Rainy Day Stories

One Step at a Time

Walking through the halls leading to the Rehab Unit, hospital staff members greeted Clare warmly as she passed. She knocked on the closed door before entering.

"Come on in!" Wyatt's gruff voice commanded. He sat in the recliner next to his bed with a tray table in front of him while he attempted to shave himself with his left hand. His neck showed a couple of nicks still oozing a small amount of blood. He muttered under his breath in frustration before he dropped his razor.

"It's harder than I thought it would be. At this rate, I'll probably slice my own throat," he grumbled. Clare sat down across from him taking a long sip of her coffee. She didn't say anything. Wyatt needed her unconditional support as he went through his rehab but he didn't need her to enable him or do things for him. In nursing school, she had learned sympathy for your patient hindered their progress. What they needed was empathy -- understanding what they were feeling and not being judgmental, but helping them remain focused on the steps needed to recover from their injury or illness.

"You don't have to say it, Clare. I know what you are thinking – 'keep working, Wyatt' – I will. Now let me get back to carving -- I mean -- shaving my face." Wyatt's mouth twitched as he tried to suppress a grin. Clare continued to sip her cup of coffee smiling at the man in front of her.

After he finished shaving, Clare pushed his wheelchair to the therapy gym. Shaving was the easy part of Wyatt's day. The work done in the gym would make the difference in how much of his strength and mobility he would regain. It was so very difficult to watch someone you cared for suffer, but Clare knew the therapy was necessary.

Wyatt had gunshot wounds to his left leg and right shoulder. He was unable to use crutches due to the gunshot wound to his shoulder wound. The therapists had Wyatt walking between the parallel bars to get him used to bearing weight on his damaged left leg. Unable to use his right arm to help with balance, it was an added impediment to his progress.

Sweat beaded across his forehead as he gritted his teeth with each step. His legs shook with the effort it took to move. Clare said a silent prayer as he completed each step. After only five steps on his damaged leg, Wyatt started to collapse. She gasped taking quick steps towards the bars.

"Damn it all to hell. Just give me a minute and I'll be ready to go again," Wyatt insisted.

"Not today, Wyatt. I think you've had enough. When you come back this afternoon we'll work with the weights," his therapist told him. The staff kept him on his feet until they transferred him back into the wheelchair.

"No marathons for me for a while," Wyatt tried to crack a joke. Clare could see the defeat in his eyes.

"You're going to have a special visitor today," Clare said as she pushed him back to his room. He didn't respond. It didn't bother her. She knew he would be happy to see this visitor.

"Look who's here, Wyatt," announced Clare's friend, Cliff, as he stood outside Wyatt's room. A big yellow lab sat obediently beside Cliff.

"Max!" Wyatt cried out just when the dog became aware of their presence. Cliff released his hold on the leash, and Max ran with his limping gait into Wyatt's outstretched arms. His tongue hung from his smiling snout and his big brown eyes reflected the same look of love Clare could see in Wyatt's. Wyatt buried his face into the lab's fur murmuring words of praise. When he lifted his head, the despair, present moments before, had been replaced with joy.

In time, life would return to normal.