Category Archives: Frustration

Scared of stairs

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One inch. That’s all it takes to stop me in my tracks, bring my wheelchair to an instant halt, and fling me forward and potentially face plant on the ground. In those first few weeks after my accident, while I was still in the hospital and learning how to maneuver myself in this rolling contraption that I hate so much, going over the smallest bump or gap would send shooting pain through my neck and spine. Just getting in and out of the elevator or the front door of the hospital to get some fresh air was an adventure as I could feel every jolt through my entire body and I would beg whoever was helping me to encounter these tiny bumps or rises as if I were off-roading over huge dirt mounds.

I’ve come a long way since then with my wheelchair as I no longer have much pain, but as I’ve gotten stronger and more able to go to new places, I’ve become more aware of where I walk…I mean….roll. Considering how much I already hate being shorter than everyone around me because I’m always sitting (see a previous post), it’s frustrating to  have to always keep my gaze at the ground and be on guard for any change in surface that will maintain my safety.

As a healthy and active person before my accident, I never thought twice about the entrances to homes, stores or restaurants. I lived on the top floor of an old San Francisco Victorian, with a bunch of stairs and no elevator. Many of my favorite restaurants and bars were situated at the top or bottom of a narrow flight of stairs. In a city where space is scarce and any kind of real estate costs a small fortune, there are few residences that are accommodating to someone in a wheelchair. As a result, to this day I can rarely visit my friends in their apartments or homes. “We’d love to have you over but we’re not sure if the stairs are doable” is something I hear frequently. To my friends’ credit, I have been able to bypass some seemingly sketchy entrances with some creative use of plywood ramps combined with some strong bodies pushing, pulling or even carrying me Cleopatra style.

I constantly fantasize about how monumental it will be for me to just make that first transition out of this wheelchair. Even if I have to use a walker or crutches, having the ability to go up a stair or two will open so many doors for me (literally and figuratively). I’m sick of always worrying about the smallest bump in the sidewalk or an elevated driveway or the unexpected stair and thinking how exactly my wheelchair and body would travel through the air if I were to encounter these foes without the utmost caution.

It is the biggest understatement when I say I can’t wait until I begin to get out of the wheelchair, which I refer to as my savior and worst enemy. I know I need it for now but I like to think that my hatred for it, combined with my love and driving desire to stand and walk, will lead to an imminent change in how I get around, and will lessen the feeling of being scared of stairs.

Another dose of perspective: handling my hands

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Hand diagramWe all take our hands for granted. There. I said it, and I really mean it.

I have written about a lot of my different physical and mental challenges here, but I have yet to dedicate an entire post (or more) to one of the most devastating aspects of my Spinal Cord Injury: my hands. Take a moment and just think of the small, fine movements you use your hands for throughout the day. Examples:

Unscrewing a cap of toothpaste; splashing water on your face, squeezing shampoo into your hands, buttoning your shirt, zipping a jacket, tying your shoelaces, fastening your belt,  unscrewing a jar, peeling open that annoying thin aluminum wrapper that always rips on a small container of yogurt, pouring milk into your coffee, eating with utensils in both hands, grabbing your keys, locking the door, turning on the ignition in your car, pulling a credit card out of your wallet, handling cash, signing a receipt, and on and on and on… 

Every single one of the functions and movements I described above are significantly impaired for me because of weakness in my hands and fingers. Some of the things I listed are still nearly impossible for me (squeezing shampoo), a few have become easier and more routine (signing a receipt, unscrewing toothpaste), and some I can do decently, just more slowly and weakly than normal (tying my shoelaces, buttoning my shirt).

I have become entirely accustomed to not trusting my hands. I am constantly dropping things on the ground. I still can’t hold my laptop or a heavy book with one hand. I am patiently waiting for the day that I can hold a plate of food comfortably without feeling like I’m lifting a 100 pound dumbbell. Opening packaging or a wrapper on everything from a pack of gum to an envelope is still a massive challenge and I’m stuck asking for someone’s help much more frequently than I would ideally like. I have to sleep with a bulky splint on my hand to help my fingers extend and open and feel more limber the next day.

Now I’ve only discussed basic yet necessary tasks and movements for everyday function without even mentioning maybe the most disturbing and frustrating aspect of my injury and its effect on my hands. Put aside for a moment the obvious challenges of someone outdoorsy and active like me who cannot walk or run or hike or do any of the active things I love to do. Let’s accept how excruciating it is for me to be cooped up inside on a nice day when I’d normally be riding my bike or playing soccer in the park. The two “indoor” activities that I enjoy the most, activities that are just as important in defining who I am and what I love to with my time – playing guitar and cooking – have been taken away from me. When I tell people that this is the most humiliating and debilitating injury I can think of because of the number of ways it affects me, THIS is what I mean. Cooking a big dinner for friends or having a lively jam session were fundamental elements of my personality, and now I can’t even do these. This is why it feels like almost my entire identity has been crushed by my Spinal Cord Injury.

I have zero intention of turning my blog into a whinefest to complain to the world about my problems, so I’ll express the entire motivation and reason I’m writing this rant: I am extraordinarily lucky to have the function I have. Even I, in this state of constant frustration and recovery, feel incredibly fortunate for the strength and abilities I DO have in my hands.

Breaking my C5 and C6 vertebrae in my neck would typically mean that I have limited range of movement in my shoulders, weak biceps, floppy wrists with almost no strength to bend or extend them, little to no function in my fingers and hands, and significantly weakened triceps. Nerves to handsMost of the other people I’ve met with my injury have had a much bigger struggle with their hand function. It’s one of the first things other SCI patients quickly recognize when they see me. “Dude, you’re a C5?? Your hands look pretty good…” No one knows exactly why my hands were spared some of the damage and it just continues to prove how mysterious and misunderstood this injury is.

Now if this isn’t amazing perspective, I don’t know what is. Every time I want to complain about not being able to strum my guitar, write music or chop onions as quickly and ably as I used to, I think of how much worse it could be and how lucky I am to at least have the function that I do have in my hands. I admit, I work extremely hard on my hands, at least 2-3 hours a day doing various stretches and exercises (like typing) that have helped me tremendously. To finish on a positive note, I want to recognize a few of the small accomplishments with my hands in the last few months: I can type at almost the same speed I used to, flossing is effortless, I can hold my chef knife and chop much better than before, and I’m trying to fulfill my musical desire by learning the piano. Here’s to continued improvement with my hands, to us all recognizing how amazing our hands are and not to take them for granted.

Compounding challenges of a cold

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A cold is no fun for anyone. I recognize that. Who wants to have any portion of their day spent dealing with sniffling, sneezing, coughing, headaches, body aches, or joint aches? But living with a Spinal Cord Injury and having a cold just feels like a cruel joke from the universe. As if things aren’t challenging enough on a daily basis, having to deal with the added stress of even more physical obstacles is debilitating.

Before my accident, I almost didn’t know the meaning of getting sick. I might get a sniffle or two here and there but I can confidently say I pretty much never got sick. The last time I had the flu I was a 6th grader. Fevers were a long forgotten memory from childhood, when there was a bittersweet thrill in staying home from school, drinking endless glasses of orange juice and eating my mother’s home remedies of vegetable soup. Strep throat, mono, bronchitis, and anything that would have had me bedridden for more than a couple hours were completely foreign to me. To be honest, I was a bit unsympathetic towards people who were consistently missing large chunks of time from school or work due to minor sickness. Well, what a difference a traumatic accident makes…

Since I got out of the hospital, I’ve made a huge effort to be as healthy as I always was, if not more, so as to avoid getting sick and compounding my daily challenges with new ones. Thanks to those efforts I’ve been fortunate to avoid any illness despite the fact that I’m constantly working with different people who are around a lot of other sick people. The streak ended yesterday when I came home exhausted, achy and nursing a stubborn cough. Today was the first day of therapy in over eight months that I missed and it’s incredibly frustrating to think that even one day of rehab and exercise has to be compromised from my recovery due to something that’s out of my control. I take my rehab very seriously, and as anyone who knows me should recall, I don’t do anything that I care about half-assed.

So why is it especially challenging to deal with illness with a SCI? I’ll provide just a couple examples. My lung capacity is much less than it used to be before my accident. I remember one night in the hospital just days after my accident when I did not sleep the entire night because I had a tiny bit of phlegm in my chest but I was too weak to cough it up. I’ve gotten some of that lung capacity back but now I have a tiny scratch in my throat and I cough and cough and can’t clear it up. So I have to do the impossible, accept it and just deal with it. The other example is just how hard it is to do anything when my shoulders are achy and sore. I use my shoulders and arms for everything so even shifting positions in bed feels like a monumental task when my shoulders feel like heavy, painful clubs hanging off of my torso.

I realize that everyone gets sick and that my pseudo invincible previous self has to swallow his pride and accept that it’s ok to be under the weather a bit and that it’s temporary. But it doesn’t relieve my frustrations at having to deal with even more obstacles in an already challenging daily life.

Spurts and plateaus or a slow and steady climb?

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How do you measure progress? How do you know how much better something is than it was one day before? There are many things that can be measured and captured quantitatively but when it comes to matters of health or the body, how do you know if you improved more this month or two months ago?

I’m constantly being asked:  ”How are you doing? You noticing any improvements? What’s new with the recovery Arash?” These reasonable and seemingly straightforward questions can be nearly impossible for me to answer. On a basic level, I would assume I’m doing better that day than the previous day, but on a deeper level it’s sometimes really difficult to understand if and how much I’m improving. This is one of the most frustrating elements of dealing with such a devastating injury that has damaged me in so many ways.

One of the earliest posts I wrote on this blog was about being on A Crowded Battlefield and how overwhelming it can feel to deal with so many parts of my body being damaged and the challenges of focusing on one thing and being presented with another challenge. In the same way, when I get asked those questions, I have to do a quick analysis of about 37 different body parts and functions and assess if and how much each of those has improved and if that’s more of an improvement than the last time I checked (probably just a few hours before).

In my head, it may go something like this: “How am I doing? Well, let’s start with the obvious: still can’t move my legs. My feet dangle as limp as they have since I began the hospital adventure seven months ago. I still can’t use a fork and knife because I don’t have enough strength in my core to sit up and use both of my hands freely. Speaking of hands, funny you should ask… yes I can type and hold a glass of water and push myself around in my wheelchair (have I mentioned how much I hate my wheelchair??!!) but I can barely squeeze the shampoo out of the bottle and forget about unscrewing an unopened jar or holding anything heavier than a book in my hand. Ahh but the toe, yes alas I can still wiggle my pinky toe. But wait wasn’t that a while ago that I started to wiggle my toe and thought that it was going to snowball into other major improvements, and oh yeah, that hasn’t happened quite yet…” It goes on and on but you get the picture.

All of this brings me back to my original motivation behind this post, how do I measure progress in this post-injury/still unfamiliar body of mine? Maybe the hardest question for me to answer is whether my recovery goes in spurts and plateaus or if it’s a painfully slow and incremental process. There are moments (like today and a majority of the last couple weeks) where I do feel like I’ve undoubtedly plateaued. Some of the exercises I did today don’t feel much stronger than they did last week, or even last month. My hands are so incredibly slow to improve and there’s little I can do to expedite their growth. Standing and walking on my own seem as far away as they ever have been.

But just when it seems like I’m unimaginably stuck on this plateau, I think about one thing: my body is constantly changing. Whether I feel stronger today than I did yesterday is hard to determine but I might feel ever so slightly different than I did previously. And maybe that’s the answer, maybe improvement isn’t always obvious or clear to me, but maybe I have to accept that change is the substitute for progress. After all, if my body was actually stuck and didn’t want to get any better, why would there be so many changes, so many tingles and burns and spasms and unfamiliar sensations and sore muscles? In that case, then maybe my recovery is more of an incremental climb, a barely upward sloped line glacially moving towards the top and signifying a very slow but consistent progressive process. I suppose I still can’t make up my mind on how to measure or explain my progress so just bear with me if I stumble or mumble a bit the next time you ask me how I’m doing.

My story on the Huffington Post

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I’m frequently overwhelmed with the amount of information that we have access to these days. Countless websites, social media sources, plus 1s, “likes”, reviews, surveys, posts, tweets, tags, and beyond. But there are moments, like now, when I feel so lucky to live in a time with so much connectivity and communication with others around the world. I was recently contacted by another blogger Arthur (link to his blog) who has written a book and deals with his own recovery and medical challenges. After a few back and forth emails sharing our respective stories, he mentioned the chance of getting our frustrations with the US medical system out to mass media. Thanks to his contact at the Huffington Post, they wrote an article about the shortcomings of healthcare and sited my story and his in the article.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/gregory-g-allen/its-time-congress-stands-_b_2563497.html

I am just one of thousands – if not millions – of Americans who feel abandoned and shortchanged by the inadequacies of profit based insurance companies that run healthcare in the US. I would be honored if you can read the article and share with your respective communities. Thank you in advance, and to Arthur in particular.

“As independent as possible…”

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If there is one phrase I’ve heard entirely too often during my recovery it’s, “We have to get you to be as independent as possible.” This may not sound so bad at first. Why wouldn’t I want to be independent? Is there something wrong with taking a situation in which almost everything I do involves help from someone else and empowering me to do things more independently?

Now I have to provide some context so you don’t think I’m just being hyper sensitive or overly scrutinizing of a seemingly simple statement. The entire seven weeks I was in the hospital I would hear nurses, doctors and therapists say this to me, usually as a way to motivate me – as if I needed extra motivation – to learn a particular skill or maneuver. Just days after suffering the most horrendous injury that debilitated me to an unthinkable extent, I was being told and retold that my “independence” (can you sense my sarcasm??) was hinged on the need to move my body a certain way or learn a seemingly impossible task. For example, before I could achieve any basic efficiency with my hands (unable to hold a pen or cup) I was being told, almost threatened, that I should try really really hard to do a particular thing because I had to be “as independent as possible”.

On my first day of rehab, just ten days after my injury, I was asked if I had thought about what my goals were for rehabilitation. I simply responded, “I want to walk.” Once I saw the quizzical expression on the practitioner’s face, I followed up with, “Look I understand this is going to be a long road but I can’t think of anything else that would motivate me so tell me what I need to do to get me closer to my goal of walking.” More confusion on his face. It was as if I was speaking Mongolian or stating that I wanted to flap my arms, spin around three times and fly to Saturn. I think they expected me to say that my goals were something like wanting to sit up without falling over or feeding myself or rolling over in bed or strengthening my arms enough to lift my body from wheelchair to bed. The truth is I badly wanted to do all of those things! But here’s where it gets tricky, and where I start to get frustrated with the way Spinal Cord Injury (SCI) is treated in our medical system.

I learned that until 10-15 years ago, someone who suffered a SCI would stay in rehab for months at a time. But now, insurance companies recognize the exorbitant cost of keeping someone in the hospital that long, not to mention the hours of physical and occupational therapy involved, and the model has changed dramatically. Most patients in this well-known rehab facility I was in (treating SCI, stroke, brain injury, and other serious neurological injuries) averaged 2-3 weeks in rehab. I was one of the “luckier” patients because I stayed for five weeks. In fact, my discharge date from rehab was determined just three days after I arrived! Let me recap: just days removed from seven hours of spinal surgery, after arriving in an ambulance with towels and tape strapping my head down and protecting my badly damaged neck, unable to move most of my body or perform everyday functions, the medical insurance system had the magical ability to set a date to get me out of the hospital. Now it all makes sense…

Becoming “as independent as possible” had little to do with my goals or long-term recovery. Rehab was meant to be a boot camp of sorts for me to obtain the minimal strength and capabilities to go home and not be a swaying, falling, broken, soaking wet mess of humanity. In a country abundant with bogus lawsuits and fervent medical malpractice scandals, the priority of my medical insurance wasn’t to heal my body to its greatest capacity – they had experienced, knowledgable therapists and state of the art equipment after all – it was to protect their legal liability and preventing me from saying that they didn’t teach me how to move from my wheelchair or wipe my own ass.

Moreover, rehab isn’t about rehabilitating the body to what is realistic or what one may desire. It is about functionality. Everything they taught me was with the purpose of how I could function when I wasn’t within the safe, happy walls of the hospital. Every time I brought up the idea of a full recovery, I was given the same quizzical look I saw that first day of rehab. Each time I mentioned that I was going to walk, I was politely dismissed and told to focus on my task at hand. Since I left the hospital, I have been given a grand total of ONE hour a week of physical therapy. Oh wait, actually it’s technically 45 minutes but sometimes she does me the favor of staying with me for an entire 59.824 minutes before scurrying off. And each time I see her the focus continues to be on function – not rehabilitation – and I’m continuously told to learn to be (you guessed it) “as independent as possible…”

A six-month reflection

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It has now been exactly six months since I suffered my Spinal Cord Injury. Six months in which everything I knew and did in my life dramatically changed, six months in which an outstanding community from near and far came to support me consistently and with arms wide open. I’m not sure exactly how I feel about this moment.

On the one hand it feels like an absolute eternity that I’ve had to live with a severe disability, unable to walk, unable to work, unable to do all the activities that contributed greatly to my mental and physical well-being, and battling everyday with the uncertainties of my injury. No one tells me if and when I will recover or how much. Doctors, physical therapists and medical practitioners seem so obsessed with liability, lawsuits and the fear of giving me false hope that they barely show excitement at my accomplishments. Of course for me, any major development (i.e. a wiggling toe) is a tiny step closer to my ultimate goal of full recovery, but all I hear from the medical establishment is to accept the current situation and “become as independent as possible”. They don’t push me to challenge my limits or boundaries, they don’t encourage me to take part in other therapies and treatments, they don’t encourage me to keep hope alive; I’ve done all this through my own will and volition. It definitely feels like I’m a lone fish swimming upstream against a relentless current that says to accept things the way they are.

On the other hand, in some ways it does feel like time has passed rather quickly. I’ve found a rhythm and schedule that work for me. No less than six days a week, I’m driving to different parts of the Bay Area to access the therapies and treatments that have contributed so much to my improvement thus far, and filled in the enormous hole that my medical insurance (and their approach) has left for me. I’m shocked by how quickly summer changed to fall and now to winter and the new year. I’m astonished that I’ve already been through so many mornings having woken up and been angry at not being able to jump out of bed and onto my feet. Or how many evenings I’ve endured with a sore butt from sitting in a chair all day.

I have purposely set my goals high, because I know that compromising how I set my goals compromises my potential accomplishments. So I will stick with my goal from the beginning, that on my birthday this August (over 13 months after my accident), I will be on my feet and walking. Everyday can and does often feel like a struggle, but if I’ve made it six months already and improved so much, I can only hope to exceed my expectations for the next six months.

Being short is no fun

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There are MANY things I hate about being in a wheelchair. I won’t even begin to list them now… But let me share just one frustration that I’ve noticed more recently: being short.

Since I’m sitting down all the time, everyone becomes a towering, basketball player-like presence literally (not metaphorically) looking down at me. I’m sure there are plenty of shorter people out there thinking, “thanks for pointing out the obvious genius, but this is what I’ve been going through my whole life”. I admit, I’ve never really understood the plight of shortness and to be honest, I’m not exactly tall either, 5’11″ to be exact. So while I’ve never exactly been an imposing presence due to my height, the shortness of sitting down is a particularly humbling experience. I must be four foot something sitting in this damn chair, a height I haven’t been since elementary school.

It sucks having to look up at people all the time. It’s no fun having to crane my neck – yes the same neck I broke two vertebra in that still doesn’t have the same range in motion – and train my eyes to look towards the clouds in order to catch the passing glance of a growing child who just hit five feet as he walks past me. Every time I greet a friend or give a hug, it bothers me so much that they have to bend down and almost fall over just to get closer to me. Having a bunch of people standing around me talking reminds me of being a little kid, thinking that the towering adults could have secret “tall” conversations that I couldn’t hear and wishing I could be part of the club.

One of the many ways in which mental strength can help in recovery from SCI is the visualization of healing and sending visual images that confirm one’s objectives to the brain. Whenever I do standing or walking exercises, the therapists are quick to bring a mirror in my view. Seeing myself standing is a positive response and will help my body remember (and recover) the sensation of being on my own two feet. You can imagine how much I enjoy the few but coveted minutes of standing I get not only for the sensation of stretching my body and bearing weight on my legs, but because it reminds me of what it feels like to stand tall, look people at eye level and rid myself of craning my neck up towards people and feeling like I’m four feet tall.

The Infuriating Case of SCI Semantics

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Hospital staff person – “I’ve heard about a lot of quads doing that. Now are you a quadriplegic or a paraplegic?”

Me – “Neither! I hate classifications like that! I’m a nothingplegic because I’m just someone who had a bad accident, but is on his way to recovery and hate being categorized or classified with this bullshit terminology!”

Ok so that’s not exactly how I responded to the good-intentioned hospital worker who was talking to me about my life post-rehab, but that’s exactly what I wanted to say. Maybe I’m oversensitive about this one but I’ve always disliked it when people tried to categorize me. I would think it was difficult to do that since I’ve always taken pride in being a multi-dimentional person with a diverse range of interests and hobbies. I mean, in high school for example, (the absolute peak period of time when people classify each other), I was a soccer playing, gym-going, guitar-playing, swing-dancing, fantasy book-reading, political protest-attending, newspaper editor/jock/nerd/musician. I had friends in all different circles and thoroughly enjoyed the fact that I couldn’t be boxed into a category. Now the same thing goes with this quadri/tetra/paraplegic nonsense that I keep hearing about.

(Technically, quad and tetra mean the same thing, motor or sensory impairment in all four limbs and para means an impairment of just the lower extremities)

To me, classifying myself as any of these admits defeat to a certain extent. When you break an arm or sprain your knee, do you start referring to yourself by a different term? If you get bronchitis or a severe flu do you accept some silly title that means little to you but probably makes a world of difference to medical students attempting to diagnose you? Of course, Spinal Cord Injury (SCI) is obviously more significant than the flu or a broken bone and will take much longer to recover from, but my approach and outlook is that of a person with a temporary condition who is on the path to recovery. I see this injury as a hindrance, an obstacle, an extended stay in jail on the Monopoly board before I break out and piece my body back together and get back to full health.

Maybe because doctors are so reluctant to give SCI patients false hope is why they so frequently tell patients they won’t walk or recover and that leads to people to accept these self-defeating terms and calling themselves quadriplegic or what have you. Well, that’s not for me. No way. The only classification I can accept is that of a human being, albeit a badly injured one on an extremely difficult path, but I see myself as fundamentally no different than I was before this injury. I’m not going to start calling myself something different, and with all my intention, ambition and desire focused on a 100% recovery, there’s no chance I’ll ever refer to myself using any of these ridiculous terms. End of story.

A Crowded Battlefield (Part 2)

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Continuing on from my previous post about the military battlefield analogy I used to describe dealing with SCI, I want to highlight more specifically what I meant.

I think that for many people I talk to or meet who learn of my condition, their thought is that my inability to use my lower body is the absolute thing I’m concerned with. I tell them about my intensive therapy and exercise that I’m doing six days a week and their rightful assumption is that it’s all intended for me to be able to reengage my legs. In my military analogy from my last post, the battle to regain function of my legs is the army facing me straight ahead. It’s obviously the most significant challenge for me and the one for which I’ve most prepared.

While that is a mostly correct assumption, one of the most frustrating aspects of this injury, and its ensuing recovery, is that my legs are one of MANY challenges I struggle with everyday. Because the level of my injury was so high up on my spine (C5 and C6 vertebra in my neck), there are many functions that are controlled by nerves further down my spine, that I do not have full control of yet.

Here are examples of just three:

Hands – This is probably my biggest day-to-day frustration. My fingers and hands have regained a lot of function and improved considerably but they’re still at about 50% of what they should be. My grip is still weak and I can’t hold certain things in one hand (i.e. laptop, heavy book, plate of food). My fingers are stiff and not dextrous so simple things like buttoning up a shirt or tying my shoes is a massive struggle. This also prevents me from cooking, playing guitar and doing other hobbies that are so important to me.

Core/trunk – This has improved tremendously and is the area I’m exercising the most in all of my therapy, but it’s still weak. Other than a flabby, soft stomach (which isn’t great for my ego…), it means that basic mobility and moving around in a seated position is very difficult. Dropping something on the ground or reaching for something becomes a risk of falling out of my chair. Cutting food with a fork and knife is still impossible because that would involve  both my hands and I don’t have the strength yet to sit and use both arms unsupported. So I can only still use one hand to eat, and the other to stabilize myself.

Shoulders – To be clear, my shoulders are working 100%, and they’re stronger than ever but that’s where the challenge comes in. I use my arms for EVERYTHING. Aside from moving around in the wheelchair, throughout the day I have to lift up my legs and move them with my arms. Ok so I do have thin legs but they still weigh a lot! Every time I transition from my wheelchair to the car or to bed or to the couch, it means supporting my entire body weight in my shoulders and arms. The bottom line is, my shoulders are exhausted all the time. I have massive knots and tight spots throughout my back, shoulders and neck. Massage anyone??

Aside from these three functions I’ve described, there are many more that aren’t 100% but I think this gives a more complete sense of what dealing with a SCI is like. It’s not just the legs. One day or one hour, it’s one challenge, the next it’s another. I may think I’m improving one thing but as soon as I want to celebrate that accomplishment, I realize four other things that aren’t working. Every day gets split up into segments of dealing with one body part at a time and trying to measure that progress becomes lost in the attempt to improve other body parts. Back to my battlefield analogy, it’s a feeling of being attacked on so many fronts, from so many places. Some days, I don’t know where to focus my efforts because it’s all so overwhelming.

I know that as I improve and as those functions come back, I can focus more energy in less places and feel less overwhelmed. But for now, the battlefield remains crowded…