At St. Luke’s Medical Center, the doctor didn’t sugarcoat it. “Complete paraplegia.” Two words that erased everything we’d planned—children, road trips to California, moving into a bigger house in Aurora.
In that moment, I didn’t think about my own future. I thought about his. And like the woman I had been raised to be, I decided I would become his legs. His strength. His world.
I didn’t know that holding him up would slowly destroy me.
That Tuesday morning followed the same script as the previous five years. My alarm went off at 4:30 a.m. Denver was still dark, the air cold and metallic. I slipped out of bed quietly, though it didn’t matter. Andrew slept in the remodeled downstairs bedroom. I slept on the couch, trained to wake at the slightest sound.
I showered quickly, dressed in worn jeans and a plain blouse. I hadn’t bought real clothes in years. What was the point? I
mentally listed the day’s tasks: pharmacy run for catheters and bandages, another argument with insurance, making it to the hospital before shift change, bringing Andrew something edible because he despised hospital food.