Learning Curve

Thursday May 1st

Scottie

Sweat drips from my brow and my neck and my armpits and my boobs as I use all my strength to lift myself up from my wheelchair and into my bed. My arms shake and my hands cramp, and when my ass is halfway toward my mattress, my elbows start to buckle, but I force a deep inhale of oxygen into my lungs and muster every ounce of power I have to complete the distance. Once my butt hits the bed, I almost slip off the edge, but my physical therapist is there to help ease me back a few inches so I don’t hit the floor.

“Great job, Scottie!” Pam exclaims. “I can’t believe how strong you’re getting.”

“I don’t feel strong.” I blow out a breath of air from my pursed lips, and it forces a few pieces of sweat-drenched hair away from my face. “If you weren’t here, I would’ve ended up on the floor.”

“Scottie, it’s been two weeks, and the progress you’ve made is unreal,” she reassures with a soft smile as she hands me a glass of water with a straw. I take a sip. “Normally, you wouldn’t be able to do any part of a transfer until the four-week mark at most. Usually, for most patients, it can take six to eight weeks, depending on their upper body strength. You’re doing amazing. Don’t get discouraged.”

I try to take her words in and believe them as truth, but it’s hard. Then again, everything feels hard these days.

My entire medical team has been excited about my progress. Dr. Hurst was over the moon this morning when he found out I had managed to successfully ask a nurse to help me to the bathroom without having an accident. Prior to that, I was either pissing myself without knowing or the staff had to catheterize me.

Now, I wouldn’t say I’ve all of a sudden gotten feeling in my bladder, but I did feel the teeniest inkling of something, and when you combine that with the fact that I’ve paid enough attention to understand how often I usually go, it helped achieve that milestone. The me from three weeks ago never thought peeing in the toilet would be this exciting, but the me of today actually smiled over it.

It’s at least a tiny shred of normalcy.

“Do you need anything before I go?” Pam asks, and I shake my head.

“I’m good. Thanks.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Scottie.”

“See you tomorrow.”

“And while I’m gone, do me a favor and give yourself a pat on the back, okay? You’ve made leaps and bounds that I honestly didn’t think would be possible this early.”

I make a show of reaching up with my right hand to pat myself on the back. “Way to go, me,” I say sarcastically.

Pam just laughs and rolls her eyes. “One of these days, Scottie, I’m going to get you to say that, and you’re actually going to believe it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I retort. Pam grins before walking out of my door.

My rehab hospital room is different from the hospital room I was in at Daytona. And different from the first room I was in when I arrived at St. Luke’s. About ten days into my rehab process here, Dr. Hurst felt I was ready to be transferred to a floor that requires less care from the nursing staff.

So now, instead of getting checked on every two to four hours by the nurses, I only see them around mealtimes. It’s been a welcome change.

Though, if I had my way, all the flowers and balloons and cards and bears and everything else that people have sent me wouldn’t have followed me here. It’s not that I’m not thankful that everyone is trying to support me, but I’m trying to find a way to move on from feeling like a victim all day every day. When I look at it all, I get sad.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Wren greets as she walks into my room with her arms full of a duffel bag and a box, and I tilt my head to the side in confusion.

“I thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow?”

“I switched shifts with Jessica,” she updates and sets the bag and box down on the small dinette table near the window. “I’ll be here tonight, tomorrow, and until, like, three o’clock on Saturday because I have to work early on Sunday morning.”

She starts to pull items from the bag—a brush, a hair straightener, hair products, makeup, nail polish.

“What is all that?”

“I thought we’d enjoy a little girl time,” she says and flashes a smile over her shoulder. “A spa day, if you will.”

“You trying to tell me I look like a troll?” I tease. She shrugs, and I scoff. “Wow, don’t spare my feelings or anything.”

She laughs. “No offense, but you’ve been slacking on the self-care.”

“Well, I don’t know if you know this, but I recently became paralyzed.”

“Oh shit, really?” She snorts. “I had no idea.”

“Yeah.” I smile, and this time, I actually feel like I mean it. The humor feels good. “My legs don’t work. Like, at all. It’s nuts.”

“But…do your arms work?” she questions with pursed lips. “Because I’m pretty sure you don’t brush your hair with your feet…”

“You really went there, huh?” I retort with wide eyes, but I also laugh.

Wren grins and carries the box over toward me. “By the way, Dad sent a care package of all of your favorite snacks. I hope you don’t mind, but I ate half of the gummy bears on my drive here.”

“Stealing the paralyzed girl’s candy? That’s a new low.”

“Pfft. I guess now isn’t the time to mention that I also ate your Oreos, huh?”

I know it’s crazy, but this entire conversation is my favorite conversation I’ve had in I don’t know how long. It’s as if, finally, someone is treating me like I’m a normal person. Finally, someone isn’t trying to bend over backward for me.

“Dad says he misses you and loves you and plans to come visit Saturday after his morning shift.”

My happy balloon is instantly popped.

Ever since I was transferred to New York, my father has been spending all his time either working or visiting me. I hate it because I want some form of normal for him, too.

He’s always been a hard worker, but this is another level, and that’s all thanks to me and the financial debt my medical care has added to his life. I tried to tell him not to worry about it. I tried to remind him that I’m legally an adult and all the bills should be in my name, but he’s the best kind of guy and refused to hear anything I was trying to say.

Wren grabs a chair and moves it toward my bed, and she gives me no option as she grabs my foot and starts to paint my toes a pastel shade of pink. Normally, I’d give her shit, but now, my mind is doing its typical spiral of all the things that weigh heavily on my shoulders.

Medical bills. My dad working himself to the bone.

My scholarship.

My classes that I’m missing every single day.

My squad and the fact that my injury caused us to lose Nationals. And all the teammates who have reached out, trying to come visit, but I just make up excuses to keep them away.

My friends—Julia and Kayla—who are the sweetest, kindest, most amazing girls I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing, and for the past week, all I’ve done is avoid them.

Even Blake and Ace have tried to stop by.

And Finn, well…he texts me every day, all day long. Random shit. Links to songs on Spotify. Funny memes that made him laugh. I love yous.

He also hasn’t gone a single day without having a nurse come in and ask if I’m accepting visitors, but I always say no.

“Did you happen to see anyone out in the waiting room?” I ask Wren, my curiosity too damn piqued to deny.

“By anyone, I’m assuming you mean Finn,” she says and just barely glances up at me as she applies polish to the pinkie toe on my right foot. “And yes, he’s in the waiting room. Like he’s always in the waiting room. All he needs is a bed and a family portrait, and I think they’d officially declare it his new home now.”

“Get real. There’s no way he’s here all the time.”

Wren eyes me seriously. “Scottie, he’s here all the time. He never leaves.”

“But what about his classes?” I question, and she shrugs.

“All I know is that he’s here all the time. Sometimes, he is working on school shit, so I assume he’s found some way to stay on top of things.”

“I wish he wouldn’t do that,” I say, but my voice is so quiet that I don’t even know if Wren heard me.

“You might be trying to push him away, but it’s not working. I mean, he’s always here. Always. Not to mention, I just found out today about that GoFundMe he started for you. If all those things combined don’t scream love and devotion, I don’t know what does.”

“GoFundMe? What?”

“You didn’t know?”

She pauses painting my nails to pull her phone out of her jeans pocket. A few taps to the screen and she hands me her phone. And right there on the screen is an actual GoFundMe page for Scottie Bardeaux.

And when I see how much money he’s managed to raise for me, I drop Wren’s phone into my lap. “Is that real?”

“Girl, it’s real,” Wren says. “When I showed Dad this morning, he burst into tears. I can’t even begin to tell you how stressed he’s been about keeping your medical care going, even though he doesn’t have the funds to pay for it all. Last week, he spent hours on the phone trying to get payment plans in order. And now, because of Finn, all of that’s been solved.”

Big, fat, salty tears stream over my lips, and I pick Wren’s phone back up to look at the list of people who have donated money and left kind words of support.

The Kelly Family—Thatch, Cassie, Ace, and Gunnar.

The Brooks Family—Kline, Georgia, Julia, and Evie.

All of Finn’s newest brothers and sister—Remy, Flynn, Ty, Jude, and Winnie and their families.

Wendy Winslow and Howard.

Finn’s mom and his siblings.

Coach Jordan.

Literally every single one of my teammates.

A bunch of my professors.

Dean Kandinsky.

Even Officer Walters from the Dickson Campus Police.

So many people and so much money and I don’t even know how to feel about it.

When Wren sees that I’m crying, she stops painting my nails and climbs into bed beside me.

“I love you, Scottie,” she whispers as she gently runs her fingers through my hair. “And I know this is all really hard for you. You’re used to being independent. You’re used to being the one who is helping other people, not the other way around.”

“I’m such a fucking burden now. On everyone.”

“But don’t you see?” she retorts and leans back to meet my eyes. “You’re not a burden, Scottie. You’re important. You’re special. You’re loved. And everyone who is trying to help you is doing it because they love you. Because they care about you.”

I shake my head. “But—”

“There are no buts.” She cuts me off. “These are facts. This is truth. This is love. And the sooner you learn to accept that, the sooner you’re going to be able to find closure with what you’ve lost and be able to move on to a future that, while it may not be what you pictured, can still be a future that is just as bright, just as beautiful, just as fulfilling. There are a ton of people here, right on this floor, you could help, you know? Other people struggling. Maybe helping them like you used to at the hospital at home will help you too. You have lots of gifts left to give. I promise.”

Her words slice through my chest and open up a dam of emotion I didn’t even realize was there. My entire being feels like it’s at war—my heart and my head—trying to understand how I should feel and what I should feel.

I cry into Wren’s arms until I’m numb from emotion.

I cry until I can’t cry anymore.

I cry until I fall asleep.

But for the first time since I got hurt, they’re not just tears of anguish—they’re tears of possibility.