Page 137 of Learning Curve

This isn’t temporary. I’m not going to be back on campus next week, and I’m not going to rehab my way back into cheerleading.

Oh my God. Oh my God.

I’ll probably never walk again. Never feel my fucking legs again.

I’m actually paralyzed.

I fight for air through strangled sobs, gulping and gulping at the whole room around me. I scratch at my face and pull at my chest as the feeling of suffocation overwhelms me, and Dr. Stewart runs to the door to call for help.

Finn, my dad, and my sister all scramble at my bedside to help, but nothing makes me feel less like I’m dying. I sob and cry and wheeze for air, and Dr. Stewart finally pushes his way in to slide an oxygen mask over my nose. I take deep, desperate breaths, and Dr. Stewart nods at me over and over to try to help me find a slower, more oxygenating pace.

My dad cries at the foot of my bed and Wren tries to comfort him, while Finn grabs on to my hand and squeezes.

Dr. Stewart preaches of a new normal and taking time to acclimate while Finn holds tightly to me to try to keep me from spiraling out of control, but it’s no use.

Nothing in the world will ever be the same after this news.

Monday April 14th

Scottie

I woke up this morning thinking I was the Scottie before my accident, but the harsh truth is that that girl doesn’t exist anymore. My dad and Wren sleep uncomfortably on a pullout sofa, and Finn hunches over a chair, none of them willing to leave my room to rest anywhere else.

Time feels short and endlessly long at the same time. It feels like yesterday and ten years ago that I was walking out onto the mat at Nationals, completely naïve to the fact that it would be my last time cheering.

That it would be my last competition.

That it would be the last time I did stunts. Danced. Stood on my own two feet.

“You need anything from downstairs?” Finn asks, reaching out to tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. I have no idea what I look like at this point, but I can only assume it’s horrible.

Wren was nice enough to brush my hair last night while she tried to distract me with reruns of Grey’s Anatomy—one of our favorite binge shows—but I haven’t had anything more than a sponge bath in over three days. I washed my makeup off myself in a water-filled bowl, but having done it without a mirror, I can still feel some of the dry, hard spots I missed every time I move my face.

“Scottie?” Finn questions again, his voice almost annoyingly gentle. I know it’s his way of trying to comfort me, but the stark difference between his voice now and the one he used when he snuck into my hotel room Thursday night is just another reminder of what will never be again.

I fight to keep my voice from shaking with anger as I answer him. “No thanks.”

“I’ll be right back.” He presses a kiss to my forehead and heads out the door, most likely to get lunch from the hospital cafeteria for Wren, my dad, and himself.

The lunch tray one of the staff brought in for me is still sitting untouched on my bedside table. It’s hard to have an appetite for anything when you know that you can’t control your bladder or bowels. I’ve never felt so much shame and embarrassment as I did this morning when a nurse had to literally clean me up because I soiled my bed.

Wren stands up from the sofa to come sit on the edge of my bed. “You doing okay?” she asks, but her eyes have a serious edge to them that makes my head tilt.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Don’t get mad, but Mom is here,” she answers, and her mouth forms a self-conscious cringe. “I told her about what happened, and I didn’t think she’d show up, but she’s here. She’s on her way up to your room.”

I don’t even know what to say other than are you fucking kidding me, but I don’t have time because moments later, my mother’s face appears outside the door.

She’s hesitant and uncertain as she locks her gaze with mine, but Wren is so oblivious that she just gestures for her to come inside.

“Hi, honey,” she greets as she closes the distance between the door and my bed. She has a stupid bouquet of flowers in her hands, and she finds an empty spot between all the other flowers and balloons and bears that other people have sent me.

“I can’t believe you had the balls to come here,” I say simply, startling a gasp from Wren.

“Scottie.”

It’s not my sister’s fault that I didn’t tell her what happened before winter break, but I don’t really give a damn anymore. It’s not my fault that I fell out of my basket toss, but I’m paralyzed all the same.

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