My situation had improved. I'd gone from being dependent on a respirator to being able to breathe on my own. Now I was going from a hospital where everyone waited on me to a rehab where I'd learn if I could do a few things by myself.

First I would get into a routine. Wake at 7:00, get dressed and wait for breakfast to finish around 9:00. Then my physical therapist would come in, transfer me to a wheelchair and wheel me downstairs (via elevator) where he would transfer me to a large mat. On this mat would be three or four disabled (for whatever reason) patients and their respective PT's exercising their paralyzed limbs.

Some were paralyzed as a result of an auto or sport related accident. Some were victims of a stroke. Some had had a head injury. But we were all of one kind, lives that had been instantly altered, never to be the same again. And we all had a mutual respect for one another. Each in turn would tell their story, how their life was changed, what they used to do beforehand, and what they hoped to do when they get out of rehab.

Ages ranged from Chuckie, the 16 year old boy who suffered a head injury. While riding his new motorcycle, he was broadsided by a pickup and thrown 30 feet. His thin arms and legs were stiff from a lack of movement and his eyes were fixed open as he stared straight ahead, unable to speak. I would catch myself staring, fighting the tears, as the attendants would walk up to him and say, "How are you today, Chuckie? Ready for your exercises? You sure look good today, Chuckie." And he never answered or turned to look to see who was speaking. He just sat in his wheelchair, motionless.

Then there was the 70 year old stroke patient who walked around pushing his I.V. pole that carried his nutrition that was pumped through a tube that went into his nose because he couldn't or wouldn't eat. His random speech would include sudden outbursts of profanity directed to no one in particular. He wasn't complaining about his life. His stroke caused his brain to go a little haywire. I'm not even sure he knew where he was or who he used to be.

There were several paraplegics lying on belly carts because they had acquired pressure sores on their bottoms from sitting in their wheelchairs without relieving pressure often enough. These carts had tall front wheels the rider could reach while lying on his belly, allowing him to be mobile. For some it was their first time at the rehab. Others had been there 3 or 4 times before nursing the same sore having broken down time and time again.

After lunch I had my time with the Occupational Therapists. They spent their time ranging my arms, wrists and fingers (exercising my joints - also called 'range of motion'). We would then try to figure out an activity to do. "Have you tried signing your name, yet?" she would ask. Her name was Linda and she was working toward a masters degree in nursing.

"How in the world would I do that?" I asked, trying not to be sarcastic.

"We'll attach a pencil to the end of this dowel rod, then you grab the other end with your teeth and write." She was so sweet and empathetic to our various situations. She had a way of getting us to move forward.

I'd seen Joni paint in a similar fashion and do it quite well. I said, "I'll try it." and confidently grabbed the stick with my teeth. It was awkward and I was clumsy. All I could do was put scratches on the page. After a couple of tries and horrendous failures, I dropped the stick from my mouth and said, "I'll never do that again!" It became clear to me I still had a long way to go.

The evening would bring a welcome feast as the food was much better here than it was at my previous place of residence. Because of my weight loss I was put on an anorexic diet. For a while I could get as much as I wanted of anything on the menu along with a few things that weren't... like candy. Can you imagine, "Make that two bags of Bar-B-Q chips and a couple of Baby Ruth's." I was truly saddened when, in just a few weeks, that privilege was taken away.  Now I'm a type II Diabetic who not only has to watch his sugar intake but overall calories because there is no way to exercise my weight off.

I was then put to bed where a sip 'n' puff device had been developed that enabled me to manipulate the TV's power and channel selection by blowing and sipping into a straw. Finally, some independence. I'd stay up late, watching a movie, and when I became tired, I could turn the TV off myself and go to sleep. Not for long, however. My body had to be turned from one side to the other every 3 hours and propped up on pillows to prevent bed sores. The "luxury" of the roto-bed was long gone.

There was a time when the patient in the next room would spend the nights pounding on the walls. It was bad enough feeling institutionalized without having a drum solo next door at midnight. My patience quickly spent, I called a nurse in and proclaimed, "Is there nothing you can do about the pounding in the next room?"

"I'm terribly sorry." she kindly began, "That's one of our head injury patients. He doesn't know any better."

"What is that he's using to pound against the wall? It's much too loud to be his fist." I thought at the very least they could take any items from the room he could be throwing against the wall.

"There's nothing in the room. He's pounding his head against the wall. It's all we can do to keep a helmet on his head to keep him from injuring himself. He usually takes it off."

I laid there in stunned silence. I was so quick to complain and accuse, never even considering my location. When the nurse left I had to pray and repent from my haughtiness and self-appointed position of highness because of my paralysis. There are countless levels and kinds of suffering in the world. Suddenly it was between me and my neighbor and I was grateful for my lifeless limbs so long as I could be in my right mind and know my name and my circumstance.