Small Steps

What looks small from the outside can take everything to achieve.

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Walking. Small, deliberate steps.

Plodding. And plodding.

The same small steps, again and again.

Repeated. Every day.

My feet moved. Slowly. Gradually. Painfully.

Recurring visits to the physiotherapy room in the hospital. Days blended together, timeless. The smell of medicine, cloying in the nose.

Numbness and pain in both limbs.

Aches without feeling. Balancing was a tightrope act.

The mundanity seemed like torture. An unnecessary necessity.

But the small torture was big progress.

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Another visit to the physiology centre. The same tiny, purposeful steps, day after day.

An unsteady gait, then a confident stance.

Shifting my too-heavy weight from foot to foot.

Placing them down, too cautiously.

I walked too slowly for my liking. Lumbering. Faltering. Start. Stop. Start. Stop. Three times daily.

The continuous effort to achieve something as simple as mobility was draining physically and mentally; depression stalked my bedside as a most unwanted visitor.

The sessions felt like walking through an endless stretch of the Sahara. I needed the support that a teenager didn't want to have; it was too shameful. Gripping the therapist's arm as if I was three times my age. Having the nurse assist me with a bed pan when I shouldn't need one. Hospital visits were always turned down.

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The walks came to a sudden stop when I developed meningitis after consuming some spice. I required a lumbar puncture, or an extraction of spinal fluid.

So I was tied to the bed, face down, a needle up my spine. From a confident stance to a lie abed.

Plod a little. Sit up. Plod a little. Sit up. Lie flat. Lie flat.

I gripped the side of my bed. Slide. Slide. Slide. I dropped to the ground, completely exhausted. My flaccid legs could not carry me past my bed post. Again, nurses provided assistance that I did not want. I sometimes rejected it with a shove.

The walks came to a sudden stop when I developed meningitis after consuming some spice. I required a lumbar puncture, or an extraction of spinal fluid.

🚶‍♂️➡️🛑➡️🔁➡️🏥➡️🛏️➡️💉➡️🛑➡️🔁➡️🚶‍♂️➡️➡️➡️🏁

So I was tied to the bed, face down, a needle up my spine. From a confident stance to a lie abed.

Plod a little. Sit up. Plod a little. Sit up. Lie flat. Lie flat.

I gripped the side of my bed. Slide. Slide. Slide. I dropped to the ground, completely exhausted. My flaccid legs could not carry me past my bed post. Again, nurses provided assistance that I did not want. I sometimes rejected it with a shove.

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But the physiotherapy had to continue if I ever wanted to leave the hospital. Back to the physiotherapy room. Start. Start. Stumble. Stop.

Start. Start. Stumble. Stop. Wincing from the pain. Start. Stop. Start. Start. Continue.

And continue I did, for another 2 weeks. Ceaseless starts and stops. Then -

Walk. Stop. Walk. Continue. Stop.

Continue. Continue.

The nurses started to visit my bed less frequently. My grip on the bed rail slowly released. I stood on both feet.

Walk. Stop. Continue. Walk. Stop. Continue.

Myself.

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Visits to the therapist lasted another month. The same nurses faces - I knew each by name.

Walk. Continue. Walk. Continue. Stop. Walk. Continue. Stop.

And out into the corridors. Those regular trips became mini-adventures.

The legs hurt. But there were no nurses with me.

I walked on two feet. On my own.

Carefully. Steadily.

No holding bed rails. Just me, myself, and both limbs.

A final trip to the therapist. I walked throughout the room. Walk. Continue. Walk, walk, continue.

Walk, walk, continue.

I continued out of the therapist's room and out of the hospital.

My tussle with post-brain tumour surgery walking was over.

I scored a minor 100.

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An original story by Michelle Liew Tsu-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.

For Vocal's Small Wins Challenge