A lot of things left Diane's life that July afternoon on that stretch of Highway 58. Gone were the days of dancing with Jack, the fancy dresses, sheer stockings and high heels she loved wearing, and the short shorts in summer. Gone were the whistles of the construction workers who danced a ballet with crane cables and naked chests on the skeleton of the new building going up next to her office. They had been there every morning when she walked past from the parking lot to the lobby. Now it wouldn't matter if they were there to jeer and invite her to join them. She wouldn't be walking down that street ever again, not after the firemen had cut her out of the crumpled pile of steel and plastic that had been her car and the paramedics had whisked her broken body off to the hospital.
The orthopedic surgeon had screwed her leg bones back together with stainless steel and titanium, and after a four weeks and lots of drugs, most of the pain went away. She was able to feel the little needle-sharp wheel that Dr. Moresby kept running up and down her thigh and calf, and with some pain and effort, Diane could wiggle her toes.
"With a lot of hard work, you'll be able to walk again", explained Dr. Moresby. He smiled. "You know, you're a very lucky girl. Not so long ago, you'd have lost both legs."
Lucky? Was it luck that blew out the tire? Was it luck that turned the car through the guardrail and down the embankment? These questions scratched at Diane's mind, ploughed through her reason and logic, and planted the seeds of despair. That despair grew into self-pity and then into hatred of everyone and everything around her. She hated the women visitors who walked around on their perfectly smooth, nylon-clad legs. She hated the nurses who walked quickly without any obvious effort down the hall. She hated Dr. Moresby for standing straight while he congratulated her on being only a cripple.
The strongest hatred, and one that scared her when it came, was for the paramedics. Why hadn't they just let her die? Dying would be better than what lay ahead of her. Diane didn't want to live out her life bound to a wheel chair, but that was her future. Even though Dr. Moresby said her bones were starting to heal, when she moved her legs she thought she felt movement that meant they weren't.
Since she wasn't really sick, they transferred her to a convalescent care facility that worked as an adjunct to the hospital. After she'd arrived and been given a room of her own, she'd met with the doctor assigned to her case. Doctor Williams had restated what Dr. Moresby had told her. Because she was only twenty-three, her bones would heal quickly, but she wouldn't be using them to carry her weight for at least another six weeks. The nurses would help her get to the bathroom and would take her to meals in a wheelchair. A physical therapist would work with her every day to strengthen her muscles and help alleviate pain.
Dr. Williams explained.
"I've recommended a therapist to work with you. Rich Harris has worked with cases like yours before and he's had great success. What he'll be doing first is keeping your legs from losing muscle tone until you start walking again. Rich also knows how to reduce the pain you're feeling.
"Once you've healed enough, he'll start you out with a walker. After that, he'll give you some crutches. Once we get you to that point, there's no reason you can't go home. It'll take more therapy to graduate you to a cane and then to moving on your own, but Rich can explain all that to you."
Diane had listened and nodded her head, but inside, she was ashamed and enraged. There she was, twenty-three years old, and living in what amounted to a nursing home. Most of the other residents were in their sixties or older, and through the open door to her room, she could see them moving slowly down the hall with their walkers or canes.
Diane knew she'd never even make it to a walker. Just moving caused her pain and the drugs weren't helping that much. Trying to walk would be more painful than she'd be able to endure. Jack would never want a partner in that shape.
Jack had tried his best. She knew that. He had been at the hospital every day and then at the convalescent center for the first month. Then his visits came every other day. After the second month, he called to say he would be very busy with a different job, but would come as often as he could. He hadn't called again for three weeks. Diane wasn't surprised, really. Who could expect any man to stay with a woman trapped in a wheel chair?
That morning in November, one of the floor nurses wheeled Diane down the hall to a door with "Physical Therapy 6" painted on the outside. Inside, it looked about like the room in her high school where the jocks worked out. There were weight machines, exercise bikes, parallel bars, and mats on the floor. The nurse locked the wheels of the wheelchair and said something about being back for her in about an hour.
The big clock on the wall slowly ticked away a little more of her life this morning, and the occasional pigeon stopped to peer in the windows. Diane pulled the hospital gown to her waist and stared at her legs. The once smooth, slender legs rounded by firm muscle had become thinner and lined with pink scars that mapped the path of Dr. Moresby's scalpel. They were horrible and those scars would be there for the rest of her life, reminding her that her legs were still fragile.
Diane traced one on the inside of her left thigh until her finger touched the cotton of her panties, and frowned. Soft downy hair that matched the mane of light caramel on her head now covered her scarred limbs. Diane had not thought of shaving until that moment, and sighed at the thought that this was another thing she probably wouldn't have to do ever again. Why should she shave when no man would want to touch her?
"You wanna put that down so we can get started?"
Diane started at the man's voice behind her. She had been so absorbed in her thoughts that she hadn't heard the door open. With one quick motion, the gown again lay draped over her legs. A warm flush covered her face and chest.
"Don't be embarassed. You can look at yourself whenever you want, I guess. I'm just not used to having my patients flash me."
"I wasn't flashing you."
He grinned at Diane.
"I know you weren't. It was just a little joke. You know about jokes, don't you?"
Diane looked at his grinning face and hated him for that grin just as she hated that grin on the other people at the convalescent center. Her voice was angry, but didn't begin to reflect the anger in her mind.
"Yeah, I remember jokes. There's the joke about me walking again, for one."
Rich looked at the young girl for a moment and though he was still smiling, his thoughts were of both pity and determination. She'd been a beautiful young woman, still was even with the scars on her legs. Those would eventually almost disappear, but the scars in her mind would be there forever unless he could convince her she was still the same woman as before the accident. He'd have to do that in order to get her walking again.
He'd read the doctor's report on her condition. Diane had suffered a broken left femur, multiple fractures of her right tibia and fibia, and two broken ribs. Her femur was now held together by a titanium rod screwed inside the bone and titanium plates now held her tibia and fibia in place. The two broken ribs had been left to heal on their own. Doing anything to support them would probably have resulted in pneumonia or other respiratory disease.
A careful look at her latest X-rays that morning had told him the bones were well on their way to knitting back together. Her chart said she was still feeling pain, but there was no reason for that. All the incisions had healed and her bones were held firmly in place by metal plates and screws. The pain must be in her mind, her mind's way of confirming the thought that she'd never walk again. Doctor Moresby had come to the same conclusion and was only prescribing aspirin for that pain instead of anything stronger.
She wasn't yet healed enough to take her full weight on those legs, but she was healed enough to start using a walker if she'd help him maintain some strength in her legs. The tone of her voice told him she wasn't ready to do that yet.
Rich had no doubts she was capable of walking again. He'd worked with patients with more serious injuries and they walked again, but those patients had the determination to keep going even when it hurt. He didn't yet know how he'd build that determination in Diane, but he knew he'd find a way. That was what he did with people -- flirt, cajole, tease, or taunt them until they were ready to try, and then praise them for each little step they took towards recovery. The rest was easy. It was just a matter of strengthening muscles and re-teaching muscle control.
He smiled at Diane.
"You know, I'm working with a woman who's seventy six. She broke her hip about the same time as your car accident and yesterday she took the first steps with a walker. You can be doing just as well or better if you'd just try. Surely there's something you'd like to do again if you could learn to walk."
Diane frowned.
"There's not much chance of me doing that ever again. Even if I could get out of this wheelchair, which you and I both know I won't, I'd never be fast enough or graceful enough."
Rich arched his eyebrows.
"Ahhh, so there was something you liked to do. What was that?"
