Every Day You Have a Choice. Make it Count.
When I first uttered these words, it was to myself as I waited to be fed. My hands lay spent and useless from the morning’s therapy and would remain strapped into splints, immobile, until the following day. I had 45 minutes to eat and rest before resuming my afternoon grind of physical therapy.
I was committed to moving forward, but at that moment I felt infinite helplessness, compounded by the forlorn view through the small hospital window onto a bleak meadow where matted yellow winter grass poked through the sparse snow cover in intermittent clumps beneath a leaden gray sky. It was January of 2002 and by then, I had been in the “Big House,” as I called the hospitals, for over three months. Those six months of institutional care and rehab merely started the nearly decade long trench warfare to recover from the catastrophic injury I’d sustained on 9/11.