I waved goodbye to the hospital bed as if it were a person. Well, I had called it “home” for seven months now as I healed from the fall. Walking away, out of that room, felt surreal, as if I didn’t know what was waiting for me on the other side of the doors - the doors to the room and the doors leading to the world - although I had of course been outside before. Just not in seven months. The room I was staying in often had the windows sealed and shut tight with blinds, anyway. I preferred the dark over what glory might be thriving outside, leaving me out.

That first day was rough. My legs still ached, my breathing was irregular, and my arm strength was so bad that I could barely lift a fork. I knew it would get better with physical therapy, but to feel so helpless after being catered to month after month was a shock. I had a caretaker that came twice a day, but inbetween those visits I had to take care of myself. Something that was now new to me.

As I watched TV on the third night, I saw an interview with somebody speaking about their independence. How great it felt, they said, to not have to rely on anybody else for their health or their habits. I couldn’t relate. I realized what I needed to do.

I would jump again.