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For the past 10 years, I’ve struggled with a handicap. You’ve heard the saying “Use it or lose it,” referring to strength and fitness. I spent most of last spring and summer stuck in a hospital bed. By August, I was the “poster child” for atrophy.
“You need therapy,” Doc insisted.
An ambulance deposited me at a rehab facility. On any given day, I can be opinionated, outspoken, ornery, and probably a few more O words. However, when I’m sick and frustrated, I can be a major pain in the dupa.
I was a weak and wobbly hazard, prompting the staff to raid the equipment vault and provide me with a bedside commode. High and sturdy, it was the “Cadillac of crappers.”
Even though I’d used them during previous hospitalizations they insisted that I practice until I scored an 8.5 on my “dismount.”
“We’re going to walk down the hallway. Laurie will follow us with your wheelchair,” announced Bill, a therapist.
The hallway was roughly the length of Market Street. It took me three months to conquer it, but I was thrilled when I could navigate it nonstop with my walker. The therapy suite was the size of the War Memorial.
The large exercise room, filled with weights and machines, had a slippery linoleum floor that scared me to death.
My knuckles turned white when I hobbled along in my gripper socks, clutching my walker.
The suite also featured a kitchen and dining room where, theoretically, we would hone our housekeeping skills, anticipating our homecoming. Fortunately, no one was harmed when I scrambled my egg.
Some walkers have wheels. I successfully avoided those for eight years. I’m not ready for “fuel injection.” Plus, they don’t have brakes. But Bill insisted that I try one. He thought the experiment went well. Pushing my wheeled cart, I felt like a hot dog vendor.
Bill, of course, wasn’t the only therapist. Laurie, Britney, Bobbi, Debbie, Terri, Lee, Aaron and John coached and encouraged me, too.
My road to recovery was long.
I met other folks along the way, and I’ll share more of my adventures next time.
In the meantime, it’s good to be home.
Michele Mikesic Bender is a Johnstown resident and a member of The Tribune-Democrat’s Readership Advisory Committee.
Michele Bender
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Discussion
MICHELE M. BENDER | Adventures in therapy
- Michele Bender
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MICHELE BENDER | Old enough to know better
Sing along …
“Happy Birthday once more, I just turned sixty-four.” -
The beat goes on
In 1957, my stage-struck mom took my friend Jere and me to see the movie “South Pacific.” It featured awesome scenery, colorful costumes, catchy show tunes and unforgettable characters. It rolled the best of stage and cinema into one package. We were hooked!
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MICHELE BENDER | Springing into action for Easter
Happy Easter!
People expect certain routines at specific holidays.
They count on fireworks and sparklers on July 4.
Easter demands a basket of colorful eggs and candy. -
MICHELE M. BENDER | Dream a shorter dream
Denise stopped by and caught me napping. “How can you sleep with that bright light on?” she asked.
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MICHELE M. BENDER | Wedding wackiness
February brings bridal fairs. Bargain-hunting grooms prowl Valentine ring sales, while brides-to-be lose all touch with reality.
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MICHELE BENDER | It was hit or miss
Did you know they still crown a “Miss America” every year?
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MICHELE BENDER | Cat-titude creates cat-tastrophes
I often receive feedback from readers. In 2011, my friend Rick said he read my Christmas column to his kids, and they were concerned about the fate of Miss Kitty.
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MICHELE M. BENDER | Every elf for himself
I’ve never been much of a shopper, even at Christmas. I’m certainly not one who’d stand in an icy, dark parking lot at 4 a.m. with some bunch of wingnuts waiting to purchase a Cabbage Patch doll.
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MICHELE BENDER | It’s hard to zest a plastic lemon
At Thanksgiving, we count our blessings and express gratitude. You readers can be thankful that I’ve never invited you to dinner.
Some folks have eaten at my house and gone on to live healthy, normal lives. Others, however, tell frightening tales of grisly inedibility. Savory and usually recognizable holiday dishes have emerged looking like weasel intestines and tasting worse. -
MICHELE BENDER | Let’s see a big smile
I confess! I’m a “floss-aholic.” I buy flosser pics (little plastic pics with floss stretched on one end) and keep them in the drawer beside me. I floss after eating anything.
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