Chapter 22
LOGAN
“So today we’re going to be focusing on the Byzantine Empire…”
My eyes already glaze over as I watch my professor move to the first PowerPoint slide.
I lazily start typing notes on my computer, not bothering to listen to what he’s saying.
I know Alex would probably be nudging me, trying to keep me focused since I’m still barely passing this class, but I don’t have it in me to hone in on what I’m supposed to be learning.
I inhale sharply when my least favorite student raises his hand and asks a question that’s completely outside the scope of the class and clearly designed to make him look smarter than everyone else.
This is the usual rodeo. He asks a question, the professor entertains it, and they spend 10 to 15 minutes discussing something we’re not even supposed to be learning. Then I lose whatever focus I had left because we’re not actually covering the course material.
I roll my eyes and open a new tab on my computer to keep myself awake so I don’t fall asleep in the middle of the lecture.
I pull up Montgomery University’s program directory and start sifting through the different majors.
Ever since I helped Craig with his barbell press form, I’ve been thinking about becoming a personal trainer.
I know there’s kinesiology, but I just don’t have it in me to take science classes that aren’t focused on anatomy.
I know I could just get certified as a personal trainer, but I feel like I’m destined for something more involved than simply training people.
I want to support someone who’s been injured and doesn’t know what to do with their life anymore. I want to be the person someone can lean on when they feel like they’ve lost everything.
My cursor hovers over the list of psychology majors, but an incoming text notification pops up on my screen.
I click it and see it’s a message from my physical therapist.
Dave
Still good for our appointment today?
I look up from my computer and tune back into the lecture, only to realize the professor is still rattling off an answer to that brown-nosing student.
I shake my head and type out a response to my physical therapist.
Logan
Yeah all good. See you soon
I still can’t shake the anxiety I feel whenever Dave texts me or when I have to go to his office.
I know he’s here to help me. I don’t know why I have such a hard time accepting that.
It’s hard to focus for the rest of class, even after the professor finally returns to the course material.
I leave the lecture wondering why I feel such a strong need to help other people through their injuries while refusing to accept help for my own.
Maybe I could learn something from Dave instead of constantly trying to push him away.
“Can I ask you a question?” I ask as I sling my legs over the treatment table.
“Shoot,” Dave replies with a warm smile.
I rub my hands along my thighs, trying to ground the humming in my chest that’s telling me to leave the office.
“How did you, uh... figure out what you wanted to do this?”
“Provide physical therapy?” Dave clarifies.
I nod. “And that you wanted to do this specifically and not, like... social work or something.”
Dave puts his hands on his hips and seems to mull it over.
“I’m sorry. I know you’re just here to give physical therapy and you’re not, like, my therapist or anything—”
Dave puts a hand up to silence me. “Logan, I’m here to support you. Frankly, I’m surprised it took you this long to actually have a conversation with me.”
I bow my head in embarrassment because he’s right. We’ve mostly stuck to small talk before and after sessions, and most of the time, I’ve just been grunting in pain for the past six months.
“My younger sister was struck by a car when she was seventeen,” Dave says.
“She had a traumatic brain injury from the impact that made her relearn how to walk. It took her a month to stand on her own. When she finally started walking with assistance, she tripped and fell more than a few times. I saw how frustrating and demoralizing it was for her to have to relearn something that had once been as natural as breathing.”
My chest clenches because I feel so much like she did. I may not have lost my ability to walk, but learning how to walk normally again after having that ability taken away from me was truly demoralizing.
“And seeing how much of a toll it took on her, and how much support she needed, made me want to help other people through the same thing. Physical therapy isn’t just about helping an injury. It’s about helping the person behind the injury feel empowered, too.”
I look up at Dave and feel my mouth go dry under his scrutiny.
“I’m just... at a crossroads with what I want to do with my life right now, and I think... I want to do the same thing. I want to support people,” I mumble.
Dave pats my shoulder. “You’ll figure it out, Logan. You have so much time. I know it feels like a race when you’re in college, but you have your whole life to figure it out. Make it last.”
I nod. “Thanks, Dave.”
I slide off the treatment table and put my socks and shoes back on, feeling lighter than I did earlier.
With this injury, it’s so easy to think I’m the only person who’s ever suffered the way I have. But there’s Alex’s mom and Dave’s sister, and I’m sure countless others who’ve experienced that same loss of autonomy, that same loss of the life they used to have. I’m no different from them.
I can’t let myself stay so bitter over the person who hit me with their car and changed my life.
I’ve changed so much since then, and I can’t keep punishing myself for not being who I used to be.
I leave Dave’s office, pull out my phone, and open my text thread with Alex.
I inhale deeply, counting my breaths as I type out a message.
Then, with a wavering thumb, I hit send.
Logan
Hey, wanna work out tomorrow?
I’ll show you my personal training skills :)