Three broken vertebrae/discs in my back.
Six cracked ribs.
A torn rotator cuff.
One surgery.
Two hospitals.
One rehab center.
One back brace that apparently requires a minor engineering degree.
Today, PT got me outside.
It wasn’t a marathon. It wasn’t heroic music and slow-motion applause. It was a wheelchair, a brace, some Arkansas heat, and me sitting there on the porch of the original St. Mary’s Hospital, looking like a large, tired old man who had just won a small but very real battle.
But after 17 days of beds, alarms, tubes, pain, therapy schedules, and “please don’t get up by yourself,” outside felt pretty damn good.
Not fixed.
Not finished.
But outside.
And that counts.
