Tackling the stairs in the hospital, it was one of the last challenges the physio had in store for me. After two months in hospital, being able to walk up and down the stairway was the last hurdle between me and home.
How I longed for home, two months was far too long to spend sequestered in hospital, away from my family, my little daughter, my love. So many challenges post mastectomy and so many mistakes made. A botched reconstruction, infection, necrosis, and so much pain and suffering. Medical negligence had kept me a prisoner in this hospital, a prisoner in a body so wracked with pain and complications that even walking had to be re-learned.
And now this stairway was standing between me and home. I couldn’t allow it to defeat me. I recall opening the door and looking up into the stairwell. It was daunting, and when walking in the hospital corridor is done at a snail’s pace and even shuffling unaided feels like an achievement – the stairway felt like Everest. My own personal Everest.
And so I began, one step at a time, slowly, painfully, awkwardly. Determined to drag myself up at least three steps. Three was my lucky number, three steps was a start. Going down the stairs was more painful than going up but I did it. Every day I faced that stairway and every day I managed more steps than the day before, dreaming of home.