One week after my injury, I was flown by a fixed-wing medical jet to a specialty critical care hospital for spinal cord injury in Atlanta – Shepherd Center. I spent 9 long and amazing weeks there, of working my ass off, physically and mentally, all day, from 6am-6pm, 6 days a week, to learn a whole new way of living. I owe so much of who I am today to my passionate medical team there, everyone from my beloved nurse techs to my neurosurgeon.

When I first arrived in the transport ambulance that brought me from the plane, I was laying on my back with a neck brace on, strapped tightly into a stretcher. I could see the ceiling, and part of the walls, but that was it. There are butterflies painted all over the ceiling tiles at Shepherd. They’re colorful and cute and fun. I have to admit, they made me smile through therapy, through laying in my bed at night, and through a multitude of other discomforts.

BUT, the entire entryway and admissions area at Shepherd have a BRICK TILE FLOOR. And, guess what, it’s bumpy. It’s a brick tile floor. We entered the building – me on this stretcher – and I immediately became a rolling cart being pushed along fucking cobblestones.

I clearly remember thinking that it seemed an excessive and ridiculous amount of architectural inconvenience for a hospital that specializes in people who have difficulty walking. I remember thinking how unpleasant and poorly planned that was for patients in stretchers and wheelchairs – even moreso as I saw people with canes and walkers, just learning to walk again.

It just seems a bit twisted on the part of the original planners. Give us a break, man. This shit is hard enough without architectural obstacles both on the way in, and the way out. 

But it makes a great metaphor.