I was going to do a vlog, but I just woke up. My hair is all over the place and if you have ever seen me wake up from sleep, it is not pretty.
So I have thought about how I will write about my experience at the hospital and rehab.
Before I start:
Hospital: The place I stayed at for 4 days receiving IV steroid treatment, received absolutely no rehab and was stuck in bed. Hospitals suck, the food sucks, but the TV channel selection rules.
Rehab: The place I stayed for 3 weeks. You are allowed to wear clothes. The nurses know me from before, so I get A+ treatment. I have my own room, with one bed. The food is better. The staff is awesome. But you receive hardcore physical, occupational and speech therapy from 9 am to 4 pm every day. Saturday and Sundays were only 2 hours of therapy.
I’ve decided to write about a person I met in rehab. I probably shouldn’t use his real name, so I’ll call him Sam.
I met Sam my second day in rehab. Sam was there because he suffered a massive stroke, his left side was paralyzed, his right was weak, he had trouble speaking and he was sentenced to the wheelchair. Sam was also 87 years old. Now, most men in rehab are around Sam’s age with the same diagnosis. It isn’t something new. But Sam was different.
A week went by before I even spoke to Sam, even mentioning to my mother, “there is a man here who is always alone. He seems like he’s checked out, like he is so sad.”
The next day, Sam and I had occupational therapy together. Usually, the therapist will give us something to do (lift weights, 3 sets of 15, play with pegs in holes, etc.) so I was sitting there with Sam. Everything was quiet until Sam spoke.
“Look at me. What am I going to do with my life now? I am 87 years old. I can’t have my wife take care of me. That’s not how I wanted to grow old with her,” he says, crying.
“Do you have family?” I ask.
“Yes. My wife, a son and two daughters,” he responds.
“Do they come visit?
He begins to cry again. “Yes, they come visit every day after work.”
“You are lucky, Sam. Most people here don’t have anyone. Look at me, I am 28, my own father has a hard time coming to see me. You have to find your strength in your family. They love you, and I doubt they have any problem taking care of you until you get better!”
“Yes, they would take care of me,” he begins to sob, “I am a lucky man.”
I cried hard. I hugged him. A grown man crying gets me every single time (and I don’t see it very often).
After that, I started becoming his cheerleader.
“Put anger into it, Sam! Punch!” I would say, as he would try to lift his arm and weight into the air. “You can do it, Sam! Next time your family comes, you have to impress them!” I say, as he does more lifts with weights.
Sam worked harder at recovery than any other person in rehab after that.
Every day, Sam and I would talk. Even if he saw me wheeling around in the hallway, he would take his weak hand and wave hello. We would watch each other during physical therapy, both cheering each other on. Others began to notice.
“Look, Sam, you have a groupie!” his therapist Molly would tell him.
His face turns serious, looks at Molly and says, “she is NOT a groupie, she is a young woman who has a big heart and she cares about me. I would be honored to call her my daughter.”
I cried again.
Apparently, Sam was the sweetest guy on the planet. Not only did he steal my heart, the nurses all loved him. Me and Sam's relationship would go on like that for weeks; us rooting each other on, updating on progress and about our day.
Then one day, Sam isn’t in rehab. Molly, Sam’s therapist, comes to me with tears in her eyes, “Natalie, I am not supposed to give these details out, but that rapid response code this morning was for Sam. Sam is in ICU right now, fighting for his life.”
I wailed. I sobbed so hard in the middle of rehab, and all the therapists wailed with me. Sam’s near death affected the whole rehab; nurses were late on medications, therapists could barely concentrate on their rehab and everyone was crying. Everyone would start to cry more when they saw me. Nurses would come to me, updating me on his status (something they shouldn’t really do).
Later after rehab, I found a blank “Get Well” card left on my table in my room. The head nurse bought me a card to give to Sam. I wrote to him how he was my inspiration, how wonderful of a person he was to affect so many people in rehab, how great of a man he was and how he was a father figure to me when I needed one.
The next day, which was the day I was leaving rehab, a nurse came to me and said, “Sam’s family has your card. It’s hanging on the wall.”
I gave his family my number to update me but I’m sure they won’t. I really do hope he is well.
And that’s the story of my inspiration during rehab -- an 87 year old man who had more hope and faith than this lost 28 year old.
