Below the Chedoke Rehabilitation Centre lay a whole network of underground tunnels used to transport medical supplies and equipment throughout the facility. Their second purpose was to torture rehab patients. In particular, there was a ramp below the room I stayed in. It was a mere couple metres with a slight incline, though to a Quad (individual with damage or paralysis in all four limbs) it was equivalent to Mount Rushmore. While learning the mechanics of, how to push and maneuver my chair, trying to wheel up that ramp was an intimidating and frustrating experience (Paraplegics, you had it easy! 😁).
I remember one evening in mid-December, I wanted
to show my progress to my dad while he was visiting me. Dinner was done, all
residents were left to their own devices, and Pops and I were down in the
tunnel (a.k.a The Dungeon). I was struggling to get momentum, as it had been a
busy day of rehab. Plus, I was getting used to being in a wheelchair for a
whole day and fighting exhaustion.
I had made it about a quarter of the way along rehab
hill when we heard a noise coming from the tunnel depths behind us. A slowly
growing thumping noise, followed by a couple squeaking horns, a flute testing
sounds, throats clearing along with cheerful voices. I envisioned the pulsing
cup in the mechanical jeep of Jurassic Park as the T-Rex was approaching. “Shit
Pops, it’s the Salvation Army Choir. We better haul ass!”
Instead of my dad helping, he merely smiled. “Better
push faster then, shouldn’t you?”
I will not repeat the words that came across my
mind, but I then thought to myself, It’s go time!
I bit my lip and pushed as bloody hard as I could humanly muster.
And soon … soon I feel like I’m flying through the
tunnel at lightspeed – though maybe closer to a fast snails’ crawl. Sweat feels
like it’s streaming down my body. But quads don’t sweat due to the nerve
damage, so it wasn’t that bad. I’m giving it my all, the music is growing
closer, and my dad is laughing his ass off. I can see the top of the hill just
as my shoulders start screaming bloody murder.
I can do it, I can do it. Push, Matt. Push! I’m chanting to myself as
the thumping drums start pounding closer and my strength is quickly draining. Almost
there, Matt. You can do it!
I see the elevators as the band starts climbing
the ramp towards me and the singers start the chorus.
“Push that button, Old Man!” I yell at my dad, but
he’s bent over laughing. He finally stands up, pushes the button and I hear the
heavenly ding of the elevator door opening. I see my salvation and push the
last few feet in absolute agony while my dad keeps smiling like a grinning
idiot. Then we’re in the elevator and doors close. I’ve escaped the terrifying
dinosaur (Salvation Army Choir in reality).
“Thanks for your help, Pops,” I say
“Well, you made it didn’t you?” my dad says with a big smile and gives me a hug. “Great work, kid.”
The elevator dings and lets us out onto the main floor.
And now all panic is past and we’re out of
lightspeed. I rolled to the front door with my dad and thanked him for the
visit. I watched him stroll to the parking lot before I turned and headed back
to the ward where I was staying. I’d rolled into my room and was waving at the
guys I was rooming with when I heard a thumping noise from down the hall.
A nurse stepped into our room. “The Salvation Army
Choir is here to sing some Christmas carols for us,” she announced joyfully. “Why
don’t you all come out to enjoy it?”
I looked up to the ceiling, dropped my head, and
started laughing.
“Why not.”
Matt Sagan is a York graduate with a
double major in Kinesiology and English despite breaking his neck at 15 and
becoming a quadriplegic. He also
suffered an ABI at the age of 27 due to a severe car accident. Even though he suffered two severe accidents,
one taking the life of his mother, he still chooses to find the happier side of
life and tends to see the lighter side of life’s foibles then focusing on the
sad.
For
more essays, short stories, and poetry by you fellow writers see here (and
scroll down).
See Brian Henry's upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and four-day retreats here.
