Page 52 of Sparking Sara

“Yeah, well, I know this is short notice, but I was wondering if you’re free tomorrow night for a late dinner, say around nine o’clock?”

She shrugs a shoulder, trying to look like she’s not all that interested when I can clearly see that she is. “I suppose I could squeeze it in.”

I look at the clock behind her desk, wanting to get upstairs before they bring Sara back into her room. I grab a piece of paper and scribble down my cell number. “Text me with your address and I’ll pick you up. I have to run.”

“Okay,” she says as I walk away. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

I turn around and lift my chin at her before I race back upstairs just in time to see Sara get wheeled into her room. They put her in a wheelchair today. She had to be strapped in and supported, and it’s one of those reclining wheelchairs. But again, progress.

When she’s situated in her bed, the doctor comes in carrying a small package. “I have a going-away present for you, Sara.”

Sara raises her eyebrows.

He shows her a device. “This is called a Passy Muir value. When you are off the vent, we can connect it to the trach, which will allow you to speak. It functions by blocking the tube during exhalation to allow air flow across the vocal chords, which produces sound.”

Her hand comes up to cover her mouth. I can see emotions all over her face. She wants this. She wants this badly.

“You want to try it out?” he asks.

She nods emphatically.

Since she’s still off the vent, something she’s getting quite good at for longer stretches of time, the doctor attaches the value. “You’ll still sound like you,” he says. “Your voice will just be a little weaker. It’s not like the voice box you see on those smoking commercials.”

Sara takes in a deep breath like she’s not sure she can remember how to speak. Or she’s scared of what will or won’t come out if she does. What if the brain injury affected her speech? The doctor said some patients can have aphasia, a condition where you can’t recall the names of objects or people even though you know what you want to say.

She looks at me, and I give her an encouraging nod. I can’t wait to hear her voice. Mostly because I need a new memory of her voice to replace the old one. The one where her voice is trembling with terror in the front seat of a car hanging off the side of a bridge.

“You can do it, Sara,” the doctor says. “It’s like riding a bike.”

She nods at him. Then she clears her throat—I can actually hear her do that now—and balls up her fists as if to give herself strength. She looks right at me and says the sweetest words I think I’ve ever heard.

“Thank you,” she says.

Tears flood her eyes at hearing her own voice. I have to swallow the lump in my throat to keep my own tears at bay.

Jason, the speech therapist, walks into the room. “How’s my star pupil?” he asks. “Sara, you passed with flying colors. You can start slow tonight and tomorrow morning with Jell-O and soft foods, but I see no reason why you can’t go back to a regular diet after two or three meals.”

“You passed!” I say with an overly dramatic fist pump.

She smiles then clears her throat again. “Studied hard,” she says quietly. “Wanted A-plus.”

We all laugh.

I can tell the doctor is more than pleased with her ability to speak properly.

The nurse comes in and gives some paperwork to Dr. Miller. “Looks like your ride is here, Sara,” he says after signing it. “You’re going by ambulance to your new temporary home. We’ll miss you around here, but we’re not sorry to see you go.” He puts a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t mind telling you now that you gave us quite a scare. The progress you’ve made so far, it’s nothing short of miraculous. Somebody up there must be looking out for you, young lady.”

Sara looks right past him to where I’m standing. “I think someone is,” she says in nothing more than a loud whisper.

Chapter Thirteen

Sara has been put through her paces on her first day at the rehab center. They told us that from nine to three every day, with the exception of a break for lunch, she’ll be getting some kind of therapy. This morning, the physical therapist lifted Sara up between parallel bars and she was able to stand. I’m not sure how the therapist was able to control Sara’s weak, wobbly body, but he did. And every time he would sit her down, she would ask to stand up again.

And she would smile. She would smile at me sitting in the corner, cheering her on.

She did so well that Donovan, her physical therapist, said he wanted to get her walking in the afternoon. I didn’t believe it, of course. How could she possibly walk when she can barely hold herself up?

But here I stand, watching a miracle happen. It’s a collaborative effort for sure, with Donovan helping her stand, and another therapist on the floor helping Sara know which foot to lift and helping her lift it. Yet another person walks right behind her with a wheelchair in case she falls or needs to sit. And then there’s me, a few steps in front of her, talking to her the whole time, keeping her attention while I encourage her to lift her head by herself and look at me.

---