Part 8: The slow Weeks

There wasn’t much that Colby could do as the snow melted away. He was so used to going golfing every chance he got, or even having to work that he had forgotten how boring it was – how scary it was to be confined to the restraints of a life that had no responsibilities or any abilities, for that matter. He stayed at his parents’ house with nowhere to go, other than the days that he got to spend with Amanda. That’s what kept his sanity, when he got to go there, see her, and do something. The doctor visits weren’t nearly as fun, but again, it kept him from absolute boredom, and lately, the doctor was bringing only the best of news as to how his body was healing so rapidly.

“The doctor says I might be able to get out of this wheelchair by next winter,” Colby said, lacking enthusiasm.

“You know, sometimes, a person can change their stars. Sometimes, if a person works hard enough, they get rewarded by finally getting what they have worked so hard for. If you want to, I know I can help you get back on your feet, you have inspiration, you have that want to get out of this wheelchair and get back to living.” Amanda said as Colby continued to work his upper-body with free-weights. She was sitting on the weight bench beside him, clipboard in hand, but she was looking at Colby with eyes full of all the enthusiasm that he had been lacking ever since the doctor gave him an idea of how long he was going to be in that cursed wheelchair.

Colby put the weights down and looked back. “Do you really think that? I mean, a doctor ought to know when I am going to get out of this damn thing.”

“A doctor can make a hypothesis based on the circumstances. If your circumstances improve, the doctor’s hypothesis will change.”

“Yea. So what’s next?” Colby asked, tired of being on break. The rest of the afternoon of therapy marked the change in behavior, from relaxing physical therapy to aggressive. Colby pushed harder, tried harder. He was still limited by the cast running down his full leg, but he hadn’t resigned from the U.S. Amateur competition yet, and he didn’t plan on doing so. If there was so much as a chance that he could play.

Days ran into weeks. Weeks ran into a couple of months. Each day, Colby worked hard, hard enough so that he was exhausted every night. Amanda was by his side all the while, sweating with him, working hard with him, and pushing him until he couldn’t push any harder. For a while, it was hard to tell who wanted Colby to get better more, Colby, or Amanda.