capable of. I tried hard the following day and the day after that. Stretches and exercises encompassed my entire day. By the end of each I was exhausted and fell straight to sleep, often still on top of the covers and Nic would have to pull them over me. He was true to his word though, he stayed with me for every painful leg raise and tiny victory even though there weren’t very many of those. We had gotten into a great routine where he would analyze what I’d done that day and how I could work smarter the next day and use less energy.
                On the last day of my first week of therapy the nurses got together and gave me a T-shirt that read “Never say “I can’t” because we’ll make you do it anyway”. They were an odd group with an even odder sense of humor. I suppose you would have to be to make people work that hard for their own good, I saw more than a few other patients break down in tears. I hadn’t gotten to that point yet but my therapist promised me we would get there.
                “Alright Samantha, let’s do this one more time.” We had already been walking around the mini track and stretching with the yoga ball so I wasn’t eager to believe the therapist when he said we were almost done. They had a way of making just one more time turn into seven or eight more times.
                “I’m trying” my patience was paper thin. A few setbacks earlier in the week had meant that I’d have to work harder and I wasn’t really looking forward to it. I sluggishly pulled myself along.
                We were trying to walk along the balance beam style bars, the therapist was on one side telling me to push through the mental block and Nic was straight ahead promising that this would all be a distant memory soon. Suddenly my right leg slipped and my arms, tired from the whole week of exercise, gave out at the sudden weight and I toppled to the ground bumping my head on the bars on the way down. It was utterly tragic. That was my first breaking point. I had seen the other patients crying and thought that would never happen to me, well I was wrong. I laid there on the floor and sobbed like a child.
    The physical therapist checked to make sure I was alright and then left to get a wheelchair for me to sit in. I heard Nic’s voice in soothing tones telling me that I was fine, that I had done such a great job and he was so proud of me. I heard him through my tears but it didn’t feel possible that I was doing well at all.
                I had probably been crying about more than just that particular fall. I’m sure Dr. Gannushkin would have said that I was crying to get out all sorts of emotions from the crash and the surgery. What is that old expression, “Speak of the devil and he shall appear”? 
    ~~~
                  I was starting to feel really depressed about the therapy. It wasn't going as well as I had expected and I didn't expect it to go well to begin with. Nic tried to console me with some card games but it was no use. We were sitting across from each other at the couch and just finishing our fifth hand of Sheepshead when I heard him whistle.
                “Look at that.” he laid down a perfect hand, smiling for all