Rebuilding My Strength: The Long Road Back

After my accident, I honestly had no idea what my rehabilitation journey was going to look like. I didn’t even know exactly how long I was in the trauma unit because so much of that time is a blur. From what I understand, I was there for about two weeks before they moved me out. When I finally started waking up and becoming more aware, they transferred me from the trauma unit to an acute care hospital.

Even then, I wasn’t really coherent. I was heavily medicated, and my body had been through something unimaginable. I had extensive injuries and was still connected to machines that were keeping me alive.

I had six broken ribs, and from what I later read in my medical chart, I apparently broke another rib on my right side that didn’t require the same treatment. I also fractured my pelvis and my right wrist. My left ribs were wrapped with metal. My left leg had been crushed and reconstructed with plates and screws around my knee and ankle. My right leg was amputated below the knee. I had two broken vertebrae that were also stabilized with metal.

I was on a ventilator because my lungs needed help breathing. I had a feeding tube because I couldn’t eat. I had a Foley catheter because I couldn’t urinate on my own. I was on dialysis because my kidneys had failed. I had heart monitors because I had heart failure. There were machines everywhere — machines helping my heart pump, machines helping my lungs work, machines monitoring everything happening inside my body.

It was completely surreal.

After ICU, I moved into the regular unit of the acute care hospital, but I was still attached to many of those machines. Slowly, one by one, I started getting disconnected from them.

And every time a machine was removed, I felt like I had accomplished something.

One less machine.

One more step closer to home.

That was all I wanted. I wanted to go home. I wanted to be with my animals. I wanted my life back.

It took about three months before I was finally free from everything. The feeding tube was the last thing to go. Even after they removed the Foley catheter, I had to retrain my bladder because after having it in for so long, my body had forgotten how to function normally. That process was painful and frustrating, but it was another reminder that my body was slowly waking back up.

After spending almost four months lying in a hospital bed, my body had become incredibly weak. Toward the end of my stay, they finally started trying to get me upright. It wasn’t really physical therapy because the acute care hospital wasn’t designed for rehabilitation. Their job was to keep trauma patients alive and stabilize them. They were supposed to send me to a rehab facility afterward, but that never happened.

To start getting me out of bed, they transferred me into what I believe was called a medical chair. They would put an inflatable mattress under me, transfer me over, deflate the mattress, and then slowly raise me into a sitting position.

I will never forget how hard that was.

It wasn’t just painful. It was overwhelming.

My ribs hurt. My back hurt. My body had been lying flat for months, and suddenly I was being forced to sit upright. I felt like I was going to throw up. I was dizzy. I felt like I might pass out.

But I did it.

And then I did it again.

Slowly, they got me strong enough to sit in a regular wheelchair. I was able to do a tiny bit of movement and some basic exercises before I was discharged. They let me go into the gym area and work on my arms a little bit, and even that small amount made me feel like I was getting some control over my body again.

When I was finally sent home, I still had a long way to go.

I had lost almost all of my muscle. I was basically skin and bones. At one point, I weighed around 113 to 118 pounds. Normally, I’m around 140 to 150 pounds, and I’m 5’9”. My body was completely changed.

I wasn’t eating much in the hospital, mostly because the food was terrible. Part of it was because I had been on so many antibiotics after developing an infection in my amputated leg, which caused me to get C. diff and become extremely sick.

The only time I really ate was when friends brought me food, and even then, I still couldn’t eat much because my stomach had shrunk so much that I could barely eat anything at one time.

When I got home, things slowly started changing. I was comfortable again. I was eating foods I actually enjoyed. My appetite started coming back, and so did my weight.

Although my body didn’t come back exactly the same.

Being in a wheelchair changed my body. It put weight in places where I had never carried it before. But I’m not worried about that because I know I’m not going to stay sedentary forever. I know what my body is capable of, and I know I’m rebuilding.

My biggest turning point was getting back into the gym.

At first, I depended on friends to take me. Starting in January, I was only able to go once a week if I was lucky. Between January and the end of February, I may have gone four or five times total.

But even those few visits mattered.

When I first started going back to the gym, I was wearing a diaper because I still didn’t have complete control of my bowels and my bladder.

After laying in the hospital bed for four months and just doing my business laying down in the bed, I had to retrain everything. My body had to relearn basic functions. I wore a diaper just for safety purposes because I wasn’t going to let that stop me from going.

And I wasn’t even embarrassed.

I didn’t care if people could see that I had one on.

I was there to fight for me.

I wasn’t there to worry about what other people saw or thought. I had already been through too much. I had survived too much. I was focused on rebuilding my life.

Then I finally got a part-time caregiver who could help me get to the gym two to three times a week, usually three. That consistency changed everything.

I started rebuilding my strength.

I started rebuilding my muscles.

I started feeling like myself again.

When you lose everything physically, you have to start from zero. That was my reality. I wasn’t someone who was just trying to get in shape. I was rebuilding a body that had been completely broken down.

And now, ten and a half months later, I’m finally adding weights again.

For me, when I work out, I can progress quickly because I know how to train. But this time was different. I had to rebuild the foundation first. I had to regain strength before I could push myself.

When I first started wearing my prosthetic leg, I was able to begin adding weights because having both legs gave me more balance and stability. My amputated leg is still smaller and weaker than my other leg, but having that second point of balance allowed me to use more strength on certain machines.

Unfortunately, I had to stop working my legs again because of problems with my prosthetic and my incision. Right now, I can’t use the leg machines like I want to.

But I haven’t stopped.

I still go.

I still lift.

I still work the muscles I can.

Something else I’ve noticed since returning to the gym is how people respond to me now.

More people talk to me now than ever did before, and it’s mostly men.

The guys at the gym are always encouraging me. They say hello when they see me. They’re happy to see me. They cheer me on. They tell me they’re watching me and they see what I’m doing.

And I appreciate that because I know what they’re really seeing.

They’re seeing someone who refused to give up.

I know some people watch me when I’m there. Some people are curious. Some people don’t know what to say. Women don’t really look at me, maybe because they’re embarrassed or afraid or they just don’t know how to react.

But some girls do smile. Some are friendly. And I appreciate that too.

I’m open to questions. I don’t mind if people look at me or watch me.

I would rather people see me and understand that I’m not someone to feel sorry for. I’m someone who fought my way back.

When the guys tell me, “I am watching you. I see what you’re doing,” I’m glad.

Because I’m proud that I can show up and represent myself.

I’m proud that I can roll into that gym and send a very loud message to the world:

I’m not a quitter.

I’m worth fighting for.

And I’m still here.

Some days I don’t want to go. Some days I’m exhausted. Some days I’m frustrated. Life after an accident like mine is stressful. There are hard days.

But I go anyway.

And every single time, I’m glad I did.

Because afterward, I feel better. I feel stronger. I feel proud of myself.

The gym has become more than just exercise for me. It has become part of my recovery. It is where I see my progress. It is where I watch my body come back to life.

I lost my leg.

I lost my strength.

I lost my independence.

But I am rebuilding.

One workout.

One pound.

One movement at a time.

If my story has inspired you, and you would like to support my continued recovery, rehabilitation, and rebuilding journey, you can help through my GoFundMe. Every contribution helps me continue accessing the resources, care, equipment, and support I need as I rebuild my strength and independence one step at a time.

Your support, encouragement, and kindness mean more than words can express. Thank you for being part of my journey.

Support my journey through GoFundMe and help me continue fighting forward.

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