Leah Archer was just 12 years old when she hit her head on a rock and fell into a coma, one that doctors weren't sure she'd ever come back from. But when she wakes up four years later, she faces the struggle of recovery and fights to regain any hint...
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I LET OUT a groan as the pedals of the exercise bike slow down, my feet no longer strapped onto them. My hands reach down, massaging the skin and muscles around my kneecap, slowly stretching it out. Ms. Dawson lets out a sigh before kneeling down in front of me and helping me out, moving the joint in different directions.
"I know that you're desperate to play football again, but if you keep straining your knee it's just going to take you longer to get back on the field."
I roll my eyes at her statement, but I know she's right. I've been pushing too hard the last few weeks because it frustrates me to see all the other guys on the field improving while I sit on the bench. School is starting in just a few weeks, and I am so over this injury.
Ms. Dawson slips the knee brace off of my leg before helping me up and moving me over to the bench to ice. My fingers twist in the bottom of my football shirt as I watch her remove an ice pack from the small freezer and place it in one of the covers before walking back over to where I was sitting. I hiss as the cold comes in contact with my skin, but it soothes the ache I previously felt.
It reminds me of the ice baths we had to take after particularly rough games or conditioning. Caleb used to hate them. I remember the first time we used them in freshmen year after football camp when Caleb ran around for an hour afterward complaining that the ice had shrunken his balls and that they would never return back to size. Coach walked in on him and told that as long as he could still block, he'd be fine.
My leg sits up on the bench for a few minutes, the quiet buzz of the therapy room being the only noise that reaches my ears. It's not really a great place for conversation; most of the people there, like me, are a bit bitter. And I have it easy.
The quiet murmurs are interrupted by a soft giggling as the door to the room opens, one of the other physical therapists–Miss Natalie–walking in, pushing a wheelchair. Sitting in it is none other than Leah Archer.
Leah looks a lot better than when I saw here a few weeks ago. Not only does it seem like her movement's improved, but the huge smile on her face shows how much progress she's really making. I can tell that a lot of the others in the room perk up when they see her, and I can't blame them. She's been talked about recently like the hospital's own golden child, always happy and upbeat despite her situation, always making others smile.
It made me smile too.
I study her form as they enter the room. She's probably close to the same height that she was when she was twelve, but I could tell that she was older by her face. Her cheek bones more pronounce, eyes more defined, and all around just a little more mature. Though that could have been the effects of the coma; I wasn't sure.
Her eyes were more alert than a few weeks ago, darting around the room and focusing on different objects before moving on to somewhere else. She lightly swung her legs from her spot in the wheelchair, giggling about something her nurse had said. From what I could gather from the gossip I often overheard, Leah had regained a lot of her muscle control but was still working up the strength to be able to put those muscles to use. Sure, she could move her arms and legs, but she couldn't lift anything or stand on her own legs. But everyone was rooting for her.
