Marching

That's all I wanted to do.  Marching in place.  I was determined to be realistic about this goal, mentally preparing myself for the probability that I would not be able to put all my weight in one leg and lift the other one up right away.  This would take several therapy days' worth of attempts, I told myself, so that I would not be disappointed when I strained to pick that foot up and nothing happened.

Except the foot came up like it was nothing at all.  It was so easy it almost startled me.  I even told my therapist, "Um...that was almost... easy!"  And she could tell from the way my knees felt as I marched back and forth from one foot to the other that they were steady, unbuckling, and strong.  "I think we can do more," she said.  And boy did I!  After completing three sets of five marching reps, she flipped on my wheelchair power and nudged it forward along behind me while I walked the entire length of the parallel bars.  It was the first time I have walked since about December 29th.  

Since then I've allowed myself to take a step here and there at home too, like when I'm commode transferring and I want to pivot my body slightly, or I'll stand for a minute and pull up my own underpants, even using both hands for a few seconds at a time while I just balance on my legs, pushing their strength as cautiously and safely as I can, turning each milestone into a useful skill.

Walking was such an incredible surprise.  I had thought I was months away from walking, and now, in those handful of steps, the entire world of walker-assisted walking and not needing a wheelchair full-time is suddenly within my grasp, within the reachable, near future.  I feel compelled to hurry up and get there, that ability to get around my house with a walker; to reach it and enjoy it for awhile, quickly before the looming threat of chemotherapy and it's potentially weakening effects slow or reverse some of my progress.