Finding Jaime

"Come on Jaime," I muttered quietly. "You got this. You can do this."

Jaime was at his physio appointment and they had him standing between to rails. Jaime was going to try to walk some, today. They'd been getting him standing over the past weeks. Now they were challenging him to take a step.

Four months ago he'd gotten the flu and that had knocked him out for days. We had spent a couple of days in the hospital when he'd gotten so congested he had been having trouble breathing, but for the most part, he was doing okay. All things considered.

And now he was in his physio appointment, a canvas belt around his waist while his physiotherapist held him in a standing position. Jaime was gripping the rails beside him so tightly. The look on his face was one of determination, but was that also pain in his eyes?

I stayed silent. I was far enough away from where he was that I could encourage him but stay quiet when I wanted to push, but didn't want him to think I was.

I watched as Jaime's right foot dragged slightly forward. A tear found its way out of my eye. He'd done it. He'd taken a step, sort of. I watched as he tried to move his left foot, too. He'd been having more trouble with his left side than his right. His doctors and therapists thought it might be because he is right handed.

I watched as Jaime slowly brought his left foot forward, and stifled a sob. This was progress. This was actual, visible progress.

Then, I watched as Jaime nearly fell and the secondary therapist grabbed his hips and guided him into his wheelchair. Two steps. Two very small steps. The first he'd taken in over eight months. I couldn't have been prouder of him.

I watched as the therapists talked with Jaime, who looked frustrated, and tired. He was nodding, despite not looking terribly happy.

They moved him over to where he'd been working on leg strength, and Jaime was set up to push some weights to help strengthen the muscles in his legs for when he would be able to walk, hopefully.

At the end of his session, he rolled himself over in his chair.

"C-cn... w-w-we g-g0?" He asked. He still stuttered and lost words, sometimes. But for the most part, Jaime was speaking full sentences. He just needed a little more time to get them out.

"Yeah. Of course. Your session's done?" I asked. Jaime nodded.

"Are you tired? Or did you want to stop anywhere?" I asked. Sometimes he asked to go sit by the beach. Sometimes he wanted coffee or ice cream. Sometimes he just wanted to go home.

"I-I j-j-us-t-t w-w-wa-n g-go h-h-ho-oh-mmuh," he said. I nodded.

"Alright. You want to roll or you want me to push you?" We were supposed to encourage him to talk as much as possible. It would hopefully help him with the stutter. It had definitely helped with the speed with which he spoke. Even if he had a stutter still, he didn't pause as much between words anymore.

"Y-y-ou," he said. I knew I was supposed to encourage him to push himself in his wheelchair, and for the most part, he did. Now that he could control his head again, and had improved in the sense of being able to sit up more on his own, having strengthened his arms and his core muscles. It meant he could use a lighter wheelchair, instead of the heavier one we had been using when he was still in something like a vegetative state, and couldn't sit up or hold his own head up.

But he still had days where he was tired and couldn't push himself. And today, I felt was one of those days simply by the fact that he'd disappointed himself. He wanted to walk. I knew it. He talked about it. But he'd only managed two barely-steps before his body gave out. I didn't want to push him too hard, not because I didn't think he could handle it, but because his brain and his body weren't in tandem. He'd told me that mentally, he felt like he should be able to get up and go. He felt fine, in that aspect. But, he often complained, he couldn't get his body to listen to him. And occasionally, he still had muscle spasms. He'd thrown the occasional fork or spoonful of soup or food because of it. I knew it embarrassed him when it happened. Though, it happened less and less frequently as time went on.

Jaime still didn't want to go out to restaurants or be included in any event where food might be served, because he didn't want to accidentally throw food at people where press might be around to capture it.

"I-I h-ha-hav-ve e-en-eno-uf t-tr-tru-b-ble," he'd stuttered. "I d-doh-nt ne-e-d it sh-sh-sh-oh-oh-ing uh-uh-up on s-s-s-s-oh-osh-els f-f-or p-p-pee-p-p-p-le to m-m-may-ke c-c-coh-m-m-men-t-t-s a-ab-ow-owt."

"You don't want your friends from Santa Monica seeing it, I'm guessing?"

"Ehe-ex-a-ac-ly," he'd said. "M-M-M-M."

He frowned, and I was tempted to try to guess who he was talking about. But I left him to get to it in his own time.

"M-ah-duh-s-s-un," he finally said, and I could hear the contempt in his voice. "Kee-eeps t-t-teh-ex-t-ing m-m-me. I-I w-wi-sh-sh she-eed s-s-st-oh-ohp,"

Madison was a girl Jaime had gone to school with. Once she found out who Jaime's biological father was, Madison suddenly remembered that she had once been friends with Jaime. On the other hand, Jaime was not impressed that Madison had suddenly put Jaime on her radar.

"Well, I said to her before to leave you alone. I don't know what else to tell you besides blocking her number?" I suggested. 

Jaime shrugged. 

"Do you want a coffee or anything?" I asked him. "We can do drive through if you want one and then just go home."

"Oh-oh-kay," he said. "A-a c-car-a-am-el m-m-ma-ak-ak-ia-t-t-oh." he said. I smiled. Yes, he'd stuttered, but even then, the stuttering was less. 

I pulled into the Starbucks drive-through, ordered our coffees, handed Jaime his, and pulled him back onto the street. 

I glanced at him as I drove, seeing him looking out the window and not drinking his coffee. 

"Got something on your mind?" I asked him. He sighed. 

"L-lots," he said, but didn't continue. 

"Well, I'm all ears any time you want to talk," I said. Jaime nodded as though contemplating that.

When we got home, I helped him into his wheelchair and watched him roll into the house and out to the backyard. He would often go to the end of the walkway and stare out into the hills behind the house. 

I could only imagine what he was thinking when he sat there, quietly, alone.