Revive Me

16. Liliana

16

LILIANA

To my surprise, Roman and I fall right back into our usual routine. He continues to progress, doing his PT homework on his own and showing up to every one of our sessions with a desire to get better. His consistent effort is really starting to pay off, and he’s getting noticeably stronger.

Things feel easy between us, too. He still has grumpy days, and I still give him tough love, but things are friendly. Normal.

One month after I first brought it up, I decide to ask Roman about gait training again.

“So, are you waiting to hit your pre-injury leg press PR before learning to walk again?”

He pauses his movement of increasing the weight on the machine. “Sorry, Doc, I don’t speak in code.”

I nod at his legs. “We need to start your gait training.”

Immediately, a wall shutters over his eyes. It happened the first time I brought it up, too. This part of his therapy is hard for him, which means I’ll have to tread carefully.

He opens his mouth, then quickly closes it, his throat bobbing on a swallow. I wait patiently for him to verbalize whatever is bothering him.

“This is where I gave up completely last time,” he says after a moment.

I nod. I figured as much. Taking a seat on the floor in front of him, I take a deep breath and ask, “Was it one thing, specifically? Or what is it about this phase of your therapy?”

“Specifically? Specifically, it was failing at the act of walking.”

I give him a look that says really?

Roman exhales a heavy breath and looks out into space. “I don’t know, I guess the parts that came before gait training were just easier to deal with. They weren’t easy , per se, but most days, I could think of regaining sensation as exciting, or strength training as familiar. But when I had to practice standing because my balance was off, and I got dizzy even being upright…it really punched me in the face how fucked up I was. I mean, I was literally working on the same skills as a one -year-old. And failing at it.”

I nod my understanding as I pull my knees up and wrap my arms around them. Roman’s admission doesn’t surprise me, because it’s a fairly normal reaction for SCI patients to have. There’s something about learning to walk that humbles even the strongest patients.

But getting Roman to talk about this is a critical step in moving him along in his therapy. Unless I know where his head’s at, he could very well give up on me like he has for every other PT he’s worked with.

“Do you think being prepared for that feeling might make it easier this time around?”

He rubs his chest absentmindedly as he mulls over my question. “Maybe,” he says finally. “It’s possible that feeling like I was blind-sided by it last time made everything worse.”

“Most likely.” I hesitate for a moment before adding, “I think we should have a plan for how to deal with that feeling, though. Even if it’s a plan of what not to do. Because it could very well happen this time around too.”

Roman’s gaze slides over to me, our eyes locking. “Is this where you tell me I should try therapy again?”

I shrug. “I think everyone could benefit from therapy. And yes, this is a perfect example of a situation where talking to a professional psychologist would be immeasurably helpful. But no, that’s not what I was getting at.”

Roman’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “Then what are you getting at?”

Tightening my hold on my knees, I nervously chew on my bottom lip before finally admitting, “I’d feel better if we came up with some healthy coping strategies for you. Clearly, gait training is a stressor, and the last thing I want you to do is lose all your progress because you have a really bad day and go into a spiral.”

Understanding dawns on his face. “Meaning, don’t turn to my usual vices.”

I wince. “It’s just…you do so much better when you’re not chain-smoking or hungover and actually doing your therapy between our sessions. Plus, you didn’t show up for a week the last time things…went wrong.”

The time I made you hard with a massage and you got so freaked out that I thought I’d never see you again.

I don’t say that, but I can see by Roman’s expression that he knows exactly what I’m referring to. What’s worse is, it reinforces my point about him spiraling when things go wrong in his therapy.

Roman looks away from me, his throat bobbing. “Okay, yes, I pick things that are bad for my health to deal with failure. What exactly would you like me to do instead? Take up knitting as a form of stress relief?”

Surprisingly, his sarcasm is a relief. Sarcasm is better than lashing out.

“I was thinking more along the lines of horror movies.”

His eyes snap back to mine, his brow furrowed. “What is this, another reward system?”

I shake my head. “Not exactly. But you need to have something healthy to turn to when you inevitably have a bad therapy session, and escapism is a common stress relief tactic.” My mouth curves into an amused grin. “Psychologists might argue that watching people get killed and mutilated shouldn’t be classified as stress relief, but I was attempting to relate to my current audience.”

Roman’s own lip quirks with a reluctant smile. “There are way too many true crime junkies for that to be true.”

I chuckle softly as I lean back and brace my hands on the floor. “Hey, I agree with you. Personally, I enjoy a little cannibal love story to wind down after a long day.”

Roman’s face twists with confusion. “What movie was that ?”

“ Bones and All . So good.”

There’s a pause before he responds with, “Okay, the psychologists might be right about this one.”

I throw my head back with a laugh. “Fine, pick another coping strategy, then.”

My word choice causes some of the levity to drain from our conversation, the mood between us sobering as Roman considers my request.

“I’ll think about it,” he says finally.

Which I’m actually thrilled to hear. It means he’s taking this seriously.

“Deal,” I say with a smile. “You think about it, and then next week, we’ll start the next phase of your therapy. And we’ll work through whatever comes. Together.”

Something changes in his expression, something that’s there and gone too fast for me to read.

But whatever it is, the sight of it makes my chest fill with a now-familiar warmth.

* * *

I can sense Roman’s nerves the next time he comes into the clinic.

After our conversation the other day, I decided that the easiest assisted walking exercise for Roman to start with was going to be the parallel bars. His upper body strength is insane lately, so I’m not worried about any falls, and I figure since these bars are an actual Olympic sport, they’re less likely to make him feel like a child learning to walk and more like a professional athlete practicing his skills.

That’s what I’m crossing every one of my fingers and toes for, at least.

“Ready?” I ask Roman, plastering on as big of a smile as I can muster. Still not big enough to hide my nerves, though.

His posture is so tense, I wouldn’t be surprised if he turned tail and left. But then a huge breath whooshes out of him, and he says in a voice like gravel, “As ever. Let’s just get this shitshow over with.”

I nod at Fran. With this being the first time, I couldn’t in good conscience do it without some assistance. The fight with Roman to let someone else into our space just this once was worth the peace of mind that I got from knowing he’d be safe no matter how this session went.

And it was a fight. So much so that I thought we were going to have to test his first coping strategy just because another human being was going to see him in a vulnerable position. Thankfully, it didn’t come to that. And he’s been amicable with Fran since she walked in here.

“Alright, come over to the bars here so Fran can get the harness around your chest,” I instruct. “Let us know if anything hurts or feels uncomfortable and we’ll adjust it.”

“All this shit feels uncomfortable,” he grumbles, rolling his wheelchair over to the parallel bars.

Fran’s mouth twitches, but she doesn’t comment. I made sure to remind her before she came in here that Roman was going to be extra crotchety today and in general doesn’t do well with conversation, especially if it’s motivational.

She holds the harness out for Roman to slide his arms through, fitting it around his chest and tightening everything so it can hold his weight. I mentally pat myself on the back for thinking to sleuth around for Roman’s height and most recent weight before this. Moving around to stand between the parallel bars, I take up my place in front of him.

“You might feel dizzy at first when the machine pulls you up, so I need you to communicate with me about how things feel,” I tell him. When he nods, I almost gesture for Fran to hit the switch that will lift Roman into the air.

But something makes me pause. Maybe it’s the sheer terror in Roman’s eyes, or maybe it’s the fear beating in my chest. Whatever it is, it makes me sink into a moment where we’re the only two people in this room.

I lower myself to my knees in front of Roman. His eyes stay locked on mine the entire time, enough trust flickering in his gaze that it makes some of the fear fade.

“Whether this takes one day, one week, a hundred weeks…we’re going to get it. We’ll figure out how to get you there. And not because you’re no one if you can’t walk, but because you’re strong enough to make it happen.”

Surprise alights in his expression. I hadn’t intended to tell him that, and maybe I’m overstepping by saying it, but I’m glad I did anyway.

Straightening to a standing position, I add quietly, “I just needed you to know that.”

I don’t expect him to respond—the appreciation in his eyes is more than enough for me. Looking up at Fran, I nod for her to start the machine.

With a soft whirring sound, the line on the lift goes taut, then slowly starts to raise Roman into the air. I step forward and brace my hands on his hips.

“Harness okay? Anything cutting into you?” I ask hurriedly.

Roman shakes his head, though he’s clenching his jaw so hard I can see every vein in his neck. He quickly reaches for the parallel bars.

“Okay? Are you dizzy? Do you need anything?”

“Doc…you’re mother hen-ing,” he says dryly, eyes sliding closed as he steadies himself.

A laugh bursts out of me. “Well, that’s something I’ve never been called before.”

“It’s what I’m thinking every time you hover.” He lets out a big exhale, then slowly opens his eyes. “Okay, I’m good.”

Thank God . “Okay, then I’m going to sit in front of you and guide one leg at a time through a stepping motion. Slowly, so we hit every motion and muscle.”

Roman nods, his jaw clenched once again. There’s still dread in his expression, but I see determination, too.

Pulling over my rolling stool, I lower myself onto it so I’m at the perfect height to grab behind his knee with one hand and around his ankle with the other.

“I’m going to lift your leg and place it for the first step, but I want you to do as much of the lifting as you can. Ideally, I’m only guiding your leg.” I send him a quick grin. “Time to finally put all that strength training to good use.”

“One more of those and I might ‘accidentally’ kick you in the chest,” he returns with a glare.

My focus is already back on his leg, my response unthinking as I mumble, “As your physical therapist, I mean it from the bottom of my heart when I say I would gladly eat a kick to the chest and consider it a roaring success.”

I hear Roman’s sigh above me. “I swear, your therapy methods need to be studied.”

I give him an impatient poke in the thigh. “Yes, fine, I’ll share my teachings with the Board. After you get walking. Chop chop.”

Another sigh, but this time, I feel Roman’s quad flex under my hand as he tries to lift his leg. It doesn’t lift high enough for a safe step forward, but I’m pleased with the motion, regardless. Guiding his leg with the hand gripping his muscle above the knee, I adjust my grip around his foot that’s now in the air and place it for a stepping motion: with the heel landing first, then rolling through the step to the ball of the foot.

“Nice. Feel okay?”

“Feels weird,” he admits.

“We just have to build that muscle memory back up. Ten thousand kicks and all that.”

“Did you just quote Bruce Lee to me?” he asks, the amusement obvious in his voice.

“Can’t say I don’t know my audience. Alright, other leg now.”

We move through the same motion on his left side, guiding him through the lift, and then placing his foot for the heel-to-toe motion. He needs more assistance this time, his left side being weaker.

“Perfect. Give me another one. Let’s keep going.”

We work through a dozen more steps, moving slowly and emphasizing each one so his brain can start to log the muscle memory. It isn’t until I catch two winces in a row on Roman’s face that I call an end to our session.

“I think that’s enough for today,” I say, standing from my stool. “We don’t want to stress your body too much. Fran’s going to lower the lift, and I’m going to hold your chair behind you so you can drop right into it. Ready?”

At that, Roman’s jaw clenches in a way that makes me wonder if me pulling a chair out for him is the part of our session that hit his ego. But even if it is, he follows my instructions without protest, which has me chalking up this entire thing as a victory.

He collapses into his chair with a grunt, relaxing into the space that’s still the most comfortable for him.

God. I’m so proud of him.

It isn’t until I catch myself looking at him from my place behind him, the urge to massage his sore shoulders becoming overwhelming, that I realize Fran is still here. She’s standing by the lift, watching us curiously.

I mentally assure myself that she didn’t see anything. Fuck, was I staring at Roman like a starstruck girl?

“Thanks for helping out today, Fran. I appreciate it,” I tell her. “I’ll let you know when I could use your help again.”

She nods with a smile of her own. “Of course, it was my pleasure.” She looks at Roman. “Great job today, Roman.”

“Thanks,” he says gruffly. “And I second Liliana’s comment: thanks for your help today.”

“Of course. Anything I can do, just let me know.” She turns her attention back to me. “I’m assuming you need me for a few more sessions in the harness, yes?”

I nod. “If you can fit some in, that would be great. We can schedule them on days that are best for you, since we’re still mixing them in with strength training days, but if that’s too hard, I can ask one of the other therapists. I just thought you might like to be involved.”

Part of me hopes she says no, too worried about the possibility that she could pick up on my feelings for Roman.

But of course she says yes.

“Let’s look at the calendar tomorrow and figure out how many and which days we want.”

A tight smile pulls at my lips as I nod. “Great. I’ll pop into your office tomorrow around lunch then.”

It isn’t until she leaves, and I’m left alone with Roman once again, that the enormity of what just happened hits me. Roman did a walking exercise. Successfully .

“Holy shit ,” I breathe, unable to stop the giddy grin that appears on my face. “Roman, you just walked .”

I don’t know if it’s because my energy is infectious, but the excitement is apparent on Roman’s face, too. A small grin even peeks out.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he says. Predictably. “I still needed two people and a ten-thousand-dollar piece of equipment to do it.”

I throw my hands up. “You are such a spoilsport .”

A startled laugh bursts out of him. “I haven’t been called that since elementary school. That’s a nostalgic insult.”

“I have to get creative if I want to stay professional while still getting my point across,” I mumble, starting to put away the equipment we used during our session.

When that earns me another laugh, I soften, realizing this is Roman in a good mood. He does feel good about his success today.

Relief floods me as I take the paper I slid into my pocket earlier and toss it in the trash.

“What was that?”

I startle when I realize Roman just watched me do that. And then immediately flush hot over my lack of stealth.

“Uh, nothing,” I hurry to say, avoiding eye contact. “Just some trash.”

“Then why are you blushing?” Roman presses. “You’re the color of a tomato, Liliana.”

I lift my head so I can glare at him. “That’s a rude thing to say to a woman, Roman.”

He grins. “Got you to look at me, though, didn’t it?” When I only sigh, he jerks his chin toward the trash. “Seriously, what was that?”

Knowing I’ve been caught, I lean down to take the crumpled-up paper out of the bin. “It’s my phone number,” I mumble.

Roman’s brow furrows. “Why did you write your phone number on a piece of paper and then throw it out?”

I hesitate for a moment, wondering if there’s still a way I can get out of this. If I should get out of this.

“It was going to be for you,” I admit before I can second-guess myself any more.

His eyes widen at that, but there’s still a glimmer of confusion when they track back to the paper in my hand.

“So…why did you throw it out, then?” he asks.

I shrug. “Because gait training was a success.”

His eyes pinch as he shakes his head. “Doc, you gotta give me a little more than that. I’ve been concussed enough times to need this spelled out a skosh more.”

A whooshing exhale leaves my chest, then I’m admitting in a ramble, “I was going to give you my phone number if today went badly, okay? I wanted to make sure you had someone to talk to if there was a chance of you losing all hope.”

He blinks at me. Once, then again. Then, he pushes his wheelchair toward me and takes the paper out of my hand.

When he looks at me, there’s a heat in his eyes that I’ve never seen before. And even when they flash with something I can’t put a name to, the intensity there has my stomach flipping.

“Victory or not, I’m going to take this, Liliana,” he says in a deliciously deep voice.

It takes minutes for my heart rate to return to normal after that.