"It's a wrap!" - Chapter 2

Here's a new chapter of it's a wrap that Maddie just sent me. She told me to let you know she intends on posting a new chapter every two weeks or so.  

I also got an email fra Cathy; she apologizes for the long wait for a new chapter in "Every Breath I Take", but she has been sick for the past couple of weeks and haven't had the energy to write. She's feeling better and is working on a new chapter.

As for me; I'm working on a new chapter of "Jenna & Luke 2.0". Hope to have it ready for posting sometime next week.

Have a great Sunday! :-)

WEEK TWO

It took me a day to wrap my head around Gavin’s idea, but I finally decided to follow his lead four days after my accident. I just put up a quick text post on WhoSay where I stated I’d broken my back at the T10/11 level and that I’ve sustained a spinal cord injury and am paralyzed from the waist down.  It didn’t take long for the messages of support to start flooding in and it hits me how awesome my fans are.

I wake up Tuesday morning after a rough night. I’ve been in pain and I’ve only gotten a couple of hours of sleep. My back is killing me. I push the call button and soon a nurse enters my room. Rosie. She’s one of my favorite nurses, around 50 years of age, and always calm and smiling.

“Good morning, Chris,” she greets me. “How’d you sleep?”

“Morning. Not good. My back hurts like a bitch.”

“I’ll get you something for that, hon,” she says, patting my shoulder. Before she heads out of my room she checks my bed bag. I have an indwelling catheter in my dick and I’m wearing a diaper. I’m 34 years old and I’m wearing a fucking diaper because I have no control over what’s going on down there anymore. Fuck. My. Life. Okay, stop it Chris. No more negative thoughts. Gotta stay positive. Easier said than done. Shit, my mind is all over the place these days.

…

A couple of hours later things are looking a little better. I’ve had my first shower since the accident. My hair is clean and I’ve shaved. I actually feel somewhat human again. Especially since I’m sitting in the recliner next to the bed, dressed in one of my own sweatpants and a zip-up hoodie instead of a hospital gown. I’m still wearing a fucking diaper. There’s still a tube in my dick and the bag of piss is attached to my calf instead of my bed. Thank God I can’t feel those. I try not to think about it.

I’m wearing my back brace under the hoodie. It’s tight. Uncomfortable. It’s made of two pieces of rigid plastic that are molded to fit my torso, one on my back and one in front. They’re held together by three Velcro closings on each side of my torso. I’ll be stuck with wearing it when I’m not flat on my back for at least six weeks, maybe more. At least I’m not stuck flat on my back. See, I’m looking at the bright side. Trying to stay positive.

In a spur of the moments I grab my phone and snap a selfie. I don’t look great, but it could be worse. I open the WhoSay app and write a short message for my fans; “Day 10. Out of bed, sitting in a chair for the 1st time since the accident. Thanks for your support. You're the best! :)” I add the selfie and select to share it to Twitter, Instagram and Facebook. My thumb hovers over the post button for a few seconds. I push it. It’s done. I hope my fans aren’t too put off by a pic of a tired looking me wearing sweats and a back brace.

A moment later I get my first response from a Twitter follower; “Looking good, Chris! I’m in week 3 of rehab with a similar injury to yours. It's hard, but I'm making progress! You will too!! #StayStrong” It brings a smile to my face. I do have some great fans.

I receive several supportive replies and my tweet is retweeted and favorited several times.  The first one is the only one from someone that seems to be going through something similar and I decide to check the person’s profile. It looks like she’s telling the truth judging from what she has posted lately and she’s not a new member of Twitter. She has almost 500 followers and has been around for a couple of years. I reply to her tweet. “Thanks :) Best of luck to you. Let me know how you’re doing from time to time. #StayStrong”

…

I’m transferred to the rehab center by ambulance and although all I’ve done is to lay on a gurney for a couple of hours I’m exhausted when a friendly nurse, Lydia, helps me get settled into bed.

“Lunch will be served in a couple of hours and after lunch your doctor and team of therapists will come by to discuss the plans for your rehabilitation with you. I suggest you take the opportunity to get some rest, Chris.”

She pats my shoulder and heads out of my room. I take a deep breath as I lay my head back against the pillow and exhale slowly.

“Are you okay, babe?” Meg asks me, clearly concerned.

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I’m glad I’m out of the hospital, but I just can’t get past the feeling of being completely overwhelmed.”

“I think that’s to be expected. I think you should take Lydia’s advice and try to get a little rest. It sounds like you’ll be busy after lunch. I’ll unpack your bags and then I have to go to fetch the kids from school. Lynnie’s got ballet class this afternoon, but if it’s not too late we’ll come by to see you tonight, okay?”

“Sounds like a plan,” I say meekly. I’m tired and although I don’t want to sleep I drift off while Meg is puttering around the room, arranging my stuff.

…

That evening I’m in bed when Meg and the kids enter the room. I know it’s going to be a short visit; it’s already almost Jacklyn’s bedtime. I’m still happy to see them and soon I have them curled up next to me in bed, one on each side of me.

They chat eagerly about school and their activities and it makes me happy that they manage to distract me from where I am and why I’m here for a few blissful minutes. When Meg announces it’s time to leave they reluctantly hug me goodbye and slide off the bed. Meg kisses me and promises to call me later, after the kids are in bed, so we can have a proper talk.

I grab my phone and dial Frank’s number. He said he’d be in LA this week and I figure I’ll let him know where he can find me. He picks up quickly.

“Chris! How are you, man? Still at the hospital?”

“I’m doing okay I guess. I was transferred to rehab today. Starting tomorrow morning my days will be filled with physical therapy, occupational therapy… It’s going to be pretty intense I think. But it’s good, because it will keep me busy and I won’t spend so much time overthinking everything. How ‘bout you? All well? Are you in LA?”

“I’m good. I’ve been in town since Monday, we’ve done some great work in the writers room and I have some stuff to discuss with you when you’re up for it.”

“What’s going on?” My curiosity is instantly piqued.

“I’d rather discuss it face to face. Can I come see you on Saturday?”

“Sure. I don’t have any therapy sessions Saturday and Sunday so I have plenty of time for visitors those days.”

…

Thursday and Friday are exhausting days and it makes me realize that the rest of my stay at the rehab center won’t be a picnic. It’ll be hard work that requires determination and me wanting to get on with my life. I do want to get on with my life. I just wish it didn’t include a wheelchair, preventing pressure sores, catheters and a bowel and bladder routine. I wish I was working to recover, to get back to normal.

One of the first things on the agenda was finding a wheelchair that fit me reasonably well among the loaner chairs the rehab center has. It will be ‘mine’ while I’m here, until I get my own chair.  I have an appointment with a guy from a medical supply store and my occupational therapist be measured for my own wheelchair next week and then it will take four to six weeks for it to be made.

It’s early Friday afternoon and I’m in bed, resting. I’m exhausted from two exhausting PT sessions today, but it’s a good kind of exhausted. Working out has always been my favorite way of fighting minor bouts of depression. There’s nothing that works to clear my mind like an hour or two at the gym or a good run.  Runs are obviously out of the question, but my occupational therapist has given me information on handcycles. I’m definitely going to look into that at some point.

A knock on my door gets my attention. It’s Lydia.

“Hi Lydia,” I greet her as I gesture for her to come in. “Working the evening shift today?”

“I am. Figured I’d drop by and see if there’s anything you need.”

“I’m good, thanks,” I assure her. “But thanks for asking.”

“I see you’ve gotten your wheelchair. Do you want to have dinner in the dining room tonight, instead of in your room?”

“Yeah, I think I’d like that,” I reply. I’m starting to feel a bit like a caged lion. Well, I don’t know what a caged lion feels, but you know what I mean, right? I feel trapped. Isolated.

“Have anyone told you about our ‘Buddy’ program?” Lydia asks.

I shake my head. “Nope. What’s that?”

“We pair paraplegics, like you, with high quads that have lost the use of their arms. The paras help the quads with stuff they can’t do for themselves anymore, like eating.”

“Right…” I say. I’m not sure what I’ll get out of participating, but I’m willing to listen.

“Normally we wouldn’t ask you this early in your rehab, but we’re a para short and I think you’d be a great buddy for Joel. He’s a fan of yours and the first time we’ve seen him smile in the month he’s been here was this morning after he’d spotted you in the PT room.”

“And who’s Joel?”

“Joel is 32, single and had a good career as an architect when he was injured in a diving accident three months ago. He’s a C-4 quadriplegic, paralyzed from the shoulders down and ventilator dependent.”

“Shit, that’s a lot to deal with for him. What do you think I can contribute with?”

“Since he was so happy to see you for a few seconds we think it’ll really be a boost for him if you’re his buddy. I think it’ll make a massive difference. I hope you’ll at least consider it.”

I remain silent for a few moments. I’m not sure what to do. I take a deep breath. Exhale slowly. “Okay. I’m willing to give it a try,” I say. I’ll be stuck here for at least six weeks. I figure I might as well make myself useful.

…

I’m a bit nervous as I follow Lydia down the hall toward Joel’s room. She wants to introduce us to each other in private, which I appreciate. As we reach his room she gestures for me to wait a few feet from the door, out of sight. She knocks on the doorjamb enters.

“We’ve found you a buddy, Joel,” she informs him.

“Really? Who?”

“I think you’re gonna like this.” Lydia sounds pleased with herself. I know it’s my cue to enter the room. I grab the push rims of the wheelchair I’m sitting in and wheel in to Joel’s room.  The sight of him is slightly overwhelming. I suddenly realize how severely disabled he is; before I broke my back I had very little knowledge about disabilities and spinal cord injuries. The past couple weeks have been a crash course.

The guy I assume is Joel is sitting in a big, bulky power wheelchair. I study him head to toe as I approach him. His head is cradled in a headrest with a black strap across his forehead. He’s a tracheostomy tube in his throat with ventilator tubes attached to it. The tubes disappear over his right shoulder. I assume they’re attached to a ventilator on the back of his chair. He’s got a harness that holds him upright in his wheelchair; it clips in under his arms and over his shoulders. He’s got a seatbelt across his lap and his hands are strapped to the armrests of his char. There are also straps across his sneaker-clad feet, holding his feet in place on the footrests. It’s clear he can’t move a single part of his body.

He looks stunned when he realizes who I am and then the puzzlement changes to anger.

“What kind of a pity ploy is this?” he asks Lydia, completely ignoring me. “Did you really think this would make me happy and feel my life is worth living again?”

“Joel, it’s not a pity ploy. You agreed to take part in the buddy-program. Chris has volunteered to be your buddy.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he’s the only paraplegic in this place that’s available to be my ‘buddy’.”  I’m pretty sure he would’ve used air-quotes on the word buddy if he was able to move his arms. I’ve had enough of this shit.

“Hey! I’m right here,” I say, my tone is harsher than I intended. “In case you’ve missed it; I’ve got some shit to deal with as well. It’s been just over two weeks since I sustained an injury that has changed my life forever. I haven’t fully wrapped my head around what it will mean for my future and me yet.”

“At least you’re not a helpless cripple,” Joel shoots back. “You have your arms, you can breathe on your own… You’re fucking lucky.”

I cut him off. “Yes, compared to you I guess I’m lucky, but that doesn’t mean I’m not struggling with everything I’m dealing with at the moment. I’ll be stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of my life too. I have to push a tube into my dick on a fixed schedule to take a piss and make sure I don’t wet my pants. And don’t even get me started on my bowel routine. That’s a real hoot… Well, I’m outta here.” I grab the push rims of my wheelchair, turn around and start pushing myself toward the door.

“I’m sorry,” Joel pipes up as I reach the door. “I was just shocked to see you and I don’t know why I reacted like I did. Why I jumped to conclusions.”

I turn around so I’m facing him again. Judging by the look on his face he’s sincere.

“I’ve been a fan of yours for years. I love ‘Dean & Dad’. It reminds me of my childhood. Mom died when I was just five years old and it was just my dad and I. I’ve been following you on Twitter for ages and I’ve hoped to meet you. Damn, I sound like a silly teenage fangirl, not a 32-year-old guy…! And now I’ve screwed up my chance to actually get to know you.”

I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. Then I secure the brakes on the wheelchair, grab the push rims and suspend myself from the seat of the chair for a few seconds, like my physical therapist told me to do. Part of me just wants to tell Joel to fuck off and leave me alone, but I feel for the guy. I don’t think he’s a bad guy. He’s just in a bad place right now. I don’t blame him. I’m not in a great place myself, but for some reason the thought of helping Joel gives me a sense of purpose. I’d like to make a difference in his life.

“Why don’t we start over?” I suggest.

To be continued.