It was also self-induced – that is to say, I set myself up for it (albeit unintentionally).
It all began about three weeks ago (Tuesday, December 12), when I demonstrated my new-found biceps visibility for Mike (OT [he prefers the pronunciation "odie"]). I described how I'd been working on the muscle, flexing it repeatedly, trying to make it stronger.
Mike presented me with a challenge: Choose one of the muscles that I'd sensed returning, and work on it every day. The muscles in my right arm, and in my left forearm, though perceptible to me, are not 'usable' at this point; the most I can do is contract them. Mike told me to focus on one, flex it every day, 500 times.
Five hundred did, at first, sound like an awful lot. I think Mike intentionally set the bar high, but the number was downright intimidating, and I briefly wondered whether I'd be able to accomplish it. But, as quickly as it appeared, I dismissed the fleeting doubt in the firm resolution that I would reach that number.
I took on Mike's challenge with great enthusiasm. The fact that I can contract the biceps in my right arm at will is amazing, and I celebrate it each time I do. I was glad to have a goal to reach, rather than just working on the muscle in an intermittent and wholly unquantifiable fashion (which is what I had been doing). With Mike's guidance, I now had a method (i.e., counting) to track the work I was doing toward the goal on a daily basis; one by which I could measure future results. Suddenly, 500 didn't seem like such a preposterous number.
Originally, Mike suggested I do sets of 10, or 25, or even 50 if I felt I could, over the course of the day. That sounded like a feasible approach, and I intended to use it, until 10, then 25, then 50, then 100 came and went easily enough during the trip home that evening. I reached 500 with no problem. So, I've been doing 1,000.
After a week of doubling Mike's suggested strengthening exercises, my right biceps did indeed feel stronger (though a bit achy), and I eagerly anticipated seeing some demonstrable improvement during therapy that afternoon.
As I was hoping she would, Kristin (OT) suggested working with the arm skate. The arm skate is a simple piece of equipment designed to reduce the effects of gravity on the limb so the user can move his/her arm more easily. Much like its name suggests, it looks like a small skateboard.
As Kristin strapped my right forearm to the padded board, I was nearly brimming with confidence that I would slide it across the table beside me.
"Ok," she said, once the Velcro was in place, "Pull your arm in toward you."
I pulled, fully expecting it to move. Perhaps not easily, perhaps not far, but some sign of life. It didn't budge.
I pulled again.
Nothing.
I pulled again. Kristin put a slight amount of pressure on the far side of the board and it edged closer to me (as I understand it, that's for positive reinforcement, to help retrain the muscle), but I knew I was not effecting the forward motion myself.
I pulled again, as hard as I could, with every ounce of strength and conviction I could muster. My head throbbed; I suspected I might rupture a blood vessel in my brain from the effort.
Still, nothing.
"Breathe," Kristin prompted. "Your face is about the same color red as Cara's shirt."
I took in a breath and relaxed my jaw – which I hadn't even realized how hard I was clenching until that moment.
It was hard to hide my disappointment. I don't know what I was expecting, but what I wasn't expecting was to see my arm sitting there, not moving, just as it always does.
Two days later, after much internal strife, and relentless haranguing by Statler and Waldorf (you'll meet them soon), I mentioned the situation to Rich.
"You didn't really expect one week of exercises to make up for over 17 years of not using your arm, did you?" he asked.
I thought about it for a moment – as I had been doing for two days prior, but no new insight emerged.
"No," I finally relented. "Well, possibly. But, no. Not really. Perhaps just a little. Not so much expected, per se, as… hoped." I shrugged. "Dunno."
Two days' reflection had brought me no closer to understanding what I was disappointed in, or why. Clearly, I was being irrational, which was nearly as frustrating as my arm refusing to budge despite my best and repeated efforts.
In the days since, I've decided that it's not nearly as easy to temper my enthusiasm as I'd anticipated (or intended). Optimism has usurped my wariness, as it were. Bound to happen, I suppose – I've waited a long time for this.
This situation – waiting, uncertainty, hope, and disappointment – it's all seemed somehow familiar. I've been here before. Finally, I realized I have indeed been here – this reminds me very much of when I was in rehab. During those first few months, no one knew if, or what, I would recover (though the common consensus amongst my cadre of doctors and surgeons projected recovery as rather unlikely). I would often think, "Two weeks from now, I'll have my arms back." Then two weeks would come and go, and I'd set a new arbitrary date in my head. For some reason, it was usually two weeks. "Two weeks, and I'll probably have my hands back. Should start feeling them any time now."
Many, many sets of two weeks have come and gone, none of them ever bringing the anticipated recovery. Conviction waned; a little more slipped away with every missed date until, at some point, I stopped setting them. I stopped anticipating. I stopped hoping.
I've spent so long believing that regaining sensorimotor function was impossible that it was hard not to be incredulous in the beginning of the ICSCI program. Now that I've had some return, and it's squelched those nagging doubts, I think I've actually grown impatient. As I'm discovering new sensations, new connections, new movements, new abilities, I find myself thinking, "It's about time you showed up! I've been waiting! Now, hurry up and be useful!"
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