The next morning, as I waited for Diane to bring my wheelchair, I couldn't stop worrying about what the future would look like for me. I never really thought about where I wanted my life to go until I thought it might be taken away from me, and now that I was still here, what would I do? All the movies I saw had men, strong, able-bodied men who got what they want out of life, and were looked up to as heroes. I knew I had the passion to work hard, but how could I go forward if I couldn't see what was coming around the corner? How could I have confidence when the only role models I had were superheroes and sports stars?

Diane came into the room, as she usually did, without saying a word and with a wry smile on her face. As she pushed the wheelchair in front of me, I slowly pulled my legs around and let them fall to the floor. Out of instinct, I tested my weight on them, and I gasped to myself. Diane locked the wheelchair and approached me, arms out, preparing to lift me into the chair. I put my hand up.

"No. I ... I think I can do this."

I took a few deep breaths, leaned forward, and stood up for the first time in three months.

I looked up at Diane, who was holding her hand to her mouth, eyes wide. She seemed to be struggling with the instinct to hold me up, but as I took one step after another, she slowly took a facilitatory stance, walking alongside me to make sure I didn't fall. I felt like I was on stilts, no longer walking on deadened stumps that wobbled, but stiff pistons in dire need of oil. Just as I had in my exercises, I drained every ounce of pain I could from it. Instead of collapsing into the wheelchair, I felt the fire in my legs as I slowly sat. I felt as if steam shot from my nostrils as I huffed and puffed from the stress. But I had done it.

Diane smacked me on the arm playfully and began belly laughing. She hugged me and I felt tears fall onto my neck. She immediately called my parents while they were at work, to tell them what I had done.

"I didn't even have to ask him! I am so proud!" she said. She reminded me of some of the guys in my class when they were describing a touchdown. In my own little way, I had done what an athletes do: I had trained day in and day out, and it culminated in a one historical moment that would be remembered forever.

________________________________________________________

It felt like graduation day when I met Rebecca, my new occupational therapist. I thought at first occupational therapists had something to do with work placement, and I would soon have to brush up on child labor laws. It turned out occupational therapists helped you learn how to do every day things over again. The job sounded easy enough, but I was, again, living in a fantasy world. In my mind, I was capable of carrying books. Piece of cake. But, when it finally came time to pick them up, they were cement blocks. Rebecca tried to encourage me.

"Don't think of it as if I'm teaching you to carry books," she said, "I know you know how to do this. My job is to help you define your limits and adapt to them."

"My limits?"

"However you did things before, that's the goal," she said, smiling. She wore glasses like I did, and was fit, but not the same way Diane was. Come to think of it, she just didn't dress to show it. She was always in scrubs, while Diane proudly showed her physique in yoga pants and tank tops. Her attitude in my therapy was passive; she suggested things, unlike Diane, who demanded them. I felt like I had gone from high school to kindergarten.

The exercises didn't help. One day, as I slowly made my way into the therapy room, I saw Rebecca smiling goofily, standing in the center of the room with a duffel bag. Even though I'd gotten used to exercising in front of other people, I still felt awkward being in the middle of the room. Even more awkward was my therapist, who still hadn't said anything. I wasn't used to initiating the sessions, let alone most social interactions. After a second, I said: "So..."

"Play balll!"

As soon as I spoke, it was like turning on a light. Rebecca tore the zipper of the duffel bag down and unleashed three dozen tennis balls. Everyone in the room stopped what they were doing, aside from, perhaps, some veteran therapists familiar with this technique, or perhaps how crazy Rebecca was. She was looking at me as if I was not only supposed to understand, but somehow see humor in it. Her toothy grin remained, and begged me, again, to surrender.

"What?" I said, trying to show my frustration through every face muscle I could muster.

Her teeth disappeared and wrinkles creased in their place. "I ... thought it would be fun if you ... picked up some of these tennis balls. I was going to time you, but... we don't have to - - "

All that build up, and I thought maybe there was money in one of the lime green suckers. But I was so relieved to finally learn what the point of all this commotion was, I neglected to answer Rebecca and immediately set about picking up the tennis balls.

In any normal circumstance, this was a chore. For some who only started walking a week before: this was torture. But something about her whole style of therapy annoyed me. This wasn't about having fun. This was about fixing things, getting things to work the way they should. It wasn't about what I wanted to do; it was about pushing past my limits to go beyond my expectations.

I got twenty of the balls back in, and I saw there were roughly five more scattered one direction and two, way on the other side of the room. My body was heaving, and I could feel my legs tightening, but I had to do it. Rebecca was watching me intently, and as soon as I began moving again, she put her hand on my shoulder and said: "You can rest if - - "

I pulled my shoulder away and shuffled to the ball farthest from me. I bent over, and scraped it with my fingers. I gave something like a growl as I shot my hand out again for it, and lifted it steadily upward. I got a little light headed, but shook myself back into focus. I envisioned myself as a basketball player going to the hoop. I made my way down the court, hearing the fans cheer my name. I got closer, closer, bending to put the ball in the hoop.

I lost my balance and collapsed to the floor.

A dull pain pulsated from my shoulder to my back, undulating back and forth. Then, a dozen voices and hands grasped for me. The only one I heard, the only one I saw was Rebecca. I slapped it away, coughing, regaining my breathe enough to wheeze: "Get off me!"

I felt the hands release me, and vaguely recognized Rebecca's voice telling everyone it was okay. I lifted myself, and rolled off my shoulder onto my hands and knees. My knees protested, but I smacked them against the linoleum floor to silence them. I crawled, looking for something to use as leverage to get to my feet. I grabbed onto a nearby bed, and pushed upward. My legs mocked the effort by shaking in obnoxious laughter. I growled at them, but still, they stayed in their seats, and enjoyed the show. I looked at a physical therapist, on the bed, looking at me in pity. His expression reflected Rebecca's plea: "David..."

I yelled at Rebecca without looking backward, scaring the man in front of me. "I can - - do it!"

Again, and again, and again, I pushed, but all was numb. In the end, Rebecca and the man in front of me approached me to pick me up, and I let it happen. I was powerless to stop them. __________________________________________________________________

That afternoon, I had my regularly scheduled physical therapy session with Diane. I had no idea whether someone would tell her about my fall or not. Generally, I didn't appreciate people making me feel guilty when I was the one who got hurt. It wasn't their knee scraped up, or their bruised elbow: what did they care? But, as soon as Diane came into the therapy room: I knew she'd been told what happened.

This time, I did attempt to initiate. "What's up?"

It didn't work any better than usual. "Would you like to explain to me what happened today?"

I figured there was no lying about it. "I fell... so, ahem, so what?"

"So I got you a gift."

Diane planted a cane in front of me. The cane was metal, with a plastic grip and four legs with rubber soles on them. It had seven or so notches down the middle, with a rounded copper colored button sticking out of the top notch. I looked at it, looked at Diane, back at the cane, and back at Diane again.

"This is... for me?"

"You earned it, buddy."

I coughed and, with a rasp, I said, "I don't ... need it."

Diane, who stood a good two feet above me when I was standing, dropped down to one knee and looked me in the eyes.

"Yes. You do. You're not going to prove anything by floundering on the floor like a dead fish. This is for leverage."

I spoke through barred teeth. "I'm not... crippled!"

"Who said - - ? This isn't about... what people think of you. This is about how you're going to walk out there. This is about getting from point A to point B."

I knocked over the cane. Diane stared at it for a second, as I'm sure the few people around us did. I looked away, wishing her, the cane, the whole room away.

"Pick it up."

I didn't budge.

Diane swore. "Pick. It. Up."

The cane stayed where it was.

Diane chuckled, drily. "I knew you couldn't do it."

Immediately I shot up and charged forward, at Diane. I lost my balance and reached out for the cane. Again, I was suspended in midair, but this time, there was no grand vision supporting me. It was just one more thing holding me up. I regain balanced and chased Diane as she slowly backed away from me, the smile never leaving her thin lips. In a minute's time, I had made it across the room, and when Diane had no more room, she pointed to her right, and said: "Look."

I turned my eyes and saw my reflection in the mirror. I hadn't seen myself standing yet. It took my breath away. I had gained weight, and the olive tone had returned to my skin. I was a lot cleaner and better groomed than last I had seen myself. Then I looked at the cane in my hand, propping me up. I wanted to throw it to the floor again, but Diane's voice stopped me.

"This is who you are, David. You can either accept it, or run from it. It's not about what I expect from you, or what anyone thinks you are, because when you look in the mirror at night, you'll still have to deal with what you see. Whether you like that person or not is all that matters in the end."

I looked at the boy in the mirror, and I hated him. He was everything I never wanted to be: weak, useless, selfish. I didn't like him at all.

"Are you ready to work?"

I looked away from the mirror, pointed at it, and said: "He's not.... ready, but... I am."