Sometimes I wake up tired after a night I’ve spent awake turning things over and over in my mind, or because of a side effect (one of the many) of my sedative, and the sole idea of having to get up and start the entire daily routine of exercises makes me want to laze in bed. Why would I want to exercise? Day after day, week after week I’ve done the same regime, so much so that my nurse aid and I know it all by heart. I’m completely bored with it. As I sit up, I briefly toy with the idea of going back to sleep. But I know that in a while Eric will come with the meds, and my nurse aid will arrive and start making breakfast for me, and the exercises will follow one another like links in a chain until it’s time for lunch. So, I have to force myself out of bed. And I exercise without pause until I’m done. By then, I’m very tired and have to get back into bed to eat my lunch. And the next day I wake up and start all over again.
But something happens amid this seamless progression, something new and noticeable – a small change for the better, a show of progress. My arm goes farther back as it moves the resistance band. My wrist turns down a little more when holding the pill jar full of coins. My arm slides down on the bench more quickly. My leg crosses more easily over my right one, and climbs up the book without much effort.
And a sudden big, noticeable change happens, too: I’m walking to the kitchen and back without falling; I’m standing without support and don’t lose my balance; and my voice sounds clearer and louder than it used to.
These big changes didn’t happen unexpectedly; they were small and unnoticeable, and kept growing step by step until they were no longer small, like the first ones. They were just noticeable. And they make me think that if I detailed attention to each part of my body and noticed small signs of progress and, because of that, I continued to exercise that part, I’d suddenly find that I made big, noticeable changes, like these last ones. So, every time I’m angry and frustrated and want to call it off, I tell myself that disregarding my reluctance to get up, and doing the exercise regime until I’m bone tired and have to go back to bed, and repeating the same thing day after day until I’m sick of it, they’re all worthwhile; because after some time, I will suddenly find that I can speak loudly and clearly, and move my arm and wrist and fingers and walk with a cane easily. And the present will be part of the past.
But something happens amid this seamless progression, something new and noticeable – a small change for the better, a show of progress. My arm goes farther back as it moves the resistance band. My wrist turns down a little more when holding the pill jar full of coins. My arm slides down on the bench more quickly. My leg crosses more easily over my right one, and climbs up the book without much effort.
And a sudden big, noticeable change happens, too: I’m walking to the kitchen and back without falling; I’m standing without support and don’t lose my balance; and my voice sounds clearer and louder than it used to.
These big changes didn’t happen unexpectedly; they were small and unnoticeable, and kept growing step by step until they were no longer small, like the first ones. They were just noticeable. And they make me think that if I detailed attention to each part of my body and noticed small signs of progress and, because of that, I continued to exercise that part, I’d suddenly find that I made big, noticeable changes, like these last ones. So, every time I’m angry and frustrated and want to call it off, I tell myself that disregarding my reluctance to get up, and doing the exercise regime until I’m bone tired and have to go back to bed, and repeating the same thing day after day until I’m sick of it, they’re all worthwhile; because after some time, I will suddenly find that I can speak loudly and clearly, and move my arm and wrist and fingers and walk with a cane easily. And the present will be part of the past.
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