For those of you that did not read what I wrote last week, I wrote about the time that I was in the hospital and was paralyzed. I had no control over what happened or what was happening to me. As promised, I will finish my story. So here we go.
After I spent my final week in the pediatric intensive care unit after my tracheostomy surgery, I was moved to the sixth floor: rehab. This is where I was supposed to spend the next six months to a year of my life, learning how to live a normal life again. My first night on the sixth floor was probably the scariest part of the whole experience. I went from having glass doors and a nurse watching me constantly, to having a real door and real walls, and my nurse wasn’t constantly watching. On my first night, my mom slept in the super uncomfortable chair holding my hand the whole time. Things started to get easier after that. On my first day of therapy sessions, my physical therapist, Kristi, told me we were going to take it slow and just try sitting up. For most, sitting up isn’t a big deal, but after you have been laying in a bed for 25 days, even the thought of sitting up seemed impossible. But it wasn’t; as soon as I sat up, Kristi told me "good job," and that we didn’t have to do anything else for the day, but I knew I had it in me to do more. So, we tried putting my legs over the side of the bed. Now, when this was happening, I had to lean on Kristi for support. Most don’t think that is a big deal, but Kristi is so little that I wasn’t sure if she would be able to hold me up, but she did! Again, Kristi tried telling me that I didn’t need to do anything else for the day and that I had already exceeded her goals, but the next thing I knew, I was sitting in a wheelchair. Of course, this was a big step since the goal was to just sit up. It was at this point that I told myself I was not going to be spending the next six months to a year living in the hospital.
On the same day that I got to sit in the wheelchair, I also got to shower, and I will never take a shower for granted again. Up until this point, it was sponge baths. The next day, I was able to sit unassisted on the side of my bed for 60 seconds, which was a big deal and gave me the confidence that I could dance again one day and prove the doctors wrong. I also got to talk again, which for me was a big deal because I love to talk. What was the first thing I said? “I’m hungry.”
Little did I know that the next day I would finally get to eat. My first meal was maccaroni and cheese from Noodles and Company. From that point on, I ate anything and everything in sight. I had to catch up from not eating for a whole month. In fact, the whole time that I wasn’t eating I had been making a list of all the food I wanted to eat when I was ready. A few days later I was standing with assistance from a walker, wheeling myself around in a wheelchair, walking with the walker, lifting weights. The weights were only about two pounds, but I had no muscle mass anymore so two pounds was actually kind of heavy. Eventually, they took out my trach, which was a big deal. I know I am saying all of this was a big deal, but each milestone that I was making really was a big deal. The average time from tracheostomy surgery to Band-Aid (to cover the scar) is about three months. I did it in three weeks. By this point, Kristi told me that it was time for me to start setting my own goals because I would achieve and over-achieve the goals that she had set for me. So, I said I wanted to stand for five minutes unassisted, so no walker. I made it to four minutes, and I was so frustrated. In reality, the fact that I was even able to make that much, was...well... a big deal.
Now that I was setting my own goals, I told everyone I was going to be dancing at Nationals in Orlando, Florida by March. At this time, it was only August, so I had a long way to go, but the therapists were as determined as I was to help me achieve that goal. Eventually, we went on a field trip, and I got to pick where we went. Being the typical white girl that I am, I chose to go to Victoria's Secret. It was on this day that I was told my discharge date would be September 12. Only a few days later, they moved up my discharge date to September 9. It was only three days, but that was three days that I wasn’t so sure I could be ready to go home by.
After that field trip was a field trip to my school. It wasn’t that great because we had to talk about the accommodations that I would need when I was back at school. I was scared to be at school that day because I was afraid of what people would ask me; I had already missed the first five weeks of my senior year. On the way out of the school, the therapists that went with me and mom turned to us and said, “We don’t know why you’re still at the hospital, everything you can do there you can do at home.” I thought that maybe they were joking or something. Little did I know that when we got back to the hospital there was a meeting with my doctor and therapists and pretty much anyone that had anything to do with my recovery. They said, “You’re going home tomorrow,” and yet again, I thought they were joking. But they weren’t. I really was going home that next day. This meant I had a lot of packing to do: I had a lot of stuffed animals in my room, posters of hot guys (don’t judge, I am a teenage girl). I got to go home on September 3, 2014.
This meant that I was home just in time for my senior homecoming week. I was back at school that same week and got to participate in all the fun stuff of homecoming. I didn’t go to the dance, but I did have a great time going to dinner with my best friend and our moms. By October, I was officially discharged from physical therapy and told that I could start dancing again. In December, I danced at my first game. It is a rare occasion when I see my dad cry, and he cried that night when he saw me dance for the first time. March 6, 2015 was the day that I got to dance at The Hard Rock Café Orlando at the national competition. My team even made finals.
Now, well, I am going to college to become a pediatric nurse and thinking back on what happened. In a crazy way, I am thankful. I met the most amazing people that will be in my life forever; I discovered what I want to be when I grow up; I learned a lot about myself. Although I had no control over what happened, I still wouldn’t take it back, especially my scar. They say that my trac scar will be gone in ten years, and it makes me a little sad. That scar tells my story and shows what I have been through. Well, there you have it, the story of how I beat the odds. I proved those doctors wrong. Although I love my doctors, it was a great feeling to show them the video of my dancing again. Oh and don’t worry, I walked across the stage at my high school graduation, without a wheelchair or walker on stand-by in case I needed it. In fact, I wore heels.
