It was the summer of 2004, and the one-year anniversary of my spinal cord injury was approaching. I have slowly but successfully adapted to my new life as a permanent wheelchair user. Wheelies and layovers no longer scare me, and I no longer make these awkward movements in public.
So one hot summer afternoon, I rolled into a local pub to join my college friends in the garden. Once we arrived, I hit the brakes and moved as smoothly as possible from the wheelchair to the wooden bench. This simple maneuver turns out to be almost as devastating as the car accident that broke my back and left me paralyzed 11 months ago.
Before I knew it, debris from the bench had pierced my skin and lodged deep in the tissue of my buttock. The foreign body became an abscess, and a week later the fever spiked. I was taken to the hospital. When I woke up from general anesthesia, my butt cheek, where the abscess had been removed, had a gaping hole in it like an ice cream scoop.
I couldn't even sit on it as the wound healed. My wheelchair was technically off-limits. The only position I could maintain was to lie face down, releasing all pressure from the wound. for how long? The answer was unknown.
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When a setback like this occurs, at first we digest the prognosis stoically. In my case, I approached bedrest like it was a marathon. At first, I started off steadily, spending a few peaceful days away from lying flat at my parents' house, watching TV, reading adventure travel books, drawing, and calling friends.
But after three months of being confined to my bed, the walls of my room began to close. At six months, I was losing my mind, but I held out hope that soon my wound would heal and I could get back to my normal life. Get up, go out into the world again, and start your life again. However, a consultant plastic surgeon said the wound was not healing properly. Had to open it again. My sentence started again. In the end, it took another three years for the world and I to reunite.
