SHIFTING SANDS: Life with an
INCOMPLETE INJURY B Y
R I C H A R D
H O L I C K Y
Because my incomplete spinal cord injury sometimes lets me stand and even walk, I was seduced by the possibility of more — more function, more normalcy, more of what I used to have. I’m not alone in this, as many people with incomplete injuries are beguiled by the thought of maybe, just maybe, they will be able to undo bad fortune and restore, in some small measure, what was.
L
ooking back at the past 30-plus years, I see my life with incomplete injury as a wild affair with a mistress who’s been by turns voluptuous, jealous, sultry and vengeful. I call her Mistress Incomplete. At her best, she is an incredible seductress. At her worst, she’s hell-bent on making me pay for any transgression, such as tricking myself into believing my SCI will continue to improve when, more often, the opposite is true. When I got to rehab, I couldn’t touch my chin with either hand. Five years later I was spending my days doing the stuff of life — cooking, cleaning, dressing and working — more often than not on my feet. Regaining function and sensation “gifted” me with a panoply of emotions: I was ecstatic when I got more and depressed when I didn’t. Each step meant more hope with no guarantees, enormous expectations built on sand and more distance from my SCI friends and our collective shared experience. As I approached what seemed to be maximum function, depression and anger began to set in. As long as I was experiencing return, I could stay in denial and avoid depression. Conversely, when I was doing well, the uncertainty bred anxiety. After a year with no significant changes, I decided to throw in the towel. I wanted a life, not more therapy; a job,
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NEW MOBILITY
Kyle Pearson’s “obsession with walking” led to lots of time spent in rehab working on treadmills and crutches.
not an endless series of exercise sessions. I wanted some certainty about my future. What tempered all the negatives for me was the realization and acknowledgment of how truly lucky and blessed I was and still am. My depression and anxiety gave way to gratitude. “What the hell do you have to be grateful for?” asked incredulous friends and family. I often responded with a laundry list of blessings and luck: walking short distances with crutches, doing stairs,
having some trunk muscles for balance, getting through narrow doorways, standing up to get dressed. I’m not alone. Following are the stories of some others who live with incomplete injuries that sometimes let them stand and take some steps — and tease them with the possibility of more.
Kyle Pearson: It’s OK to be Different Kyle Pearson, a 60-year-old engineer with Pearson Adair & Co. from Dallas, Texas, sustained a T10-11 injury skiing
