Chapter 7 - THE FIRST TIME I STOOD
Four months after Faith arrived, I stood.
Not alone.
Harness.
Braces.
Parallel bars.
Two therapists.
A machine stimulating muscles that had forgotten their jobs.
Nothing cinematic.
Nothing clean.
My arms shook.
My legs trembled.
My right knee tried collapsing twice.
But I stood.
Twenty-one seconds.
Then thirty.
Faith watched from the doorway.
She covered her mouth.
I pointed at her.
“Don't cry.”
“I'm not.”
“You are.”
“Allergies.”
“In November.”
“Very aggressive pollen.”
I laughed.
Bad idea.
My balance shifted.
The therapists sat me down.
Forty-three seconds.
Personal record.
I stared at my legs.
For months, I had treated every small improvement as insufficient.
Toe movement wasn't walking.
Standing wasn't walking.
Braces weren't freedom.
Dr. Chen finally said:
“If the only outcome you permit yourself to value is walking normally, you will turn rehabilitation into another way to punish yourself.”
That sentence hurt worse than therapy.
I asked:
“Will I walk?”
She answered:
“Possibly short distances.”
“With assistance?”
“Probably.”
“And wheelchair?”
“Likely long-term.”
There it was.
Not miracle.
Not cure.
A different future.
For the first time, I accepted it.
Not happily.
But honestly.
That evening, I told Faith.
She waited.
Then:
“You okay?”
I thought.
“Yes.”
She smiled.
Actually smiled.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, say it.”
“You didn't say 'but.'”
I realized she was right.
No:
But I won't walk normally.
But I still need a chair.
Just:
May you like
Yes.
That mattered more than forty-three seconds.
