Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 149510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 748(@200wpm)___ 598(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 149510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 748(@200wpm)___ 598(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
“So, she definitely has a spinal cord injury?” my dad questions, and Dr. Stewart nods.
“Sometimes swelling at the trauma site can give a false sense of damage. The inflammation causes pressure, and the pressure causes the paralysis.”
“So, that’s what it was? Just inflammation?” Wren hedges.
An angry impatience inside me wants to snap at my family to shut up and let the doctor talk, but deep down, I know they’re just as upset and worried as me.
“I’m afraid not. Unfortunately, Scottie’s injury is more severe.” Dr. Stewart meets my eyes directly, speaking to me with a quiet kindness I know he’s been practicing for years. “Your injury is what we call an incomplete paraplegia, Scottie. What that means in layman’s terms is that your spinal cord severed but not completely, meaning some of the neural circuits between your brain and your lower body still exist.”
“So, that means it’s going to heal, right?” I ask, looking around the room at Finn and my dad and sister. “I mean, I’m eventually going to get feeling back in my legs, right?”
Dr. Stewart’s eyes turn sympathetic. “While you may regain some sensation or movement in the affected areas, the likelihood of anything more than that is low. Spinal cords don’t heal.”
My vision clouds and my hearing tunnels as he keeps talking, my chest seizing up in panic. “But the good news is the location of her injury is not considered life-threatening. Since it is located in the lumbar region of her spine, only her lower extremities are affected. If it were higher, say in the thoracic or cervical areas, we would be dealing with a lot more areas of risk and concern.”
My mind races with another option of something that’ll change what he’s saying and make it all go away. “But what about surgery? Can’t you fix it with surgery?”
He shakes his head. “The spinal cord is an extremely complicated part of the body. Injuries like these affect too many individual cells that are unable to be repaired or regenerate. But since your injury has only affected part of your lumbar spine, and because you’re so young and physically fit, I am extremely hopeful that rehabilitation and physical therapy will be an amazing tool for you if you take it seriously. I can’t make any promises—it’s a horrible reality of my job that there are many uncertainties—but I believe you will be able to regain some control over things like your bladder and bowels.”
“And I’ll be able to walk again, right? I mean, of course, right? I’ll be able to walk again,” I ramble desperately, ignoring Finn as he tries to hold my hand and soothe me.
“As a rule of thumb, I never say never, Scottie.” I hate the sympathetic frown on his face. “I’ve seen a number of medical miracles over the years that, for the most part, I cannot explain. But the likelihood that you’ll regain the use of your legs is limited by the extent of your spinal trauma.”
He keeps talking, saying something about keeping a positive attitude and working hard in rehab, but beyond that, I hear nothing but white noise. My brain is spiraling.
This isn’t temporary. I’m not going to be back on campus next week, and I’m not going to rehab my way back into cheerleading.
Oh my God. Oh my God.
I’ll probably never walk again. Never feel my fucking legs again.
I’m actually paralyzed.
I fight for air through strangled sobs, gulping and gulping at the whole room around me. I scratch at my face and pull at my chest as the feeling of suffocation overwhelms me, and Dr. Stewart runs to the door to call for help.
Finn, my dad, and my sister all scramble at my bedside to help, but nothing makes me feel less like I’m dying. I sob and cry and wheeze for air, and Dr. Stewart finally pushes his way in to slide an oxygen mask over my nose. I take deep, desperate breaths, and Dr. Stewart nods at me over and over to try to help me find a slower, more oxygenating pace.
My dad cries at the foot of my bed and Wren tries to comfort him, while Finn grabs on to my hand and squeezes.
Dr. Stewart preaches of a new normal and taking time to acclimate while Finn holds tightly to me to try to keep me from spiraling out of control, but it’s no use.
Nothing in the world will ever be the same after this news.
Monday April 14th
Scottie
I woke up this morning thinking I was the Scottie before my accident, but the harsh truth is that that girl doesn’t exist anymore. My dad and Wren sleep uncomfortably on a pullout sofa, and Finn hunches over a chair, none of them willing to leave my room to rest anywhere else.
Time feels short and endlessly long at the same time. It feels like yesterday and ten years ago that I was walking out onto the mat at Nationals, completely naïve to the fact that it would be my last time cheering.