The 18th Floor

Chapter Twenty Seven

Every other Sunday, dad drives me to the Royal National Orthopaedic Hospital for my physio sessions.

They have a spinal cord injury centre designed to help treat patients with injuries like mine. The first year of our sessions were generally made up of mobility and ways to transfer, posture and how to get around in the wheelchair. I refused to do anything in those first few months. I didn't leave my bed; I didn't get in my chair. And when I was in the chair, I couldn't move. I couldn't find the will nor determination to do anything menial with my life. It was only after eight months that my dad got me out of bed and into the car, and drove me to the centre without telling me where we were going, that I had my first session.

So deep into my depression, I didn't know what was happening. I remember entering the centre on my first day, everyone around me in wheelchairs as dad pushed me through the corridor to the room. I didn't do anything that session except cry for two hours straight. They assigned me a therapist quickly after that.

Back then I had more sessions, two hour sessions four times a week, with three hours of therapy across the week. The more I progressed over the years the less the hours became, especially after a certain point where me and the doctors can see there isn't much improvement. Now I have two hours of physio every other Sunday, followed by an hour of therapy.

Dad use to wait in the hallways for me in case I had a breakdown, which was fairly often at the start, but now he drops me off and comes to pick me up three hours later.

I've had Dr. Pine ever since I started for my sessions. The nurses have changed a few times and depending on the shift, but I usually see the same people every time I visit. I haven't seen anyone in a while since changing my days to Sunday after I started working, everyone at the centre was so happy for me that they sent me flowers home and which reduced me to tears.

This past year we've been focusing on standing programmes and trying different ways to get some more sensation in my legs to start on some walking supports. It's been a slow journey, and with less sessions than normal, I feel like progress has halted. They also encourage me to go to the gym regularly, but it's something I haven't been able to build the courage up for and do some of the workouts at home instead.

Dad drops me off and I make my way into the centre greeting the reception staff and head over to my usual room. The centre is large, with lots of rooms full of different equipment, from treadmills, to weights, to stands to support you whilst walking. As usual, I'm in a pair of leggings and a hoodie with a t-shirt underneath. The winter chill means I chose to wear boots to keep myself warm but I have packed my trainers for when we start our exercises.

The sessions usually involve two hours of getting me as active as possible. Trying to engage every muscle that doesn't get used throughout my every day to day with the help of the nurses. Despite the everyday transfers I do, I can't move my legs. Point blank. If I don't get them moving as often as possible, the muscles will atrophy. The mass will shrink from the lack of use as well as the strength of both my muscles and bones. The older I get, the more likely I am now to break my legs if I were to take a fall from the lack of use, causing the bones to deteriorate.

After two hours of what feels like an intense workout of me doing my usual routine, I head over to Dr. Florence's office. Like Dr. Pine, Dr. Florence and I, or Ela as she insists I call her, have been working through my problems since the beginning. Despite the frequent panic attacks, our sessions have improved my mental state. I don't think I will ever become the person I was before the accident, with even Ela telling me we shouldn't look for happiness in the places we lost it. And I lost it the moment my car flipped over.

Even if I stop going to my physio sessions, not going to therapy will never be an option for me after I realised how much I benefit from it.

The first year or two involved a lot of talk about feelings and acceptance and grief. We even dealt with problems I didn't realise I was latching onto from childhood and had a brief period of time where dad would come in with because I realised it wasn't just me deteriorating from the situation. Our latest sessions were generally about me settling into work and how it was going, and today for the first time I found myself holding back the updates in my life at our session.

The hour goes by quickly, keeping to our general conversations and I decide not to talk about what happened with Lucien, but discussed our work party and how it let me feel like I want to make a conscious effort to go out to more social events. She tells me to keep up the good work and she'll see me in the New Year.