The Statue

192.

The petite Neurologist stands in front of me. I use her shoulders as a gymnast uses the parallel bars. Hank the agent on duty stands to my left ready to assist with the lift and then move aft for posterior stability. My countdown has reached its nadir as our collective musculature flexes in unison.

I am upright for the first time in three quarters of a calendar year, instantly amazed by my wobbly, dizzied and unstable imbalance. I note the dramatic loss of mass muscle through atrophy and sarcopenia. My legs look like those of a factory-farm chicken. I stand wholly dependent on my pair of assistants, both of whom are now effectively acting as occupational therapists.

"Let's try a small step," offers the Neurologist, Hank breaking the tension by adding, "For mankind."

I recall 10,000 to be a target daily goal of sedentary folks starting step counting experiments and quickly do the math. Athletics, training and my career in the military and law enforcement (chasing bad guys) add up to a number sufficient to walk around the world three times. This is not, however, my first step in the direction of a goal, nor my first rodeo. I have roped goats and lived to brag about it. But something is off with this one. My inner gyroscope feels askew, coated with accumulated rust. It feel like the first step off a bar stool after a whisky drinking contest with a gambler and his hollow leg. I lean on the Neurologist and drag my right foot forward about six inches. Re-establishing balance in the new goofy-footed stance I will the left leg forward to match its partner. There is no response from my hip flexors and zero lift, but I am able to slowly and it seems to me, effectively, match the distance traveled by my right leg by dragging it from the leverage created at my knee. I am pleased with this tiny virgin step and stand, still dependent on the therapy duo, a whopping half-a foot from the hospital bed.

"Let go," I plead with my support crew. They balk at my brash suggestion, "Not a good idea," says Hank. I consider that he is perhaps more concerned about an indecent on his watch than my safety and try to assuage his devotion to duty, "It's OK I got it, stand by let's see what happens. I gotta try."

The Neurologist inhales deeply and I feel her gently loosen her grip on my arms. We are dancing and it is time for my solo. Hank, as if I was on a weight bench and he spotting, stands behind, ready to intercept failure.

Her hands release my arms. Slowly, carefully, ready to re-establish control at the first sign of danger. Hank does the same from behind.

And I am standing on my own in a weight-bearing statuesque pose of promise.